Table of Contents

"Dick Onslow"

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.

"Digby Heathcote"

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.

"Ernest Bracebridge"

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.

"Exiled for the Faith"

Chapter One.

Chapter Two.

Chapter Three.

Chapter Four.

Chapter Five.

Chapter Six.

Chapter Seven.

Chapter Eight.

Chapter Nine.

Chapter Ten.

Chapter Eleven.

Chapter Twelve.

"Fred Markham in Russia"

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.

"From Powder Monkey to Admiral"

Introduction.

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.

Chapter Twenty Six.

Chapter Twenty Seven.

Chapter Twenty Eight.

Chapter Twenty Nine.

Chapter Thirty.

Chapter Thirty One.

Chapter Thirty Two.

Chapter Thirty Three.

Chapter Thirty Four.

Chapter Thirty Five.

Chapter Thirty Six.

Chapter Thirty Seven.

"The Ferryman of Brill"

Chapter One.

Chapter Two.

Chapter Three.

Chapter Four.

Chapter Five.

Chapter Six.

Chapter Seven.

Chapter Eight.

Chapter Nine.

Chapter Ten.

Chapter Eleven.

"The Frontier Fort"

Chapter One.

Chapter Two.

Chapter Three.

Chapter Four.

Chapter Five.

Chapter Six.

Chapter Seven.

Chapter Eight.

Chapter Nine.

WHG Kingston

"Dick Onslow"

Chapter One.

My friends the Raggets—Our proposed migration—Journey commenced—Attack of the Indians—A shot through my leg—Horrible anticipations—Hide in a bush—Climb a tree—My thoughts in my concealment—Listen in expectation of an attack—Starving in the midst of plenty—Some one approaches—I prepare to fire.

In few countries can more exciting adventures be met with than in Mexico and the southern and western portions of North America; in consequence of the constantly disturbed state of the country, the savage disposition of the Red Indians, and the numbers of wild animals, buffaloes, bears, wolves, panthers, jaguars, not to speak of alligators, rattlesnakes, and a few other creatures of like gentle nature. My old school-fellow, Dick Onslow, has just come back from those regions; and among numerous incidents by flood and field sufficient to make a timid man’s hair stand on end for the rest of his days, he recounted to me the following:—

After spending some time among those ill-conditioned cut-throat fellows, the Mexicans, I returned to the States. Having run over all the settled parts, of which I got a tolerable bird’s-eye view, I took it into my head that I should like to see something of real backwoodsman’s life. Soon getting beyond railways, I pushed right through the State of Missouri till I took up my abode on the very outskirts of civilisation, in a log-house, with a rough honest settler, Laban Ragget by name. He had a wife and several daughters and small children, and five tall sons, Simri, Joab, Othni, Elihu, and Obed, besides two sisters of his wife’s and a brother of his own, Edom Ragget by name. I never met a finer set of people, both men and women. It was a pleasure to see the lads walk up to a forest, and a wonder to watch how the tall trees went down like corn stalks before the blows of their gleaming axes. They had no idea I was a gentleman by birth. They thought I was the son of a blacksmith, and they liked me the better for it.

Some months passed away; I had learned to use my axe as well as any of them, and a fine large clearing had been made, when the newspapers, of which we occasionally had one, told us all about the wonderful gold-diggings in California. At last we talked of little else as we sat round the big fire in the stone chimney during the evenings of winter. Neighbours dropped in and talked over the matter also. There was no doubt money was to be made, and quickly too, by men with strong arms and iron constitutions. We all agreed that if any men were fit for the work, we were. I was the weakest of the party, do ye see? (Dick stands five feet ten in his shoes, and is as broad-shouldered as a dray man.)

Just then, an oldish man with only two stout sons and a small family drove into the forest with a light wagon and a strong team of horses, to look about him, as he said, for a location. He came to our house, and Laban and he had a long talk.

“Well, stranger,” said Laban, “I guess you couldn’t do better than take my farm, and give me your team and three hundred dollars; I’ve a mind to go further westward.”

The offer was too good to be refused. The bargain was struck, and in two days, several other settlers having got rid of their farms, a large party of us were on our way to cross the Rocky Mountains for California. The women, children, and stuff were in Laban’s two wagons. Other settlers had their wagons also. The older men rode; I, with the younger, walked, with our rifles at our backs, and our axes and knives in our belts. I had, besides, a trusty revolver, which had often stood me in good stead.

We were not over-delicate when we started, and we soon got accustomed to the hard life we had to lead, till camping-out became a real pleasure rather than an inconvenience. We had skin tents for the older men, and plenty of provisions, and as we kept along the banks of the rivers, we had abundance of grass and water for the horses. At last we had to leave the forks of the Missouri river, and to follow a track across the desolate Nebraska country, over which the wild Pawnees, Dacotahs, Omahas, and many other tribes of red men rove in considerable numbers. We little feared them, however, and thought much more of the herds of wild buffaloes we expected soon to have the pleasure both of shooting and eating.

We had encamped one night close to a wood near Little Bear Creek, which runs into the Nebraska river. The following morning broke with wet and foggy weather. It would have been pleasant to have remained in camp, but the season was advancing, and it was necessary to push on. All the other families had packed up and were on the move; Laban’s, for a wonder, was the last. The women and children were already seated in the lighter wagon, and Obed Ragget and I were lifting the last load into the other, and looking round to see that nothing was left behind, when our ears were saluted with the wildest and most unearthly shrieks and shouts, and a shower of arrows came whistling about our ears. “Shove on! shove on!” we shouted to Simri and Joab, who were at the horses’ heads; “never mind the tent.” They lashed the horses with their whips. The animals plunged forward with terror and pain, for all of them were more or less wounded. We were sweeping round close to the edge of the wood, and for a moment lost sight of the rest of the party. Then, in another instant, I saw them again surrounded by Indian warriors, with plumes of feathers, uplifted hatchets, and red paint, looking very terrible. The women were standing up in the wagon with axes in their hands, defending themselves bravely. A savage had seized one of the children and was dragging it off, when Mrs Ragget struck with all her might at the red-skin’s arm, and cut it clean through; the savage drew back howling with pain and rage. Old Laban in the meantime, with his brother and two others, kept in front, firing away as fast as they could load while they ran on: for they saw if once the redskins could get hold of the horses’ heads, they would be completely in their power. All this time several of the things were tumbling out of the wagon, but we could not stop to pick them up. Why the rest of the party, who were ahead, did not come back to our assistance, I could not tell. I thought that they also were probably attacked. We four ran on for some way, keeping the Indians at a respectful distance, for they are cowardly rascals—notwithstanding all the praise bestowed on them—if courageously opposed. I was loading my rifle, and then taking aim at four mounted Indians who appeared on the right with rifles in their hands. They fired, but missed me, as I meantime was dodging them behind the wagon. During this, I did not see where Obed was. I hit one of them, and either Simri or Joab, who fired at the same time, hit another. The other two wheeled round, and with some companions, hovered about us at some little distance. Just then, not hearing Obed’s voice, I looked round. He was nowhere to be seen. I was shouting to his brothers to stop and go back with me to look for him, when half-a-dozen more Indians, joining the others, galloped up at the same moment to attack the headmost wagon. Simri and Joab, lashing their horses, rushed on to the assistance of their family. The savages fired. I was springing on when I felt myself brought to the ground, grasping my rifle, which was loaded. A shot had gone right through both my legs. I tried with desperate struggles to get up, but could not lift myself from the ground. All the horror of my condition crowded into my mind. To be killed and scalped was the best fate I could expect. Just as I was about to give way to despair, I thought I would make an attempt to save my life. From my companions I could expect no help, for even if they succeeded in preserving their own lives they would scarcely be in a condition to come back and rescue me. Poor Obed I felt pretty sure must have been killed. A small stream with some bushes growing on its banks was near at hand. I dragged myself towards it, and found a pretty close place of concealment behind one of the bushes. Thence I could look out. The wagons were still driving along furiously across the prairie with the Indians hovering about them on either side, evidently waiting for a favourable moment to renew the attack. Thus the whole party, friends and foes, vanished from my sight in the fog. To stay where I was would only lead to my certain destruction, for when the Indians returned, as I knew they would, to carry off my scalp, the trail to my hiding-place would at once be discovered. I felt, too, that if I allowed my wounds to grow stiff, I might not be able to move at all. Suffering intense agony, therefore, I dragged myself down into the stream. It was barely deep enough to allow me to swim had I had strength for the purpose, and crawl I thought I could not. So I threw myself on my back, and holding my rifle, my powder-flask, and revolver above my breast, floated down till I reached the wood we had just passed. The branches of the trees hung over the stream. I seized one which I judged would bear my weight, and lifting myself up by immense exertion, of which, had it not been for the cooling effects of the water, I should not have been capable, I crawled along the bough. I had carefully avoided as much as possible disturbing the leaves, lest the redskins should discover my retreat. I worked my way up, holding my rifle in my teeth, to the fork of the branch, and then up to where several of the higher boughs branched off and formed a nest where I could remain without fear of falling off. I was completely concealed by the thickness of the leaves from being seen by any one passing below, and I trusted, from the precautions I had taken, that the Indians would not discover my trail. Still, such cunning rogues are they, that it is almost impossible to deceive them. My great hope was that they might not find out that I had fallen, and so would not come to look for me. As I lay in my nest, I listened attentively, and thought that I could still hear distant shots, as if my friends had at all events not given in. Still it might only have been fancy. My wounds, when I had time to think about them, were very painful. I bound them up as well as I could—the water had washed away the blood and tended to stop inflammation. The sun rose high in the heavens. Not a sound was heard except the wild cry of the eagle or kite, blending with the song of the thrush and the mocking-bird, interrupted every now and then by the impudent observation of a stray parrot and the ominous rattle of a huge snake as it wound its way among the leaves. Every moment I expected to hear the grunts and cries of the redskins, as with tomahawk in hand they came eagerly searching about for me. I durst not move to look around. They might come talking carelessly, or they might steal about in dead silence, if they suspected that I was still alive.

I thus passed the day. I did sometimes think that I should have been wiser had I remained within the bounds of civilisation, instead of wandering about the world without any adequate motive. The reflection, too, that the end of my days was approaching, came suddenly upon me with painful force. How had I spent those days? I asked myself. What good had I done in the world? How had I employed the talents committed to me? I remembered a great many things I had been told as a child by my mother, and which had never occurred to me since. The more I thought, the more painful, the more full of regrets, grew my thoughts. I am bound to tell you all this. I am not ashamed of my feelings. I believe those thoughts did me a great deal of good. I blessed my mother for all she had taught me, and I prayed as I had never prayed before. After this I felt much comforted and better prepared for death than I had been till then. The day passed slowly away. Darkness came on. I grew very hungry and faint, for I had no food in my pocket, and had taken nothing since the morning. Had I not been wounded, that would have been a trifle; I had often gone a whole day without eating, with, perhaps, a lap of water every now and then from a cool stream. I could not sleep a wink during the whole night. At times I hoped that if my friends were victorious they might return to learn what had become of poor Obed and me. In vain was the hope. The night wore on, the dawn returned. I tried to stretch my legs; I found that I could not move them.

The hours of the next day passed slowly by; I thought I heard the cries and shrieks of the redskins in the distance—they seemed to draw nearer and nearer—they were entering the wood—yes, I was certain of it—they got close up to my tree—as I looked down, I saw their hideous, malicious faces gazing up at me, eager for my destruction. Then suddenly I became aware that they were only creatures of my imagination, conjured up through weakness and hunger. All was again silent. “If this state of things continues, I shall certainly drop from my hold,” I thought. Then suddenly I remembered that I had some tobacco in my pocket. Edom Ragget had handed it to me to cut up for him. I put a piece in my mouth, and chewed away at it. I felt much better. The evening came; my apprehensions about the Indians decreased. Still I knew that if I once got down the tree, I might not be able to ascend it again, and might become a prey to wild beasts or rattlesnakes, as I felt that I could not stand for a moment, much less walk a yard. Having fastened my rifle to a branch, I secured one of my arms round another, that I might not drop off, and at last fell into a deep sleep. Next morning I awoke, feeling much better, though very hungry. As I lay without moving, I observed a racoon playing about a branch close to me. “Although there may be a hundred red-skins in the neighbourhood, I must have that fellow for my breakfast,” I said to myself. I released my rifle and fired. Down fell the racoon at the foot of the tree. “He is of no use to me unless I can get hold of him, and even could I pick him up, I must eat him raw, as I have no means of lighting a fire where I am,” said I to myself. While this thought passed rapidly through my mind, I heard a sound at some distance. It was, I felt sure, that of a human voice. I quickly reloaded my rifle, and, with my finger on the trigger, sat in readiness for whatever might occur.

Chapter Two.

A friend in need—How two people may live while one will starve—Obed goes in search of adventures, and I awake to find a rattlesnake close to my nose—I am saved—Obed returns, but followed by a gentleman whose room would be more pleasant than his company—Obed cannot fire, and I cannot run, but I save him by sitting still—We anticipate the pleasure of dining on bear’s flesh—Obed fetches and carries like a dog, and we fare sumptuously—I take to crutches—We collect stores and make a tent—A red-skin visitor.

I kept, as I was saying, my finger on the trigger, and my eye along the barrel of my rifle, fully expecting to see a Pawnee’s red visage appear through the bushes. I knew that the dead racoon would betray me; so I resolved to fight it out to the last, and to sell my life dearly. I heard footsteps approaching—slowly and watchfully I thought: I peered down out of my leafy cover; the branches of the surrounding shrubs were pushed aside, and there, instead of the feathers and red face of an Indian, I saw the honest countenance of young Obed Ragget, looking cautiously about him on every side.

“Obed! Obed! I am here,” I sung out; “come and help me, lad.” He sprang on when he heard my voice.

“What, Dick! is that you? Well, I am glad you have escaped, that I am,” he exclaimed, looking up into the tree.

“So am I to see you,” I cried; “but help me down, lad, for I cannot help myself, I fear.”

“That is more than I can do,” said he. “Look; the red-skins have shot me through both arms, and I can no more use them than I can fly.”

I now observed that he looked very pale and weak, and that both his arms hung down uselessly by his side. One thing also I saw, that as he could not manage to get up to me, I must contrive to descend the tree to meet him. Tearing, therefore, a neck-kerchief up into strips, I lowered my gun and pistols down by it, and then prepared to descend myself. I made it secure, as close to the trunk as I could, and grasping the short boughs which grew out from the trunk, I threw my chief weight upon them, while I steadied myself with the line I had made; keeping my useless legs stretched out, lest I should fall on them, I gradually lowered myself to the foot of the tree. We could not shake hands, but we greeted each other most warmly. Obed complained bitterly of thirst, for he had not moved out of the first shelter into which he had crawled, and did not know how near the stream was. I accordingly put my hat into his mouth, and told him to stoop down where the stream was deepest, and to ladle up some water. This he did, and then kneeling down I held the hat to his mouth, while he drank. I took a draught myself, and never have I enjoyed so much the choicest beverage in my father’s house as I did that cool draught.—I now pointed to the racoon, and asked him if he was hungry.

“Very,” was his answer; “I could eat that brute raw.”

“No need of that,” said I; “just collect materials, and we will quickly have a fire.” Obed understood me, and with his feet soon kicked together a pile of sticks and leaves sufficient to make a good fire. I had a flint and steel, and we speedily had the bacon spitted and roasting on some forked sticks before it in proper woodman’s style. The food revived us both, and restored our spirits. We neither of us were inclined to despondency; still we could not help thinking, with sad feelings, of what might have befallen our friends, and what might too probably be our own fate. As Obed could not help himself, he had to sit down close to me while I fed him; and when we had done, he assisted me to remove myself away from the fire. I then dressed his wounds as well as I could, bathing them freely in cold water. Some sinews were cut through, I suspected, which prevented him from moving his arms, but no bones were broken; and, in consequence of his fine constitution and temperate habits, I trusted that he would recover the use of them. I was in a worse condition, for both my legs were so much hurt that I could not hope to walk on them for many weeks to come. However, my upper limbs were in good case; and we agreed that, with a pair of strong arms and stout legs between us, we might both get on very well. Obed had left his gun in the thicket into which he had dragged it when he fell. It was discharged, and so he went for it, bringing it to me in his teeth, that I might clean and reload it. As he could not use it, he left it by my side; and we had now our two rifles, and his and my revolver pistols; so that I felt, with my back to a tree, cripple as I was, I might prove a formidable adversary either to man or beast. While Obed and I sat near the fire, talking over our prospects, we remembered that a number of things had dropped from the wagons; so he volunteered to set out in order to discover whether they had been carried off by the Indians.

“Farewell, Dick,” said he, as he rose to go. “If I don’t come back you’ll know those varmint redskins have got my scalp; but though I can’t use my arms, they’ll find I can use my legs before they catch me.”

With many misgivings I saw him make his way out from the thicket. When he was gone I lay back with my head on my arm, thinking over many of the events of my past life, and contrasting them with my present condition, till at length my eyes closed, and I forgot all recent events in sleep. I believe that I slept very soundly without stirring my legs or arms. At last my eyes slowly opened, and horrible indeed was the spectacle which met them. The embers of the fire were before me, and close to it, as if to enjoy its warmth, lay coiled up a huge rattlesnake not two yards from me. In an instant of time I felt that its deadly fangs might be fixed in my throat. What use to me now were my fire-arms? I dared not move my hand to reach my revolver. I knew that I must not wink even an eyelid, or the deadly spring might be made. The snake was, I dare say, nearly six feet long. It had a body almost as thick as my leg—of a yellowish-brown colour, with some dark-brown spots reaching from one end to the other; and oh, that head, as it slowly raised it with its vicious eyes to have a look at me! It was of large size, flat, and covered with scales. I gazed at the rattlesnake, and the rattlesnake gazed at me. What he thought of me I do not know; I thought him a most hideous monster, and wished him anywhere but where he was. It seemed an age that I thus lay, not daring even to draw a breath. I felt at last that I must give up the contest. I prayed for mercy. The oppression on my chest became almost insupportable. Still I dared not move. The deadly reptile stretched out its head—slowly it began to uncoil itself—the dread sound of its rattle struck my ear. I felt that now I must muster all my nerve and resolution, or be lost; the huge reptile stretched itself out and slowly crawled on—oh, horror!—it passed directly over my wounded legs! Not a muscle quivered. I dared not look up to ascertain whether it was gone. A minute must have elapsed—it seemed to me a much longer time—and then, and not till then, a shout reached my ear. It was the voice of Obed. Probably the snake had heard it, and it was that, I have no doubt, which made him move away under the belief that I was a dead person, who at all events could do him no harm. My first impulse was to look round to discover what had become of the snake. He was nowhere to be seen! My next was to turn my eyes in the direction whence the shouting proceeded. There I saw Obed rushing along as fast as his legs could carry him among the trees.

“Be ready with your rifle, Dick,” he shouted out at the top of his voice; “not a moment to lose, man.”

I fully expected to see half a dozen red-skins following close at his heels, and resolved to defend him to the last, and to sell my own life dearly, although I had to fight on my stumps, when the boughs of the trees were torn away behind him, and a huge bear appeared, grinning horribly, in a great rage, and evidently prepared to do mischief to somebody or something. Had Obed been able to use his arms, he was the last person to have placed another in danger for the sake of trying to save himself. Now, however, he had no choice but to run behind me and the fire. Bruin trotted on, growling angrily. He was one of those long-headed, small-eyed fellows, with pointed nose, clumsy body, and smooth, glossy, black hair, which have a fancy for pork and ham, and will put their paws into a corn bin if they find it open. When he got near, as he reared up on his hind paws ready for a fight, and came on towards me, I grasped my rifle and aimed at his head. If I missed him, I should scarcely have had time, I feared, to seize Obed’s rifle before he would have been upon me. I knew that his body was so encased with fat that it would be difficult to wound him vitally through that. I fired: the bullet hit him in the head, but still he came on, gnashing his teeth. I lifted my second rifle. I could not well have missed him had I been standing up or kneeling, but sitting, as I was, it was difficult to take a steady aim. He was about ten paces off: again I fired. I felt sure that I had not missed, but with a terrific growl he bounded on towards me. I had barely time to grasp a revolver when he was close up to me. Already I felt his hot breath in my face; his huge claws had hold of my limbs; he was trying to clasp me round the body: his muzzle, with its sharp teeth, touched on my shoulder. Poor Obed, who was standing behind me, unable to render me assistance, literally shrieked with fear, not for himself, but for me. In another moment I felt that I must be torn to pieces. I mustered all my nerve. It was much wanted. I waited a moment till I could aim steadily at his head. I fired. He gave me a terrific hug. It was his death grapple. As it was, it very nearly squeezed the breath out of my body. Then he rolled over and lay motionless. I did not roll after him, but lest he should only be shamming ’coon, I dragged myself as far-off as I could to reload my weapons.

“No fear, Dick, he’s dead,” cried Obed joyfully. “Well, you’re a friend at a pinch, as I always thought you.”

It would not have been in his way to express his thanks by more than this, still I knew by his looks that he was grateful to me. In reality I had only fought in self-defence, so I do not know that he had anything to thank me for.

“Old Bruin will afford us many a good dinner, at all events, I hope,” said I. “And do you know, Obed, you and the bear saved my life just now between you.” And then I told him how his shouts had, I believed, scared away the rattlesnake. “So you see, old fellow, we are quits.”

Obed having ascertained by a hearty kick that Bruin was really dead, I attached my rope to his waist and then to the bear, and by its means we dragged the carcass a little way from our camping-ground. He then came back and helped me along that I might cut some steaks for our supper. We cooked them in the same way we had done the racoon. While the operation was going forward he gave me an account of his adventures. He had found a number of things which had fallen from the wagon, and, wonderful to relate, they were untouched. There was the skin tent which we had not put into the wagon, and a cask of flour and one of beef, and, what we thought of still more value, a bag of bullets and some small shot, and a keg of powder, besides another rifle and an axe; while farther on, he said that there were several other smaller articles along the road the wagon had gone. It was close to the cask of flour he had encountered Bruin, who had undoubtedly been attracted to the spot with the hope of appropriating it. One prize Obed brought in his mouth; it was a tin saucepan, and very valuable we found it. Our difficulty was now to collect all these things. Obed offered to try and drag them together to one spot, if he could but manage to hook himself on to them. That day we could do nothing; so that after he had collected a large supply of firewood, we placed our backs to a tree and commended ourselves to the care of that great God who had so mercifully preserved our lives. We agreed that one should watch while the other slept, and most faithfully did we keep our pledge to each other. Several days passed without any great variation in our mode of proceeding. We cut the bear up into thin slices, and dried them in the sun. Obed also went round about the wood and drove in the wild turkeys, racoons, squirrels, and other small game, which I shot. We were thus supplied with meat. There were also plenty of herbs, the nature of which both he and I knew, and which, though not of delicate flavour, were wholesome, and helped to keep us in health. The weather also was very fine, and thus several days passed away. At last I bethought me that if I could make a pair of crutches, I might, with Obed’s help, get over the ground. Two young saplings, towards which I dragged myself, were soon cut down, and in a couple of days I was once more upright. I could only at first move very slowly, and with great dread of falling; but by constant practice, in the course of a week I thought I might venture out of the wood. Obed’s arms were also gaining strength, and one of them he could already use a little, and was thus enabled to help me. I slung the rifles over his back, and, sticking the revolvers in my belt, off we set together. We moved slowly, but still we went ahead. At last we reached the tent. It struck us at once that it would be well to pitch it where it lay on our old camping-ground. Wherever we might be Indians would find us out, so that it would make no difference whether we were in or out of the wood, and we might see either emigrants to California moving west, or the post to one of the forts, and thus obtain assistance. Obed and I soon got up the tent. I sat down, and he made his shoulders serve as a prop while I stuck in the pole, and thus in a few minutes we had a comfortable roof over our heads.

While we were at work, it struck me that if I could make a sort of sleigh, it would facilitate the operation of bringing in our goods. I set to work immediately, and in the course of two days, manufactured a machine which answered our purpose. The season was advancing, the nights were getting cold, and there was no time to be lost in collecting the articles which we might require to preserve our lives through the winter, should no one, before it set in, pass that way to rescue us. Accordingly, we once more proceeded on our expedition. Sometimes I walked on my crutches, and at others Obed dragged me along on the sleigh. Certainly we were a notable example of the advantage of two people working in concert. Alone we must have perished; together, though injured so severely, we were able to live and comfort each other. We never had even the slightest dispute; and though surrounded by difficulties and dangers, and anxious about our friends, we were far from unhappy. I have often thought that if people who are living in the midst of all sorts luxuries and advantages would but follow the example of Obed Ragget and me, they would be very much the happier.

Our first care was to get the kegs of powder and shot, for our stock was almost exhausted; and with those, and a bundle of blankets, we returned to our tent.

To make a long story short, in the course of a week we had collected everything to be seen; and had settled ourselves very comfortably in our new home. We also surrounded our tent with stacks of firewood, which would serve as a barricade should we be attacked, at any time, by the red-skins.

The exertion we went through, however, had fatigued us excessively, and opened our wounds afresh; so that for some days we were unable to quit the precincts of our tent. We had made ourselves beds by placing sticks close together on the ground, and covering them with leaves, over which we spread our blankets; and we agreed, as we lay stretched out on them, that we were much better off than many poor fellows who had not beds to lie on. I crawled out occasionally to light the fire, and to cook our food, while Obed had to go to the river to get water. To prevent the necessity of doing this so frequently, after we were both a little rested, we emptied our beef cask, and carried it down on the sleigh to the river, that we might fill it with water. This being done, we found that we had over-calculated our strength, and had once more to take to our beds. Several days more passed away, during which we scarcely moved. Obed, too, had become very silent. I saw that something was passing in his mind. After a time I asked him what it was.

“Why, Dick,” said he, “I’m thinking that though we seem to have a good supply of food, it won’t last two hungry fellows all the winter, even if we were to put ourselves on half allowance. Now my arms will soon be well, and if I could make my way to one of the forts, I might bring you assistance. I’ll take a supply of powder and shot, and keep my eyes open to look out for the red-skins. What do you say to it?”

I told him that I did not like the idea of his running so great a risk for my sake.

“Oh, don’t fear for me,” he replied; “it’s right that it should be done, I’m certain of that, so I’ll do it.”

I said nothing more. I knew when Obed thus expressed himself, he was in earnest. Several more days rolled slowly by. We slept a good deal in the daytime; perhaps under our circumstances it was the best thing we could do. One afternoon I had been asleep some time, and Obed was snoring away on the other side of the tent, when I opened my eyes, and then I saw, glaring at me through the doorway of the tent, the hideous countenance of a red-skin warrior, horribly covered with paint and decked with coloured feathers. While with his left hand he lifted up the curtain, in his right he grasped his tomahawk, which quivered with his eagerness to take possession of our scalps.

Chapter Three.

The red-skin proves to be a friend—He and Obed leave me alone in my glory—I fortify myself for the winter—Visited by wolves—A terrific storm—The wolves my nightly visitors—I kill some and eat then, but find them o’er teuch—An object moving in the distance—Red-skins and enemies—I prepare for their reception—I kill one of them—A fearful struggle—I endeavour to obliterate the signs of this visit—My terrible solitude—More wolves and more Indians—I prepare a banquet for them—The suspicions of my guests aroused—The unpleasant termination to our feast.

Obed and I were not easily taken by surprise. Our hands instinctively clutched our rifles, and in a moment the breast of the Indian was covered by their muzzles. The eye of the red-skin did not quail—not a limb trembled. He gazed on us calmly, and his hand continued to hold aside the skin which formed the door of our tent, while he spoke a few words in a low, quiet voice. I did not understand them, but Obed did.

“Don’t fire, Dick,” said Obed; “he is a Delaware, a friend to the white men. Come in, friend Delaware, take your seat by our fire, and tell us what has brought you here,” continued Obed, addressing the Indian.

The Delaware, letting drop the skin door, came in, and, stirring up the embers of our almost extinguished fire, sat himself down on a log of wood placed before it. He spoke a jargon which he thought was English, and which both Obed and I understood, but which I cannot now repeat, any more than I could convey an idea of the deep guttural tones of his voice. They seemed to come from the very depths of his inside.

“I travel alone,” said the red-skin. “I have a long journey to perform, to carry a letter I have undertaken to deliver at Fort Grattan. I was beginning to despair of accomplishing it, for my powder has been destroyed, and thus food was difficult to obtain. When I first saw the smoke of your fire, I thought it might come from the wigwams of some Pawnees, and my heart bounded when I saw from its appearance that your tent must belong to white men.” From this hint given, Obed at once placed a supply of food before the Indian, who did ample justice to it. We then lighted our pipes, and all three sat smoking over the fire. The Delaware urgently advised us not to attempt to spend the approaching winter in that place, but to accompany him to the fort. I saw the soundness of his council, but assured him that I could not attempt to walk half a dozen miles, much less could I hope to make so long a journey.

“Then it is better that one should come and bring back succour to the other than that both should perish,” urged the Delaware. To this I agreed, and told Obed he must go. He had been ready to go alone when the risk was greater; but now he did not like to leave me. I met all his arguments, and telling him that if he wished to save my life, as well as his own, he must go. I ultimately made him consent to accompany the Indians. Before starting, they took every means to increase my comforts. They filled the water-casks, collected a quantity of herbs, and a supply of firewood, and shot as much game as I could consume while it was fresh. The Delaware lay down to sleep that night in our tent. I was convinced from his manner and mode of speaking that he was honest. I never saw a man sleep more soundly—not a limb stirred the whole night through; he looked more like a dead person, or a lay figure, than a being with life. Suddenly, as the morning light broke through the tent, he sprang up, and, shaking himself, in a moment was all energy and activity. “Ugh! I have not slept so soundly for many a night, and may not sleep so soundly for many a night more!” he exclaimed, in his peculiar dialect. We lighted our fire, boiled our kettle, and then all three sat down to a hearty breakfast. It was the last I should probably take in company for many a weary day; still I resolved not to be down-hearted, and especially to preserve a serene and contented countenance.

The Delaware replenished his powder-flask, and taking a small supply of provisions, he and Obed bade me farewell. I could only wring the latter’s hand; I don’t think we exchanged a word at parting. I watched them as their figures grew less and less, and finally disappeared in the distance, and then indeed I felt very lonely. Perhaps there was not a human being within a hundred miles of me except the two who had just gone away; or should there be, he was very likely to prove an enemy. The idea of being thus alone in a wilderness was grand, but it was somewhat appalling and trying to the nerves. How long would Obed be absent? I thought to myself. Three weeks or a month at shortest. Could I manage to preserve existence for that length of time? I was still weak and ill, and could scarcely crawl about, so I spent the greater portion of my time on my couch. I placed my firearms close at hand around me, so that I might seize them in a moment. My fire-place was a hole in the middle of the tent, almost within reach of my skin-covered couch; there were no linen sheets to catch fire; my tub of water was near it, and my stock of provisions hung overhead. The sky I saw when I looked out had for some days been giving indications of a snow-storm. It came at last, and winter set in. The drifting snow quickly found its way through the minutest hole in the tent skins. To prevent this, I beat it down firmly all round the edge, stopping every crevice, and I raised a pile of logs before the door. “I don’t think I should mind a fight with a dozen red-skins,” I thought to myself; “but those wolves—I don’t like them.” The wolves I dreaded (and not without reason) found me out at last. The wind was roaring and whistling among the leafless trees, the snow was beating against my tent, and the night was as dark as Erebus, when a low, distant howl saluted my ears—heard even above the tempest. It continued increasing, till it broke into a wild chorus of hideous shrieks. I had no dread of ghostly visitors. I would rather have faced a whole array of the most monstrous hobgoblins, than have felt that I was surrounded, as I knew I was, by a herd of those brutes—the wolves.

Till almost morning they continued their ugly concert; but they have a natural fear of man, and it is only when pressed by hunger that they will attack him. The ground, however, was now completely covered with snow, and I knew that they would find but little food. As I could not venture out, most of the day passed away in a half-unconscious dreamy state; part of it I slept. The next night I was awoke soon after dark by the wolfish chorus; it was much nearer than before. The sounds formed themselves into words to my disordered senses. “We’ll eat you up; we’ll eat you up ere long,” they appeared to say. A third night came. The pack seemed increased in numbers, as if they had been collecting from every quarter. I fancied that I could hear their feet crackling on the crisp snow as they scampered round and round the tent. That night they brought their circle closer and closer, till I fully expected that they would commence their attack. Still they held off, and with the morning light took their departure. I watched the next night setting in with a nervous dread. As soon as darkness spread over the snow-covered face of the country, on the horrid pack came, scampering up from all quarters.

Nearer and nearer approached the cries and howls. They commenced as before, scampering round the tent, and every time it seemed narrowing the circle. I knew that they must be closer to me. I stirred up my fire with a long stick I kept by me for that purpose, and I felt sure I saw the impression of their noses as, having smelled me out, they pressed them against the sides of the tent in their endeavours to find an entrance. I looked for the biggest bump, and took aim with my revolver. There was a loud snarl and cry, and then a shrieking and howling as the horrid pack scampered off into the distance. I had to get up and patch the hole made by my bullet, but I did not look out to see what had become of the wolf I had hit. I heard the animals howling away the livelong night in the distance. They did not, however, venture back again that night.

I had now been ten days alone, as I knew by a small bag I kept, into which I every day, when I awoke, put a bean. I should completely have lost all count of time without some such contrivance. The cold was becoming very bitter; still my health was improving, and I felt myself stronger than I had been since I was wounded. The perfect rest had tended to cure me. I thought that I would get up and walk about, to recover more completely the use of my limbs. It was necessary to replenish my stock of water before the stream was completely frozen over, as snow-water is not considered wholesome for a continuance. I had plenty of clothes and skins, and I required them, for a piercing wind blew across the wild prairie, which, unless thus protected, I could not have faced. The exercise did me good. I now went out every day, constantly returning to feed my fire and to warm myself. I replenished my stock of water, and got a further supply of wood, that I might not run short of that necessary article. I was most concerned about my provisions, which were diminishing sadly. I therefore always took my rifle out with me, in the hopes of getting a shot at a stray buffalo or deer going south, but all had gone; none passed near me. The woods, too, were now deserted; not a bird was to be seen; even the snakes and the ’coons had hid themselves in their winter habitations. A dead silence reigned over the whole country during the day. I wish it had equally reigned during the night. Daylight and the smoke of my fire kept the wolves away, but night after night they came back and howled as before. I used at last to sleep some hours every day, and sit up all night with my pistols by my side, ready to shoot them. Now and then the grinning jaws of one of them would force its way in at the entrance of the tent. I seldom passed a night without killing one or two of these intruders. I every morning cut off what I thought would prove the tenderest portion, and dragged the rest of the carcass away. I would not, however, advise anybody to feed upon wolf’s flesh if they can get anything better. More tough and nauseous morsels I never attempted to swallow; but it was necessary to economise the rest of my provisions.

I one day went out as usual to exercise my limbs and look for a chance shot. There was a fine clear sky overhead, not a breath of air was stirring, and my blood was soon in circulation. I felt more up to anything than I had done for a long time. I reached the only elevation in the neighbourhood, near the bank of the creek, when, turning my glance round on every side, I saw in the far distance towards the north-west, two specks on the surface of the dazzling expanse of white spread out before me. I watched—the specks were moving, they might be deer, or they might be wolves, but from the way they progressed I had little doubt they were men. They came from a quarter I did not like, inhabited by Dacotahs and Pawnees—treacherous, thievish rascals, who will take the scalp of an old woman if they can catch her asleep, and make as much boast of it as if they had killed a warrior in open fight. Still it was necessary to be on my guard against them. I waited till I ascertained without doubt that they were human beings, and then hastened back to my tent, made up my fire so that the smoke might be seen coming out at the top, put a buffalo robe inside my bed to personate myself, and loaded myself with all my fire-arms. I then carefully closed the entrance of the tent, and stepped back over the marks I had previously made, till I reached the bank of the stream, where I found ample shelter behind a clump of thick bushes. I there lay between two heaps of snow with my rifle ready, perfectly concealed, but having a clear view of my tent and the country beyond. If the strangers should prove to be friends, as the precautions had given me but little trouble it was wiser to take them, but if enemies they were very necessary. When they were still a long way off, I made out that the strangers were red-skins. Their costume showed me that they belonged to the tribes I have mentioned, and I had no doubt that they had come with hostile intent. They stopped, and I saw by their gestures that they were forming their plan of proceeding. One was an oldish man, the other was a tall, active lad; either would give me considerable difficulty to manage if it came to a hand-to-hand struggle.

They were armed only with bows and arrows and spears. They pointed to the smoke, and the elder signified that I was asleep within, or cooking my dinner. He then fixed an arrow in his bow, and by his gestures I suspected that he was saying he would shoot me through the tent covering before I had time to seize my fire-arms or see my enemies. “I’m much obliged to you for your good intentions, but I will try and frustrate them, my friends,” said I to myself. The elder of the two red-skins now approached the tent with his bow drawn, ready to send an arrow into the inmate should he appear at the entrance; the other searched carefully round the tent, and examined the traces of my feet in the snow. He seemed apparently satisfied that the owner had gone to the stream and returned, and was within. The two now got still nearer to the tent, with their bows drawn; so cautiously did they tread that not a sound could be heard. They stopped, and eagerly shot several arrows through the covering, one after the other, as rapidly as they could fix them to the strings of their bows. “And so you think that you have killed your prey,” said I to myself; but at the same time a sickening sensation came over my heart. I had never shot at a human being with the intention of taking away life; I must do so now or become the victim myself. The savages listened. Of course no sound from within reached their ears. The elder stooped forward to draw aside the curtain to look in, while the other stood ready with his spear to transfix the person who they might expect would attempt to spring out if he had not been killed. Now I thought I must fire. I took aim at the older Indian. In doing so the barrel of my rifle touched a twig. The younger savage in a moment detected the sound; he turned round full on me. His quick eye caught sight of my rifle as I instantly brought it to bear on him. He uttered an exclamation of astonishment. It was his last. I fired, and he fell with his face forward. His companion sprang up, and was about to rush towards me, but I pulled the trigger of my second barrel, and he too fell writhing in agony on the snow. Oh! how wretched I felt at what stern necessity had compelled me to do. How must Cain have felt when he had killed his brother? I rushed up to my tent. The younger savage was quite dead: the elder glared at me fiercely. Though badly wounded, still he might live. I leaned over him, and made signs that I would take him into my tent and try and heal him. A gleam of satisfaction came over his countenance—I thought it was from gratitude at my mercy. I was preparing to drag him into the tent, and to place him on my own couch. I felt that I was doing what was right. I should gain a companion in my solitude, perhaps make a friend, who would enable me to escape from my perilous position. His eye followed me as I moved about making the necessary preparations. He beckoned me to come and lift him up. I was putting my arm behind him, when his right hand drew a long knife with a flash from his belt, and before I could spring back he had struck twice with all his force at my breast, wounding me severely. It was not his fault that he did not pierce me to the heart. So firm a grasp did his other hand retain of my collar that I could not escape him. I had my own hunting-knife beneath my buffalo robe, my fingers clutched it, and, as catching his right arm I pressed it to the ground, I struck two or three blows with all my might at his throat and chest; I felt his fingers relaxing; his arm fell back—he too was dead. I would rather not dwell on that awful moment. The horrors of my solitude were increased ten-fold. Still. I was obliged to rouse myself to action. I knew not how many of the tribe to which the dead men belonged might be in the neighbourhood.

That evening, however, I could do nothing. Night was coming on, and the blood which trickled down my breast reminded me that I must attend to my own wounds. If my former nights had been full of horrors, this was far more dreadful. The wolves howled louder than ever, and came round me in great numbers, and though I was continually firing my pistols out into the darkness, I could scarcely keep them at bay. I will not dwell on that dreadful time. The morning did come at last. The first thing I did was to drag the bodies of the savages down to the river, and to force them through a hole in the ice whence I had been accustomed to draw water. The current quickly carried them down into far-off regions. Then I made a fire over the spot where their blood had been spilt, and, happily, during the day a heavy fall of snow coming on obliterated all the remaining traces of their fatal visit to my tent. Still for many a day I could not drive the picture of their hideous countenances out of my head, as they lay stark and stiff on the ground, killed by my hand—yet never was homicide more justifiable. I had, as I believed, got rid of all the traces of the savages outside the tent. When I found the arrows sticking inside it in my bed, it did not occur to me that it would be equally necessary to get rid of them. The whim seized me of keeping them as a memorial of my escape. Instead, however, of concealing them under the bed, I arranged them in the form of a star on the tent covering just above my head, and every time I looked at them I felt grateful that they were not sticking in my body. I have a dislike to dwell on the horrible sensations which came over me during those long winter nights and scarcely less dreary days. Had I possessed any books they would have served me as companions, and helped me to pass the time; but I had none.

My own thoughts and feelings were my only associates, and they often were far from pleasant ones. I had a great temptation also, which, had I given way to it, would have made matters worse.

Among the articles which had fallen from the wagon, and which Obed and I afterwards picked up, was a small cask of brandy. We were both of us very abstemious, or we should not have been the strong, hearty fellows we were. The cask, therefore, had not even been broached. The tempter, however, now came suggesting to me that I might soon forget all my miseries if I would but occasionally take a taste of the fire-water. I resisted him, however. I knew that if I once began I might go on, and not know when to stop. I was sure that I was better and stronger without liquor of any sort, so I let the cask remain as it was in a corner of the tent. I had a pipe and a small quantity of tobacco, which I mixed with sumach leaves and willow bark to make it go further. Smoking this was my greatest animal pleasure. My usual dinner, eked out with fried wolf’s flesh, indeed required a smoke to make it digest properly. After this adventure with the Indians, I found my nerves much shaken. I stayed in bed for a couple of days, but whenever I dropped asleep I found myself acting the whole scene over and over again. At night I had, as usual, to sit up, wrapped in my buffalo robes, with my feet at the fire, and my pistols in my hands, keeping the wolves at bay. Oh, how I wished they would cease their horrid serenade. The old year passed away, and the new year began, but there was no change in my condition. I was growing seriously alarmed about Obed. He ought to have been back by this time, I thought. I was afraid some accident might have befallen him, for I was very certain that he would not have deserted me. By degrees I recovered my composure, and took my exercise with my rifle in my hand as usual. My tent also, by being almost covered up with snow, had become a very warm and comparatively comfortable habitation, as I could always keep up a good fire within it. When I returned from my walks I had a cup of warm tea ready, which tended to keep up the circulation which the exercise had established. Thus I soon got into very good health again.

My chief occupation when out was looking for game. What was my delight one morning to see a flight of prairie-hens sitting on some boughs not far from my tent. I stopped like a pointer. I knew that the slightest movement might scare them away; and lifting my rifle to my shoulder, I selected a fine cock. I fired, and over he tumbled. I ran forward, and securing him to my belt, I marked where the others settled, and followed them up. Thus I went on. I had killed three, I think, which would prove a most satisfactory addition to my larder. When I looked about me I found that I had got a long way from my tent. I walked briskly back. When I got to the top of the bank near the river, what was my dismay, on looking northward, to see several persons approaching my tent! They could not have failed to have discovered me. I watched them with intense interest. They were red-skins—Dacotahs probably; I could not possibly avoid encountering them. I felt that my only prospect of safety was to put a bold face on the matter, and go and meet them frankly.

Hurrying to my tent, I loaded myself with all my fire-arms, resolving to sell my life dearly, and then walked forward towards them. I counted the strangers. There were ten of them, all painted and dressed for war; and a very ferocious set they looked. They seemed very much astonished and puzzled at seeing me. In an instant they all had their arrows fixed in their bows, and, forming a line, they thus advanced slowly and cautiously, keeping an eye on the tent, and evidently expecting to see a number of people emerge from it. Their demonstrations were so hostile that I now began to repent that I had not made an attempt to defend myself; at the same time I felt that a contest with ten cunning savages would have been a very hopeless one. Flight, too, over the snow, with little knowledge of the country, was not to be thought of. As the savages advanced I retreated, resolving to make a stand at my tent door. At the same time I tried to show by signs that I could, if I liked, kill two or three of them, but that I was ready for peace if they were. At last I lowered my rifle from my shoulder, and they unstrung their bows and advanced with outstretched hands towards me. Knowing their treacherous character, however, of course I could not depend on them. I bethought me that the best way to win their friendship was to offer them food, as is practised in civilised communities with some success; so I showed them the birds I had just killed, and intimated that I was going to dress them for their entertainment. I produced several other dainties, and my dried wolf’s flesh. I also brought out some of my mixed tobacco, though it was with intense reluctance I parted with it. They expressed their satisfaction by several loud grunts, and then squatted round in a circle outside the door of my tent. I made up my fire, and soon had the prairie-hens and several pieces of meat roasting on sticks before it, and a savoury stew cooking in my pot. I trusted that I might be able to replenish my scanty stock of provisions, but I knew, that, had I not given them with a good grace, my guests would probably have taken them by force. I had begun to serve the banquet, at which the red-skins were smacking their lips, and they were casting approving and kindly glances at me, when I remembered my cask of brandy. I knew that this would completely cement our friendship, but I intended to give them only a little at a time to run no risk of intoxicating them. I retired, therefore, to the back of the tent for the purpose of drawing off a little in a bottle. While I was thus employed, one of them put his head into the tent to see what I was about. As he did so, his eye fell on the star of arrows over the head of my couch. A loud exclamation made me turn round. I saw where his glance was directed. My folly and want of forethought in a moment flashed across my mind. All was lost, I perceived. The savages sprang up, and seizing me, pointed to the arrows. I had nothing to say. Perhaps the expression of my countenance betrayed me. Several held me tight while the others spoke. Though I did not understand a word of their language, I could not fail to comprehend the tenor of their speeches. Their action, the intonation of their voices, their angry glances, showed it. “Our friends came here, and this man killed them. We came to look for them, and by the same arts with which he destroyed them he had endeavoured to destroy us. There are the proofs of his guilt. How else did he become possessed of those arrows?” Such, I have no doubt, is a very concise abridgment of their harangues.

They continued speaking for an hour or more, till they worked each other up into a perfect fury. Their eyes gleamed at me with malignant hatred. They foamed at the mouth; they gnashed their teeth at me. I thought they would have torn me limb from limb; but they were reserving me for a far more refined system of torture. Having condemned me to death, they lashed my hands behind me, and my feet together, and placed me in a sitting position on my bed, there to await my doom, while they all crouched down round the fire, where, stern and grim, they finished the repast I had prepared for them in horrible silence.

Chapter Four.

The Indians propose to kill me—I am bound ready for the torture—My guests find the fire-water, and I find the advantage of having abstained from it—A fearful conference—A tomahawk sent at my head—The spirits take effect—I work my limbs free—Shall I kill my enemies?—I fly—A run for life—My terrible journey—I sink exhausted—A friendly Indian—A kind reception—I have cause to rejoice that I did not redden my hands with blood.

The Indians sat round the fire, devouring with dreadful composure the remainder of my scanty stock of provisions. I could not withdraw my eyes from them. I felt as if I was in a horrid dream, and yet I was too certain of the reality of what had occurred to doubt it. “Even were they to spare my life, I must starve,” I thought to myself, “so it matters little what they do to me.” They ate up all their own food and all mine, till nothing remained. The Red man, although he can go a long time without food, is a complete glutton when he gets a quantity, and is utterly regardless of what may be his future exigencies. When they had eaten up all the food exposed to view, they began to hunt about the tent for more. I watched them anxiously, for I was afraid that they would get hold of the gunpowder, and still more did I dread their finding the brandy. The chief, a villainous-looking old warrior, was the most active in the search. He went round and round the tent, poking his fingers into every package, and sniffing up with his nose, till at last his keen scent enabled him to discover the existence of the spirit cask, which I had already broached. With a grunt of satisfaction, in which the whole party joined, he dragged it forward, and made signs to his followers that all should share in the much-prized fire-water. I trembled at what would be the consequences. “They would have treated me badly enough while they were sober, but with all their evil passions inflamed by liquor, they will be perfect demons,” I thought to myself. “How wrong I was not to have let the dangerous spirit run out long ago.” How brightly their eyes glared, how eagerly they pressed forward to get a share of the coveted fire-water, which the old chief was serving out. I observed that he took care to help himself more largely than he did anybody else. Scarcely had they drunk off what was first distributed to them than they put forward their leathern drinking-cups to ask for more. The old chief having helped himself, gave some to his followers. Then their eyes began to glitter; the calm, sedate bearing of the Indian was thrown off; they talked rapidly and vehemently, and laughed loudly, and their fingers began to play with the handles of their tomahawks and scalping-knives in a way that made my blood run cold. The red-skins, when they take a captive for whom for any reason they have an especial hatred, generally wait two or three days, that they may have the satisfaction of tormenting him before they commence actually to torture him to death. As I watched them, however, I felt that any moment they might spring up and begin to torture me.

It is difficult to describe the horrible ingenuity they exhibit in tormenting their victims. Talk of the virtues of the savage—I do not believe in them. He may have some good qualities, but he is generally the cruel, remorseless monster sin has made him. Civilisation has its vices—I know that full well—and bad enough they are, but they are mild compared to those of the true unadulterated savage, who prides himself on his art in making his victims writhe under his tortures, and kills merely that he may boast of the number of those he has slaughtered, and may exhibit their scalps as trophies of his victories. It is a convincing proof to me that the same spirit of evil, influenced by the most intense hatred to the human race, is going continually about to incite men to crime. The Dyak of Borneo, the Fijian of the Pacific, and the red savage of North America, are much alike; and identically the same change is wrought in all when the light of truth is brought among them, and the Christian’s faith sheds its softening influence over their hearts. Many such ideas as those I have alluded to passed through my mind as I sat, unable to move, watching the proceedings of the savages, and I felt with a pang of intense remorse how utterly I had neglected doing anything towards sending the gospel of salvation in which I believed and thought I trusted, to them or any other of the heathen nations of the world.

The red-skins went on talking fast and furiously; then they put out their hands, and called on the old chief to serve them out further draughts of their loved fire-water. He dared not deny them. He helped himself, and his eyes began to roll round and round with a frightful glare, and every now and then they turned upon me, and I thought my last moment had come; but one of his companions, in a tone which had lost all respect for him, called off his attention for a moment, and I had a reprieve. It was but for a few minutes. I became once more the subject of conversation. Again the cups were filled and quaffed. I sat as motionless as a statue. A sign of fear, or even of consciousness, would only tend to enrage my captors. The countenance of the old chief grew more terrific. He grasped his deadly tomahawk, and, drawing it from his belt, lifted his arm to hurl it at my head. I expected that instant to feel the horrible crash as the sharp weapon entered my skull. I, notwithstanding, fixed my eye steadily on him. He bent back his arm; the tomahawk flew across the tent, but the spirits he had swallowed had unnerved his limbs and confused his sight, and, unconscious apparently of what he had done, he rolled over on his side. His companions were too far gone to take notice of his state. They rather seemed to rejoice at it, that now they could help themselves to as much liquor as was to be got. As the savages went on drinking, and I saw the condition to which they were reducing themselves, hope once more revived in my breast. I might work my way out of the leather thongs which bound me, and get clear of my captors; but then where was I to go? I was again tolerably strong, and I could run some miles, but in what direction should I bend my steps? I could scrape together a little food from that left by the Indians; but had I any chance of reaching any fort or settlement in the depth of winter? I should, too probably, be frozen to death, or be devoured by wolves, or be scalped by hostile Indians. The prospect was not cheering. Still all risks were far preferable to being tormented to death by my present captors. I was beginning to indulge in a prospect of escaping, remote though it might be, when two more of the Indians all of a sudden took it into their heads to hurl their hatchets at me. It was the last effort of expiring intelligence, and they both fell back overpowered by liquor. In a very short time, one by one, the rest of their companions yielded to its influences, and the whole band of Indians lay perfectly drunk and helpless at my feet.

No time was to be lost; how long they might continue in that state I could not tell. At all events it was important to get a long start of them. I found that I might in time gnaw away the thongs which bound my wrists. I set to work; they were very tough, but by perseverance I got through one, and then the other, and my hands were free. Still I had a tough thong round my neck, secured to one of the posts of the bed, and another round my ankles fastened to another below me. If I attempted to stoop down, I tightened the thong round my neck, nor could I draw my feet up to meet my hands. The savages had taken my own knife from me. I struggled, and pulled, and tugged, to get my feet clear, till I almost cut through my ankles to the bone. At last I thought of the tomahawks the savages had thrown at me. I leaned back and felt about behind me. To my great joy my fingers clutched the handle of one, the blade of which was sticking deep into the frame of the bed. I dragged it out, and very soon cut through the thong round my neck. To clear my feet was a work of less trouble: I was free. I can scarcely describe my sensations as I stood among my now helpless enemies. My first thought was to make preparations for my flight. I collected all the food of every description and packed it away in a bag, which I fastened round my waist. I took my rifle and filled my powder-flask, with a further supply in a leathern case which had been Obed’s, and all the percussion-caps, and as much shot as I could carry. I took the precaution also of collecting all the bows and arrows, and other weapons, of the Indians, and of piling them upon the fire, where they were quickly consumed. Then I threw over my shoulder my buffalo-skin coat, and stood prepared for flight. “Whither shall I fly? How can I escape from my swift-heeled enemies with all this weight of things to carry? Need I fly?” A dreadful thought came into my head. “They intended to kill me. There they lie utterly helpless. A few well-directed blows from one of their own tomahawks which they hurled at my head, and not one of them can harm me more. I may dispose of them as I disposed of their two brethren who tried to kill me. I have a right to do so. Surely I have a right to destroy them.” If I did not say, I thought all these things. Whence did the suggestion come? “Oh, may I be guided to do what is right,” I mentally ejaculated. I gazed at the helpless beings scattered around. “They are human. ‘Forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive them who trespass against us.’ What does that mean?” I asked myself. “Oh, no, I dare not injure them. Never mind what the rough backwoodsman would say to my conduct. I am sure it is braver to refrain than to kill. Certainly, as a Christian, I cannot kill them—I dare not. To His guidance and protection who formed the world and all living creatures, I commit myself.” With these words, not daring to look behind me, I rushed from the tent.

I took a westerly course, for I thought that I should more likely fall in with Obed in that direction, should he have reached a fort in safety, and succeeded in obtaining help to come and rescue me. On I went as fast as I could move, but my limbs were stiff, and the weight I carried was considerable. I tried to turn my thoughts from the savages, but I could not help calculating how long they might continue in their state of stupor. There was still some brandy left in the cask; when they recovered their senses, rather than pursue me they might be tempted to drink again. It was a question which was the strongest passion, whether the love of drink or the desire for revenge would prevail. On I went, the snow was now tolerably hard, so I made pretty good progress, yet the red-skins would go twice as fast when once they began to pursue me.

I went a mile before I stopped. Then, on reaching an elevation, whence I could have a clear view over the white glittering plain, I looked back at the spot where I had spent so many days and nights of pain and suffering, and where also I owned that I had been most mercifully preserved from so many dangers. The tent stood where it had been for many months, the smoke was curling out of the top into the calm sky, and all around looked so unchanged that I could scarcely persuade myself that in the interior was collected a band of malignant foes, who would rejoice in my destruction. I looked but a few seconds, and then away I went on my course. I walked on, sometimes breaking into a run where the snow was harder and would allow it, till sunset, and then the stars came out brightly in the firmament of heaven, and I was able to steer my course with greater certainty even than in the daytime. I could not think very much; but I did feel thankful that I had not yielded to the temptation of drinking the spirits myself, when I had felt low and almost hopeless. Had I done so, I should have destroyed the very means presented for my deliverance. I got over the plain with tolerable ease, for the sun had at times melted the snow, which when it froze again had become hard and rough. As I ran on, however, I was trying to devise some plan by which the Indians might be turned off my track. To obliterate it, however, was hopeless, unless a heavy fall of snow should come on, and even then the cunning rascals, by scraping away the snow at intervals, were very likely to find me out.

It was nearly midnight, I calculated, when I felt that I must stop to rest and take some food. I sat down on what I took to be a mound of earth covered with snow. I ate a handful of rice and a little biscuit, and chewed a piece of wolf’s flesh, and felt somewhat revived. I should have liked to have gone to sleep, but I dared not, even for a moment. It would have been, had I given way to the feeling, the sleep of death. I scarcely know why, but as I sat on the heap I struck the butt-end of my rifle into the snow; it gave way. I found there was something beneath it. With eager haste, for I remembered that every moment was precious, I threw off the snow. The body of a man lay beneath. A dreadful sensation came over me. It must be that of Obed, slaughtered, perhaps, on his way to succour me; the idea almost overcame me; I resisted, however, the feeling of despair, and roused myself up. I threw off more of the snow; I could see, by the faint light of the moon, that little more than a skeleton remained; the dress, however, was there; it was that of a backwoodsman. With horrible eagerness, yet with loathing, I examined the tattered clothes. I felt sure that they where those Obed had worn. In my search my hand struck against something; I took it up, it was an old silver watch; such a one Obed had not got, but often had I seen it in the hands of his brother Joab.

Poor Joab, then, had been killed on the first attack of the red-skins. What had become of the rest of the party? I dreaded lest I should find their remains as I had that of Joab. Taking the watch, I secured it about me to restore to his family should I ever meet them. I hunted about for his rifle; it was nowhere to be found. It had been carried off, I concluded, by the Indians. With a heavy heart I ran on, after my brief rest, expecting every instant to come on more of the remains of my old friends, but I saw no indications of them, and there was no time to carry on the search.

I went on after this for some time without halting even for a moment. I had now been several hours on foot. Had I enjoyed my usual strength, such as I possessed before being wounded, I should have made light of the fatigue. I was, however, again obliged to sit down. I reckoned on having a long start of the red-skins. I hoped to retain my strength so as to redouble my speed when I thought they would be pressing after me. I had deprived them of their arms, and they had no food; so that, could I contrive to keep beyond their reach for two or three days, they must be delayed to obtain it, if they attempted to follow me. Unless also their lodges were in the neighbourhood, and they could go and get arms, I possessed another very great advantage over them. Of course if pursued I would not hesitate for a moment about shooting them down. These ideas occurred to me as I ran on, and I began to feel that my case was not so hopeless as I at first considered it. My great dread was of the wolves. As yet I had not heard any of those cries which make night hideous in the desert regions; but I knew that if a pack once scented me out and gave chase, I should have little chance of escaping them, unless I could find a tree, up which I might climb out of their way.

I ran on all night, keeping nearly due west, and daylight found me pursuing my way with unflagging speed. At last I struck what I took to be a branch of the Nebraska river. A wood was not far-off on the other side. “I’ll try if a white man cannot manage to deceive the acuteness even of a red-skin,” I thought to myself. The wind had blown the snow completely off the ice on the river. I crossed the river and made towards the wood. I stirred up the snow in a way which I knew would puzzle the Indians, and then treading backwards on my footmarks, I once more reached the river.

Then away I went up the stream over the smooth ice as hard as I could run. Now and then I tumbled down, but I quickly picked myself up again, and was off as fast as ever. When a man believes that a body of red-skins or a pack of wolves are at his heels, he is likely to run pretty fast. I sat down once for breakfast for five minutes, and once at noon for dinner of raw rice and wolves’ ribs, and away I went again. At last I found that the river was making so many bends that it would be necessary to land, which I did on the north shore. Night came on, but I did not relax my speed; the stars came out and guided me as before. I was beginning, however, to feel much distressed. I bore up as well as I could, but I fancied that I could not continue my course much beyond the morning, even if I could go through the night. I came to some bushes growing above the snow; they would afford me shelter from the wind, and I might, I thought, venture to rest for half an hour or so. I should have wished to light a fire, but I dared not, lest the smoke might betray me.

I sat down and began searching in my bag for some food, when a distant and faint cry struck my ear. I listened; again I heard it. I knew too well what it was. The cry of a pack of wolves. Could they have gained scent of me and be following in my rack? The bare thought of such a thing made me start up, and again set forth at full speed. For what I knew to the contrary, I had both wolves and Indians following me. The wolves were gaining on me, that was certain. I could distinguish the yelps and barks through the still midnight. They might yet be some way off. I tried to pierce through the gloom ahead in the hopes of seeing some clump of trees rising out of the snowy plain in which I might take shelter. On I ran. It, at all events, would not do to stay where I was. The sound of those horrid yelps, if anything had been required to make me exert myself would have added fleetness to my feet. I longed for day; I thought they would be less likely to attack me. For a whole hour I ran on, I believe. It seemed more like three or four with those dreadful sounds ringing in my ears. I thought they were coming nearer and nearer. At last I saw some object rising up before me in the darkness. It might be a distant hill, or it might be the outline of the wished-for wood.

“But if I succeed in reaching it and climbing a tree, will not the delay enable the Indians to overtake me?” I thought. “I will keep outside the wood till the near approach of the brutes compels me to climb a tree to get out of their way.” I kept to this resolution. It proved to be a wood that I had seen. I skirted it as I continued my course. All the time I kept listening with a feeling of horror to the hideous chorus of the wolves.

Suddenly I was conscious that the sounds were growing fainter. In another twenty minutes I was certain of it. They were in pursuit of some wild beast or other, perhaps of some unfortunate Indian traversing the prairie. How thankful I felt when the sounds altogether ceased. This circumstance gave me fresh courage. I pursued my course steadily onward. I stopped even five minutes to rest and take a little food. The sun rose, still I was going on, but I began to feel that nature would not hold out much longer. I felt a dizziness in my eyes, and my knees began to tremble, and I drew my breath with difficulty. I was again in a vast plain. The sun was behind me; I followed my own shadow. Sometimes I could distinguish nothing before me, then the giddiness went away.

Suddenly, as I looked up, I saw before me eight or ten figures moving in a line across my path. Could they be the Pawnees who had lost my track, and were thus making a circuit in the expectation of coming on it? If they were, I would defend myself to the last. I felt for my rifle, and tried to get it ready to fire, but I had miscalculated my strength. The agitation was too much for me; I stumbled blindly forward a few paces, and then sank down helplessly in the snow. I tried to rise—to move—I could not, so I gave myself up for lost, and prepared for death. I was not afraid, I was not unhappy; indeed, I had no very acute feelings whatever, and very soon lost all consciousness. I was aroused by a human voice.

“Why, stranger, where have you dropped from? You seem to be in a sad plight!”

I looked up to discover whence the voice came, and there, instead of a white face, as I expected, I saw a tall Indian, as he seemed by his dress, though perhaps he was rather fairer than his people usually are, bending over me. I could not reply, but, with a sort of hysterical laugh, I made signs that I had come from the eastward, and that some one was in pursuit of me.

“Well, never mind talking now; we must first set you on your feet again,” he said in a kind voice. “My companions will be here presently. You want food and rest, and then you can tell us what has happened.”

“Food, food,” I whispered.

“Yes, poor fellow, you shall have it,” he answered, in a tone of commiseration, taking from his wallet some pemmican, which I ate with a keen relish.

The food revived me, and I felt much better by the time my new friend’s companions came up. They stood round me while I continued eating, with looks of pity and wonder on their expressive countenances. I saw by their dress and appearance that they were Ottoes, a tribe dwelling to the south of the Nebraska, and always friendly to the whites. My friend was the only one who could speak English, which he did perfectly. He saw me examining his countenance.

“I am half an Englishman,” he observed. “I am called John Pipestick. My father came from Kent, in the old country, I have often heard him say; the garden of England he called it. A poor place for buffaloes and wild turkeys, I should think, so it would not suit me. He sometimes talked of going to have a look at the hop fields and a taste of its ale, but he was killed by the Pawnees, who carried of his scalp. I’ve not left him unavenged, though. My mother was a red-skin, and belonged to this tribe, and I have no wish to quit them. But come, friend, you have done eating, and a man who can eat is not in a very bad way. Lean on us, and we will take you to our tents. They are not more than three miles off.”

Supported in the arms of the kind Ottoes, I walked along with tolerable ease. They were very fine fellows. One was fully six feet six inches in height, and proportionably strong limbed. The rest were not much his inferiors. John Pipestick was shorter, but very strong. As I walked along I found my tongue loosed, and I gave a succinct account of what had occurred. John interpreted. The Indians pricked up their ears, and had an animated discussion among themselves. We reached at length what is called a cedar swamp in the States. The cedar trees form a dense, tangled thicket, perfectly impervious to the wind, and in winter, when the moist ground is frozen hard below, such a locality is perfectly healthy. Woe betide the unfortunate wretch who has to take up his quarters within one in the summer time, when mosquitoes and rattlesnakes abound. He will wish himself well out of it before the morning.

Drawing aside a few boughs, the Ottoes led the way by a narrow path towards the centre of the thicket, and we soon found ourselves in an open space, in which were pitched a couple of tents. Several women and three or four men came out to greet us, and warmly shook my hands. I felt truly, as John Pipestick had called me, a brother among them. They placed me in a tent before a fire, and gave me warm food, and chafed my limbs, and then covered me up with a buffalo robe. I quickly fell asleep, and never have I slept so soundly in my life, or with a sense of more perfect security. At last I awoke; I had not stirred for fourteen hours. It was night, but the Indians were sitting up round the fire cleaning their arms. They seemed highly pleased when I awoke.

“We have been waiting for you to start on an expedition,” exclaimed John Pipestick. “How do you feel? Are you able, think you, to walk?”

I got up and stretched my limbs. They felt a little stiff, and pained me slightly, but I thought, I said, that exercise would take that off.

“No fear then,” said John; “take some food. Our people are anxious to start. I’ll tell you all about it as we go along.”

I lost no time in putting on my moccasins and in getting ready for a start, after I had partaken of some pemmican and a warm broth, of which a wild turkey formed the chief ingredient. I found a party of ten Indians besides Pipestick, all armed with rifles, besides hatchets and knives, and some had likewise bows and quivers of arrows at their backs. In their buffalo-skin coats they looked very like a troop of bears. The remainder of the party were preparing to follow with a light wagon, in which they carried their tents and provisions, and four shaggy little ponies to drag it. I saw that we were taking an easterly course. I asked where we were going.

“To your tent,” was the answer.

“But the Pawnees will have gone,” I remarked.

“No fear of that while any liquor remains,” he observed.

I knew that I might as well have spoken to the winds as have attempted to dissuade my wild friends from attacking their enemies. Still I tried to explain my view of the case. John seemed much struck by what I said. He observed that he had never seen it in that light before. He had been taught to do good to your friends, but to injure your enemies to the utmost of your power. He had no notion that such was not the Christian’s creed. His father was a Christian; so was he—not that he knew much about religion. That was all very well for people who lived in towns. I tried to show him that all men had souls; that one Saviour died for all; that all would have to stand before the judgment-seat of God; and that therefore religious faith and religious practice were essential for all.

Such was one of the many subjects of our conversation which beguiled our way. My long solitude had made me reflect and remember many things I had before forgotten, and my late merciful escape had not been without its effects in turning my heart to my Maker. I wish that I could say that, like the compass, it has ever since kept true to the pole. I did not feel, however, that I was making very deep impression on my auditors. We pushed on, not as fast as I had come, but still at a very rapid rate; and if I at all showed signs of flagging, two of the huge Indians would lift me up by the shoulders and help me along, scarcely allowing my feet to touch the ground. We camped in a wood for a short time, making an arbour with fir branches to keep off the cold, and then on we went. My heart beat quick as, soon after daylight, we approached the height whence we could look down, I knew, on my tent. We reached the spot—the one where I had been standing when I saw the Pawnees coming to destroy me. I looked eagerly for the tent. It was no longer there, nor was there a sign of living beings near. Two scouts went down to examine all the places of concealment near. After a time they signed to us to approach. We hurried down. There lay the remains of the tent, almost burned to pieces, and among a confused mass of cinders and various articles which the tent had contained, lay scattered about the blackened and mangled remains of my late captors.

“Verily let not man attempt to avenge himself,” I repeated. “Here is a proof of those solemn words, ‘Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord, I will repay.’”

Chapter Five.

I have cause to rejoice that I did not avenge myself—My great medicine work—I rise in the estimation of my new friends—An Indian encampment—Am offered a wife, but compelled to decline the honour—John Pipestick—Surrounded by enemies—A fierce attack—We fight with desperation, and resolve to die like brave men.

The disappointment of my Ottoe friends was very considerable when they found all their enemies killed, and not even a scalp remaining to carry off as a trophy; besides which, a large portion of the property contained in the tent had been destroyed. There was still enough, however, to be looked upon as a valuable prize by the red-skins, and I accordingly begged them to appropriate it. This they, without any show of reluctance, did, and immediately set to work to hollow out a large hole under the snow where they might bury it. How thankful I felt that my hand had refrained from slaughtering those poor wretches when they lay in my power.

As I considered the subject, I had no doubt of the cause of the catastrophe. After the savages had consumed the cask of spirits they had fallen on the barrel of gunpowder, probably hoping that it might contain more of their favourite fire-water. They were very likely smoking at the time, and perhaps all bending round the cask in their eagerness to get some of its contents. A spark from one of their pipes must in an instant have finished their business. I cannot say that I indulged in any sentimental grief at what had occurred. It was vexatious to lose so many things which might have been of use, but the most serious loss was that of the gunpowder. Fortunately, however, I had a good supply, which would last for some time. I never was addicted to burning gunpowder uselessly.

The warriors proposed to await the arrival of the rest of the party where we were, but I entreated them to return to meet their friends. I pointed out to them that perhaps other bands of Pawnees might be moving about—probably, as I found was the case, suffering from hunger; and that first their wives and those with them, and then we ourselves, might be overpowered. John Pipestick translated what I said, and finally they were persuaded to follow my advice. They laughed very much when I proposed to bury the remains of the dead men, and replied that it would be just as well to let the wolves perform that office, which in the course of another night they certainly would do. They found quite enough labour, indeed, in concealing the remains of my property. After they had dug the hole they deposited all the articles within, and then built up a pile of logs over it, which even an inquisitive bear would have had some difficulty in pulling to pieces.

My chief anxiety was now about Obed. I got the Ottoes to describe to me exactly the position of their village, about a hundred miles to the south-east of where we then were. Then I took one of the sticks which had served me for a crutch, and making a split in one end, I stuck the other deep into the ground. On a leaf which I tore from my pocket-book, I wrote a brief account of what had occurred and where I was going, and putting it into the cleft of the stick, bound the whole securely up. The Ottoes looked on with intense wonder at my proceedings, till John told them I was performing a great medicine work, which satisfied them.

Having thus done my best to enable Obed to join me, I set off with my friends to return to their camp. I paused again for an instant when I reached the summit of the hill, to take what I hoped might be a farewell look at the place which had been the scene of so much suffering to me, and lately that of so dreadful a catastrophe. A small black patch on the dazzling white plain alone was perceptible to mark the spot. I turned from the contemplation of the melancholy scene, and hastened after my friends. I found them moving very leisurely along. I urged John to persuade them to go faster. I could not cast from my mind the notion that more parties of Pawnees, Dacotahs, or other hostile tribes might be about, driven out by hunger to forage in the neighbourhood, and were very likely to attack them. I had, therefore, what I might have called a presentiment that my friends were in danger. I am not generally influenced much by such sensations. Certainly I was more liable to be so at the present moment than at any other. I do not deny the existence of such an influence, but still I cannot help thinking that it is caused by our reason, which tells us that such a thing is likely to happen. Sometimes it does happen, but often probably we find that we are mistaken. My red friends had an idea that the stick I had placed in the ground had something to do with the matter, and that I was positively informed of what was about to occur, so hurried on faster than I found agreeable.

My feet had become very sore from my previous exercise, and whenever we came to soft places they sunk into the snow, the thick cake of ice above cutting my ankles almost to the bone. Sometimes I felt that I must stop, but I was anxious to help my new friends, and I knew that it would never do even to appear to flag on such an occasion. I had won their good opinion by the powers of endurance I had hitherto exhibited. They especially admired me for killing the two Pawnees, and for escaping from their comrades; though they could not understand why I had not destroyed the whole gang when I had the power of doing so, and of adorning my belt with their scalps. I saw, therefore, that it would be very disadvantageous to me to run any risk of being lowered in their estimation. John Pipestick and one of the Indians remained with me, while the others went on faster ahead; but, exerting myself to the utmost, we pushed on to overtake them. Besides the idea which I had originated that their friends might be attacked, hunger induced them to move at a rapid rate; for they had brought but a scanty supply of provisions with them, and they had no means of cooking the rice found in the tent. We were passing a wood when I stopped my companions, for my eye had fallen on several prairie-fowls sitting on the boughs of one of the outer trees a little way off.

“We should have no chance of hitting at this distance,” said John Pipestick.

“Stay then, I will try what my rifle can do,” I answered; and creeping carefully up till I got them within easy range, I settled in my mind which bird I should fire at with my first, and which with my second barrel. I let fly; down tumbled a bird, and the next barrel was even more fortunate than the first, for two birds were brought to the ground. Both my companions warmly expressed their delight. I had established my fame as a first-rate shot, and had, moreover, provided the whole party with a meal. Knowing how welcome we should be, my companions helping me along, we pushed on, and at length overtook our friends, preparing to camp for half an hour or so in the thicket, that they might be the better able afterwards to pursue their course.

I need not say that the game I brought was thankfully welcomed, and very quickly cooked and consumed. I found that the Indians were growing anxious at not by this time meeting with the rest of their party, and they were about, while resting, to hold a consultation as to what course to pursue. We were soon again in motion; night or day made no difference to us. On we pushed. It was about noon when, on reaching a height, we saw a thin light smoke curling up into the pure, intense blue sky, from the bottom of a pine-clad ravine below us. All appeared to rest in perfect peace and quietness, and I began to be ashamed of my nervous anxieties. I was greatly afraid that I should lose my influence with my friends, and as my predictions, or rather warnings, had not been verified, I should in future be looked on as a false prophet.

“There are our friends, most probably,” said John Pipestick; “but we don’t proceed as carelessly as you people from the East are apt to do. We shall send out scouts and approach cautiously, lest our enemies devise some means to destroy us. Such a thing has been done before now. Those left in an encampment while the rest have been out hunting have been attacked and slaughtered, while their enemies have taken possession of their tents, and dressed and painted themselves like those they have killed. There they have remained till the hunting-party have unsuspiciously returned, perhaps a few at a time, and thus all in detail have fallen victims. It was a clever trick, but we should deserve to die if we allowed it to be repeated on us.”

While John was speaking, three of our party, making a wide circuit, crept cautiously forward towards the edge of the ravine, so that they might look down and see what was going on below. We, meantime, lay down behind some bushes so as to be completely concealed, the chief only keeping watch, that he might direct us to act according to circumstances. I could not help admiring their caution, though it was very tiresome to wait in the cold instead of being within their warm tents. At last the chief gave the sign for us to proceed. I started up, prepared to meet the enemy I expected. We advanced towards the edge of the ravine and began to descend, when we caught sight of the tents pitched at the bottom of it, the smoke issuing forth from the apertures in their summits. I inquired of John Pipestick if all was right.

“Yes, all right,” he answered; “no enemies have come; they may perhaps though; but we shall not remain here many hours.”

The scene was very different from any I had, for many weeks, set eyes on. By the side of what I knew was a stream were three tents. Each was formed of some eighteen or twenty long, slender rods, the butt-end stuck in the ground, in a circle, and the tops bent over to meet each other, forming the framework of the habitation. Over this was stretched a covering of buffalo-skins, very neatly sewed together with thin strips of leather, and secured so firmly at the foot with pegs, that it was as tight as a drum, and capable of throwing off any amount of rain, or the snow melting from the heat within. The hides, being tanned white, had a very neat and tent-like look. I cannot say much for the cleanliness inside, but I have been compelled in my wanderings to put up in dirtier places, and that is all I can say in their favour.

These habitations are much more substantial than the wigwams of the Canadian Indians, which are formed in a conical shape by uniting at the top a dozen straight poles stuck in a circle in the ground, and by covering them thickly with birch-bark. In both cases a hole is left at the top to serve as a chimney. Inside the tents of my present friends the ground was spread with mats all round the edges, except in the centre, where a bare spot was left for the fire-place. Many of the tribes differ in the way of forming their cooking-place, and often the only means of ascertaining whether friends or foes have encamped on the spot, is by an examination of the place where they have lit their fires. The cots for the babies, and the pots and pans, and bows and arrows, and fishing-spears, and buffalo tongues, and bears’ hams, with numberless other articles, are hung up to the tent rods, and often garnish them rather oddly.

As we approached the tents, men, women, and children hurried out to meet us, and welcomed us warmly, all eager to hear our adventures. But Indians are not addicted to rattling out news, as is our habit in the old country, so they had to wait till various ceremonies were first gone through.

The old chief invited me into his tent, an honour John advised me not to refuse, and then having sat down before his fire, and taken off my outer coat and my torn moccasins, his women-kind hooked out of a huge pot hanging from the centre over the fire, a lump of bear’s flesh, and several other dainties, the exact nature of which I could not at first learn. Curiosity prompted me to inquire, by holding up a piece of the meat between my thumb and fingers, when a respectable old dame, whom I took to be his spouse, replied by a “bow-wow-wow,” by which I guessed rightly that it was a bit of a young puppy.

A few days afterwards a deep “bow-wow-wow” showed me that I was dining off an older animal of the same species. I cannot say that I had any repugnance to the meat, for after living on wolves’ flesh for so long it was to me a delicate luxury. I objected rather to the quantity than the quality of the food placed before me, for the old chief—Waggum-winne-beg was his name, at least it sounded like that—wishing to do me unusual honour, gave me a double allowance each time he stuck his stick into the pot. I expressed my gratitude as well as I could, and pointed first to my chest and then to my throat, to show him that I thought the food must have got thus high; but he only laughed, and kept on helping me as before. At last I stuck a piece in my mouth, and pretended that I could not get it down further; but he was too good an anatomist to be so taken in, and offered to get a ramrod to help me down with it.

“Now, old fellow,” said I, getting savage, “it may be a very good joke to you; but more I will not eat, and that’s enough.”

Luckily John Pipestick coming in, explained that though Englishmen eat as much as any red-skins, they were in the habit of taking several moderate meals during every day throughout the year, and that the Indian fashion of one day gormandising, and for many days starving, would not suit them. I was not sorry to find that my friends were almost as much tired as I was, and that they would remain another whole day to rest.

During the day, however, I received a piece of information from John Pipestick, which somewhat discomposed me. I found that the old chief, my host Waggum-winne-beg, proposed bestowing on me one of his daughters to become my wife. Now, although I had no dislike to the notion of matrimony, I had a decided preference for a wife of my own colour and style of education. Miss Waggum-winne-beg was a very charming young lady, I had no doubt, and could dress a puppy-dog to perfection, and could manufacture moccasins unsurpassed by those of any other young damsel in the tribe, and embroider with coloured grass, or make mats of great beauty; indeed, I cannot enumerate all her accomplishments and attractions. Still she had not won my heart, and indeed, a wife, whether white, or red, or black, would have been very inconvenient while I was leading my present wandering style of life. I gave this as the best reason I could think of for not accepting my host’s generous offer; but he laughed at my scruples, and replied that I should find a wife very useful, as she could work for me, and carry my gun and baggage of every description; that she would also cook my food and make my moccasins and tent covering, and weave fringe for my leggings and other garments, and manufacture the mats and various requisite utensils. Indeed it would be difficult to find, in any part of the world, so accomplished a young lady, or one more industrious and obedient; that I might always beat her as much as I liked, if I found her either idle or disobedient.

I begged Pipestick to explain that, however good the customs of the red-skins were—a point I did not wish then to dispute—those of the English differed from them; that there were a few idle, lazy, good-for-nothing fellows in England, among the chiefs, who looked out for wives with fortunes, and among the lower classes, who made their wives work for them, but it was the pride and endeavour of all true braves to secure the means of supporting their wives, either through inheriting a fortune from their ancestors, or by the exertion of their own strength and talents, and that this latter way was considered the most honourable. This was the method I proposed to follow, and before I could accept the peerless daughter of the chief, I must procure the means of supporting her. Pipestick did not exactly understand the reasons I gave for declining the chief’s offer, but he explained them as well as he could. I was rather thunder-struck when the chief remarked that, though he approved of them highly, he would waive all such arrangements in my case, and that he would supply his daughter with ample goods and chattels for our use. To this I could only reply that I was highly flattered by his preference, but that it was against my medicine to avail myself of his offer; that I was an Ottoe at heart; that I loved the Ottoes, and would fight for the Ottoes, and that the time might come when I should be an Ottoe indeed; but that, at present, my medicine did not show me how that was to be accomplished.

The name of the young lady, the subject of this long conversation, was, I found, the “Firefly”; and certainly, as I watched her light figure, decked with red feathers and garments with red trimmings, I thought she was very appropriately so called; at the same time, I did not for one moment indulge the base idea of accepting the chief’s offer. My earnest desire was to find my way back, as soon as possible, to the society of civilised men. I was heartily glad, then, when, once more, our tents were struck, and we continued our journey. As we travelled with women, children, and a wagon, our progress was very much slower than when we had gone alone. Often it was hard work getting the wagon through the snow. Generally the poor women had to drag it; and I rather scandalised the red warriors by putting my shoulder very frequently to the wheel and by pushing on behind. Pipestick said that it was considered very derogatory to the dignity of a warrior. I said that I thought it might be disagreeable to the inclinations of an idle rascal; but that chiefs in my country never let their wives do any hard work at all, and that I could not bear to stalk on ahead with only my rifle at my back, while the poor creatures were toiling away in that fashion. I suppose Pipestick translated my remarks correctly, for the chiefs tossed their heads and afterwards had a very long talk about the matter. I saw that they began to look on me as a sad republican, and to suspect that I purposed introducing mutiny into their camp.

At last we reached the spot where I had spent so many weeks of suffering and anxiety. Scarcely a particle of the remains of the Indians were to be seen, but a few scattered bones and torn bits of garments. The things hidden by the Ottoes were untouched, so they dug them up, and I having added a few words to the paper in my medicine stick, as I called it, we proceeded on our way. We encamped four or five miles off that night, and the next day made good very nearly fifteen miles. The tents were pitched on the lee side of a wood, where there was but little snow, and the air was comparatively warm. All hands, that is to say the women and children, were soon employed in gathering sticks for our fires, and in digging up hickory nuts. It was the chief occupation of the men in the evening, as they sat round the fire, to crack and chew these nuts: the taste indeed was pleasant. The camp was not left altogether without some fortification. The wagon was placed in front, and some logs of half rotten timber were dragged out, and served to fill up the space left open in the little nook in which the tents were ensconced.

John Pipestick had a tent of his own, but he came to the old chiefs tent, where I had been asked to take up my abode, to act as interpreter. We sat up till a late hour, cracking nuts and telling very long-winded stories, which, as Pipestick occasionally interpreted them for my benefit, took up a double portion of time, and were not especially interesting. I was not sorry, at last, to find myself comfortably covered up by a pile of buffalo-skins, with the prospect of a sound sleep till daylight.

How long I had slept I do not know, when I was awoke by the barking of one of the dogs, then by another and another, till the whole tribe were in full yelp, in every key, from full bass to double treble. The old chief sprang off his couch, so did I, and as we rushed out of the tent, we found all the warriors standing on the alert, and with their rifles in their hands, peering out into the darkness. Two or three advanced cautiously into the wood, the dogs following at their heels yelping furiously, till they were summoned back by those in the camp. I tried to discover the cause of the alarm, but could discover nothing over the white plain spread out before us. If there were enemies, they were in the wood; but to see them was impossible. We waited for the return of the scouts. There was a complete silence: the howl of the wolves had ceased; not a night-bird disturbed the quiet of the night. Suddenly a piercing, terror-inspiring, unearthly shriek was heard ringing through the quiet wood. Directly afterwards the feet of one of the scouts, as we supposed, were heard rushing through the wood. It was one of our companions. The whirl of a dozen tomahawks flying after him showed how closely he was pursued, as he broke into the encampment, crying out, “The enemy are upon us, the enemy are upon us!” What made the suspense more trying was, that not a foe could be seen. We had no doubt that they were there in strong force, and that the two other scouts had been surprised and slaughtered by them. Probably the wood swarmed with them, yet I did not see a sign of fear among any of my friends. Old Waggum-winne-beg was in his element, and he was ably seconded by John Pipestick. To send any more scouts into the wood would have been perfect madness; so, each man sheltering himself as best he could behind trees and bushes, and logs of fallen timbers, we waited in silence for the attack. Some time passed away.

“I wonder if it is a false alarm,” thought I. “Still, if it is so, what has become of the scouts?” I whispered to Pipestick that I thought it might be a mistake.

“Not at all,” was the answer; “wait a bit. It you ever shot well, shoot well now, if you care for your scalp.”

The advice had scarcely been given, when there arose a sound close to us, more hideous and terrific than I ever before heard in my life. The red-skin’s war-whoop was heard above all. I turned my head for an instant to the east. The first faint streaks of dawn were appearing in the sky. Through the pale light thus afforded I could see a number of dark forms flitting about among the trees, while they kept up a continued discharge of arrows and darts. Now and then a musket-ball came whizzing by us; but it was very evident that the greater number of our assailants were armed only with bows and arrows; at the same time there could be no doubt that they very far outnumbered us. This would prove of serious consequence should they come to close quarters.

Red-skins, however, are not fond of close quarters, unless they can take an enemy by surprise, which our dogs and scouts had prevented them doing in our case. I do not think it is fair to call them cowards. Their notions are altogether different to ours, and they consider stratagem and deceit as the chief art of warfare. They have no notion of risking their own lives, if they can by any other way destroy their enemies, and they consider white men as committing the height of folly when they stand up and exchange shots with similar weapons in a duel. I don’t know that they are far wrong.

Our assailants, having tried to shake our nerves by their shrieks and showers of arrows, appeared to retire, and again the whole wood was wrapped in perfect silence. It was but of short continuation. Once more those unearthly shrieks and cries broke forth, and this time they were echoed by our people, who kept their muskets ready, and the moment an enemy appeared flitting from one tree to another, did not fail to fire—with what effect I had not time to observe. I felt that I was bound, on every account, to take an active part in the fight, and kneeling down behind a log of timber, I loaded and fired as rapidly as I could, whenever my eye caught sight of the dusky form of an Indian warrior. I did not often miss, but I suspected that I inflicted more wounds on the limbs than on the bodies of our enemies.

“Who are they, think you?” I asked of Pipestick, who was at my side.

“Dacotahs or Pawnees,” he answered. “They have had scouts on our trail for some time probably. When they discovered that their friends were destroyed, they thought that we had done the deed, and have come in force resolved to be revenged.”

It appeared to me that we might as well have tried to shoot down all the trees in the wood, as to destroy our enemies. They swarmed round us like hornets, seemingly resolved, as John observed, to cut us off to a man. I turned my eye to the right; a band was just emerging on that side from the wood, and the same minute I saw another coming out on the left, in a long line, evidently for the purpose of surrounding us. I picked off two or three fellows as they flew over the snow, but so rapid and eccentric were their movements, that it was no easy matter to get a fair shot at them, especially as all the time we were assailed with showers of arrows. Some were sent from too great a distance to do us much harm; but at the same time they not a little distracted us. Others again had more deadly effect. Some of our people were struck down; two were killed outright, the arrows passing right through their bodies; while several were more or less injured. I, happily, had hitherto escaped unhurt, and so had Pipestick; but the old chief was wounded in the arm, and one of the poor little children was killed, in spite of the protection its mother attempted to afford it. This made me feel more bitter than anything else, and yet such an incident is but a too common consequence of warfare.

The old chief proved himself well worthy of the dignity bestowed on him. By word and gesture he animated his people to fight bravely, and to resist to the last; and every time they raised one of their war-whoops, he led the chorus, which these returned with no less vehemence. Still, as I considered the matter, I began to apprehend that we were completely in the power of our vindictive enemies. While we were inside our entrenchments, they knew that it was more prudent not to come to the hand-to-hand encounter; but if we attempted to move onward, we should be instantly surrounded and cut down. The Dacotahs had enough men to keep watch and watch, and to tire us out. Had we been a party of men alone, we might have cut our way through them; but, of course, with the women and children that was impossible. As long as the powder lasted we might keep them at bay; and thus all we could do was to hold out bravely, and to hope that some turn might occur in our favour.

The cold grey dawn was just breaking, when with shrieks and whoops louder, more terrific than ever, numbers of the savages rushed out of the wood, closely pressing round us. To count how many there were was impossible, for they flew here and there, and sprang about in a most wonderful way, and then on they came in a body towards us. Several of our people were knocked over, and as I saw the hideous fellows flourishing their tomahawks and scalping-knives, I began to feel a most painful sensation round the top of my head. The old chief stood boldly at his post, picking off his enemies as they drew near, while John Pipestick did no dishonour to his father’s land or the men of Kent, I did my best to reduce the number of our foes, but it was of little avail, and in another instant we were engaged, with overwhelming numbers, in a desperate hand-to-hand conflict. I looked round; not a ray of hope appeared, and thus like brave men we resolved to make our foes pay a heavy price for our lives.

Chapter Six.

Our powder expended—I believe that my last moment has arrived—Unexpected succour—A dangerous predicament—Obed’s gallantry—Our enemies take to flight—We recommence our journey—Generosity of the old chief—Offers me two wives instead of one—Obed’s narrative—How he escaped from the bear—A fresh alarm—The approach of a stranger.

The infuriated Dacotahs thronged thickly around us, uttering the most horrible yells and shrieks, those in the distance plying us incessantly with their arrows and darts, while those in the front ranks kept whirling their tomahawks above our heads, watching for an opportunity to send them crashing down upon our skulls. Not a shot was heard; our rifles were useless; all our powder was expended. We fought as men driven to desperation generally will fight for none of us had, I am sure, the faintest hope of escaping with our lives; for my part, I fully believed that the next moment would be my last. Old Waggum-winne-beg had received a desperate wound on his shoulder, and had been beaten to the ground; the gallant Pipestick had been brought on his knee, and I found myself without support on either side just as a gigantic chief with uplifted battle-axe made a desperate rush at me. I raised the butt-end of my rifle, which had hitherto done me such good service, to parry the blow, but I felt conscious that it would not avail me. I was in the power of my vindictive enemy. I saw the keen-edged weapon glittering in the first beams of the rising sun, as the glorious luminary of day appeared above the snow-covered plain; I felt as if in another instant it would come crushing through my brain, when the sharp crack of a distant rifle sounded in my ear, and I saw my enemy leap up in the air and fall dead at my side, his axe missing my head and just grazing my arm.

I eagerly looked forth in the direction whence the shot had come, to discover, if I could, by whom I had been preserved. I could as yet see no one, but I observed that our assailants were influenced by some disturbing cause, and were gathering together in the north-west, as if to prepare for resisting some expected attack. Still those near us seemed resolved to gratify their vindictive feelings by destroying us if they could before our unknown friends could come to our aid. I had little doubt that the party who had appeared so opportunely to relieve us must, by some means or other, have been collected by Obed; and I prayed heartily that it might be of sufficient strength at once to put our enemies to flight. I had little time, however, to think about the matter. The Indians pressed us harder than ever, and scarcely a man of us remained unwounded, while many of the poor women were hurt. The rest of the women fought with as much fierceness and desperation as the men. Yet I felt that in spite of all the heroism which had been exhibited, and in spite of the aid which was so close at hand, our lives would be sacrificed.

Again the Dacotahs gathered thick around us; I could not restrain myself; I shouted loudly for help, though I scarcely expected it to be sent; my shout was replied to by a hearty cheer, and nearly a dozen white men, followed by three times as many Indians, broke through the masses of our enemies with sword and battle-axe and club, and beat them down or drove them back, shrieking and howling with rage and fear. One figure I recognised, more active than the rest, making his way towards me. It was that of Obed.

“Hurra, old feller, hurra! I am glad you’re safe, that I am,” he shouted, as he sprang over the barricade, and grasped my hand.

“But we must drive these varmint away, or shoot them down, every mother’s son of them, or they’ll be gaining heart and coming back on us. Come on, lads; come on—hurra, hurra!”

Uttering these shouts, he again leaped out of our encampment, and, beckoning on his followers, they were all once more in pursuit of the flying enemy. Just as he went, Obed handed me a powder-flask and a bag of bullets.

“You’ll want them, boy, I guess; and I have plenty,” said he, as he flew off.

I was about to join him, when I found my limbs refused to perform their office. The moans also of old Waggum-winne-beg, John Pipestick, as well as of others of my companions, made me feel that I must stay where I was, both for the sake of attending to them and of guarding them should any of the Dacotahs who might be prowling about in the wood take the opportunity, while our friends were at a distance, to rush in and scalp them, and be off again before pursuit could be made. I have on many occasions found the importance of not despising an enemy. I urged Pipestick to keep a look out while I was attending to the hurts of the old chief, and helping some of the poor women who were the most severely injured.

I had been thus employed for some time, occasionally looking out to see how it fared with Obed and his party in their pursuit of the enemy. Wherever they went, the Dacotahs scattered before them, but rallied again directly afterwards in the distance, and seemed as ready as ever to renew the attack. When I looked up the next time, they were once more flying as chaff before the wind. I at once saw that their purpose was to weary out their pursuers, and then to unite and to make a desperate attack on them altogether. I hoped that my friends would be too wary to be led into the snare laid for them.

I had been for some time stooping down to try and bind up the lacerated wounds of a poor fellow who had been cruelly cut about by the Indian’s tomahawks, when a shout from Pipestick made me lift my head, and I saw a dozen or more Dacotahs come scampering like demons out of the wood with the evident intention of making an attack on us. I sprang to my feet, and helped Pipestick to get up. We both of us had our rifles loaded, as had several of the Indians, from the ammunition furnished me by Obed. The cunning rogues did not know this, and thought that they were going to catch us unprepared. We presented our rifles. They laughed derisively, as much as to say, “Oh, they will do us no harm, we know that.” Never were they more mistaken in their lives, and it was the last mistake they ever made. We let them come on without shrinking.

“John,” said I, “let me take the fellow on my right-hand side; do you take the next, and tell our Indian friends to follow my lead. We’ll astonish those red-skins, I guess.”

Pipestick did as I advised. We let the Indians approach within a hundred yards of us. On they came, making a desperate rush at us, and uttering their fearful war-whoops confident of victory.

“Now, my boys, give it them,” I shouted; “and take care that every shot tells.”

Pipestick repeated my words. We all fired at the same moment, and six of the Indians were knocked over. So eager were the rest that they did not discover that their companions had fallen. They were still very formidable antagonists. We had not time to load our rifles before they were upon us. Pipestick, in consequence of his wounds, was scarcely able to offer any effectual resistance, but the Indians fought bravely, and all the women who were unhurt came to our assistance. I certainly was very far from despising their assistance. They enabled me and Pipestick to fall back to load our rifles and those of our companions, and, taking a steady aim, we soon turned the fortunes of the day. Three more Indians were knocked over, and the rest turned tail, and ran off as fast as their long legs would carry them, to avoid the shots which we sent whizzing away in their rear. My great anxiety was now to get Obed to come back into the camp, fearing lest he and his party might be led by the manoeuvres of the enemy to too great a distance from it, and that the Indians might get in between us and our friends, so I resolved to go myself.

There was no time for consideration: loading my rifle and seizing the tomahawk of one of the dead Indians, I sprang out and ran faster than I thought I could possibly have moved. Just as I had got half-way from the camp towards them, another party of Indians darted out of the wood, and, setting up their war-whoops, ran out with terrible fleetness towards me. I ran faster, I believe, than I had ever before done, shouting out to Obed to come and rescue me. He at that time, unfortunately, was repelling a strong body of Indians, who seemed to press him very hard. I saw that I must depend on myself; I halted, and, kneeling down, took a steady aim at the headmost of my pursuers. He was, I thought, aware that his fate was sealed when he saw me pointing my rifle at him. He threw up his arms even before I had fired, and then over he fell, shot through the breast. I ran on as hard as I could pelt. There is no disgrace running from an overpowering enemy. Again and again I shouted at the top of my voice to Obed. The Dacotahs pushed on. I loaded as I ran. I thought if I could bring down another of them I might stop the progress of the rest. With no little difficulty I got my rifle-ball rammed down. I turned suddenly and rather surprised my pursuers by lifting my weapon to my shoulder and letting fly at the leading red-skin. He, as had his companion, tumbled over, but his death only the more exasperated the rest, and they sprang forward more intent than ever to take my life. There was no time to load again. The fellows were gaining most uncomfortably on me. I began to feel very much as a person does in a dream, when he cannot get away from monsters in chase of him.

“Obed, Obed, fire—do fire,” I shouted.

At length Obed heard me, and a dozen of his followers faced about and hurried to meet my enemies. The latter, setting that their chance of cutting me off was gone, turned tail and endeavoured to escape into the wood. I entreated my new friends not to pursue them, and they saw the wisdom of my advice. We accordingly went back to join the rest of the party, who had come to my relief. What was my surprise and pleasure to see three of my old friends, Obed’s brothers, among them. Just then the remnant of the Dacotahs once more took to flight, and allowed my friends leisure to address me. They hurried up and heartily shook me by the hand, telling how glad they were to find that I was alive, while I assured them that I was equally rejoiced to find that they had escaped. We had no time, however, for talking. I urged them at once to assemble in the camp, so as to enable my friends to proceed on their journey, till they could stop at a more secure resting-place. We got back to the camp just in time to scare away another party of Dacotahs, who like vultures had been hovering about ready to pounce down on their prey. Indeed we had enough to do to keep our scattered enemies at bay. We found old Waggum-winne-beg considerably recovered, and John Pipestick not much the worse for his wounds: indeed, it is extraordinary what knocking about a red-skin will take without suffering materially, provided he keeps clear of the fire-water.

Some of the white men, when they found that I wished to proceed farther east, till I had seen my friends in safety, grumbled very much, and said that they had come to help me, but had no notion of going through so much fatigue and danger for a set of varmint Indians. I told them in reply that I was very much obliged to them for all they had gone through on my account, but that I was bound by every law of God, and by every rule of right, to help those who had helped me; and that, come what might, I could not and would not desert them. The Raggets supported me, more especially Obed.

“Dick is right, boys!” he exclaimed. “I would do the same as he proposes, and he would not be acting like himself if he did otherwise; the Ottoes have always been friends to the white man, and I’ve resolved to stick by Dick till we see them free from danger from these rascally Dacotahs.”

These remarks soon won over by far the larger portion of the white men to our side, the Indians at once recognising their duty to assist their friends. The red-skins who had accompanied Obed were, I found, Kioways, a large tribe inhabiting the country bordering on the Rocky Mountains. I asked Obed how he had induced them to accompany him. “Oh, it is a long story. I’ll tell you about that and many other things, when we have more time,” he replied.

All hands now set to work to strike the tents and pack the wagons; it was soon done, and the wounded people stowed away in them on the top of their goods. Some of the men rather objected to have the poor wounded women placed in the wagons alongside of them, and seemed to think that, as long as the unfortunate wretches had life in them they might just as well get out and walk. Such are the chivalric notions of the Indian warriors we read so much about in novels, and our young ladies are taught to fancy such fine fellows. They have, notwithstanding, some few good qualities, but those belonging to the ancient code of chivalry are not among them.

We had not yet done with fighting, and we had not proceeded a mile before we caught sight of the Dacotahs hovering about us to the northward, watching for an opportunity to pounce down upon us. Although a good many of their warriors had been made to bite the dust, they still so far outnumbered our united parties that they might have some hopes, if they could take us by surprise, to cut us up altogether. This, of course, we took care that they should not do. Our attention, however, was so much occupied that Obed had no time to give me an account of his adventures. Our great wish was that the Indians would come on again once more and allow us to give them a lesson which we hoped might teach them to keep at a respectful distance from us. We pushed on as fast as beasts and men could move, and just before nightfall we reached a hillock with several rocks jutting out of it, which was considered a remarkably secure spot for camping. It was well fortified by nature, but the cunning backwoodsmen were not content to trust to it in that condition, but at once set to work to enable it to resist any attack which might possibly be made on it during the night.

Our old chief, to show his gratitude to his preservers, ordered an ample supply of provisions to be served out, and as soon as fires could be lighted and the food cooked we all sat down to our repast. We at first were too hungry to talk, but I gleaned from one or two remarks made by my friends that their family had escaped from the Indians, and were encamped for the winter at some distance to the eastward. There was plenty of dry underwood about, so we had made a blazing fire, round which we were seated. We had all lighted our pipes, and Obed was about to begin his narrative, when an Ottoe Indian came and said a few words to John Pipestick, who was sitting with us.

“Our chief, Waggum-winne-beg, is anxious to see you,” said he to me. “He feels very ill, and as he believes you to be a mighty medicine-man, he thinks that you can certainly cure him.”

I knew that there was no use in denying my power, so I at once got up to go and see the old man, accompanied by John as interpreter. He was lying down on a mat, with his head resting on a block of wood which served him as a pillow. He sat up as I entered, and with unusual warmth expressed his pleasure at seeing me. I merely give the substance of what he said, for he addressed a long speech to me, which he believed would have a powerful effect on my feelings.

“Stranger,” he began, “you have met with friends, and undoubtedly you contemplate leaving the tents of the red-skins to accompany them whither they are going. Think well before you leave us. You shall be to us a son and a brother; we will adopt you; we will clothe you; we will paint you; you shall become like one of us in all things. I told you that I would give you one of my daughters. That was when I loved you a little. Now I love you much I will give you two. One does not surpass the other. Both are superior to any of their sex in my tribe, and I may venture to say in the world. I told you of Firefly’s accomplishments; her sister Glow-worm is equal to her. You shall have a large tent where they can dwell together in harmony, for among their other perfections their tongues are never addicted to wrangle. Take them, then, my friend: be my son, and be happy.”

This pathetic appeal did not influence me as forcibly as Waggum-winne-beg had hoped it might do. I did my best not to hurt his feelings, but I declined his offer. When he heard my decision he burst into tears.

“If it must be so,” he said at last, commanding himself, “so it must be.”

Having thus delivered himself, he, like a well-bred gentleman, did not further press the delicate subject. After a further conversation on other subjects, I begged that he would excuse me, as I wished to go back to my white friends who were waiting for me round their camp-fire, and having once more carefully dressed the old man’s wounds, I took my departure. I made Obed and his brother laugh heartily when I narrated to them the flattering offer I had received, and one or two of their companions, backwoodsmen of the roughest sort, seemed rather inclined to offer themselves in my stead, as candidates for the honour of possessing the brown ladies’ hands.

“Now, Obed,” said I, “I should like to hear all about your proceedings; but before you begin, I must ask you if you have placed sentries round the camp, and sent out scouts to discover if our foes are lurking near?”

He had, I found, placed a couple of sentries, one on each side of the camp, but had not thought it necessary to send out any scouts. I urged him to do so, and he selected three of the most intelligent of the Indians, and directed them to feel their way out on every side of the camp, and to ascertain whether any enemies were lurking near. These arrangements being made, I once more took my seat by the camp-fire. I have always spoken of Obed as leader of the party. So in truth he was—his elder brothers having joined him after he had formed the expedition, and put themselves under his orders.

“Now, Obed, my dear fellow, do begin to tell me how it is you came to my rescue so exactly at the nick of time,” said I, lighting my pipe over the fire and leaning back against a stone which served instead of an arm-chair. I ought to have remarked that a screen had been put up, composed of birch-bark, to serve as a shelter against the wind, so that we were far warmer than might have been expected in that wintry night. Our encampment had a very picturesque appearance. The white men were collected round one fire; the Indians who had come with Obed had three or four among them; while the tents of Waggum-winne-beg and his followers were in the centre, with a fire burning in the middle of each of them. The greater number of the Indians had thrown themselves down to rest, wrapped up in their fur mantles, under the shelter of the rocks and their birch-bark screens, with small fires at their feet. I could see in the distance the tall figures of those appointed to do duty as sentries walking up and down on their posts, while a few were still sitting up, bending over their fires, as they smoked their pipes and talked over the events of the day.

“Well, Dick, since you wish it, I’ll begin,” said Obed. “You remember the worthy Delaware who came to our tent and persuaded me to accompany him? He proved himself a trusty guide and companion. The rest and food he got with us restored his strength, and we set off at good speed. We were fortunate in killing several turkeys and prairie-hens, so that we were able to husband our dried pemmican, at the same time that we fed sumptuously. Very often I thought about you when we were making good way, and I wished that you were with us. We were anxious, of course, to push on before the cold weather set in, for we knew then that we should have difficulties enough to contend with. We had to be on our guard also against enemies of all sorts—red-skin Dacotahs and Pawnees, grizzly bears, rattlesnakes, and wolves; still my companion, from his long experience of their habits, was well able to take precautions against them. I, all the time, was anxiously looking out for traces of my family, but we had from the first got out of their track, and we met no one from whom we could make any inquiries. We always rose with the sun, and travelled on all day as long as our strength held out; but from weariness, or from the fear of not finding fit camping-ground, we sometimes had to stop an hour or two before sunset. We had done so on one occasion near a stream, whose steep banks sloped away down below us. While I lighted a fire, put up a wigwam, and prepared food, work to which the Delaware had an especial dislike, as it is always performed by women among the Indians, he, taking his rifle, went out along the bank of the stream to try and kill a wild turkey or two to supply the place of one I was about to cook. He was making his way onward, pushing aside the boughs with the barrel of his weapon, when up started, not five yards from him, an old grey she-bear, accompanied by three or four half-grown cubs. He started back to be able to make use of his rifle, but before he could bring it to his shoulder, the old bear sprang upon him, and with a blow of her paw knocked his rifle out of his hand. Had that blow struck his back he would instantly have been killed, and I should have been left alone in the desert. I saw my friend’s danger, but could do nothing to help him, for if I fired I was as likely to injure him as the bear. As the brute was again about to strike, he drew his long knife, for, fortunately, his right arm was free, and began stabbing away at her neck. Notwithstanding this, the fierce monster did not relax her gripe, while her claws went deeper and deeper into his flesh, and the horrid cubs, coming to their dam’s assistance, began to assail his legs. I was hurrying on to the assistance of my companion, resolved to lose my own life rather than not do my utmost to save his, when the bank gave way, and bear and Indian both rolled away into the stream together.”

Obed had got thus far in his narrative—I have omitted some of the particulars he told me—when the sharp crack of a rifle made us all start up, and seizing our weapons, we hurried to that part of the camp whence it proceeded. Looking out into the darkness, we could see the figure of a man running at full speed towards us, across the white sheet of snow with which we were surrounded. We had no doubt it was one of the scouts we had sent out; for who else was likely at that time to be coming to us? “If it is not one of our scouts, it may be some white trapper who has been caught by the Dacotahs, and has made his escape from them,” observed John Pipestick, who had joined us. “They frequently come thus far west, and those varmints are certain to have been on the lookout for them.” While we were waiting the arrival of the stranger, a piercing shriek broke the silence of night.

Chapter Seven.

The Dacotahs are again upon us—We hurry to the rescue—We preserve the life of the stranger—Sam Short, the trapper—His adventures—Escape from the red-skins—Desperate combat in the canoe—Sam’s search for his companions—Discovers one in the hands of the Indians—They discover Sam, and he flies—Finds Blount, and together they go in search of Noggin—Again get sight of Noggin, but he is fastened to a stake—Noggin shows that in spite of his name he is a hero.

“Those vermin the Dacotahs are upon us again, and have taken the scalp of one of our scouts,” cried Obed, when he heard that piercing shriek.

My experience of the previous night taught me too well also what it meant. Surrounded as we were by the rocks and thick shrubs on the top of the mound, we were probably not perceptible from the ground below. Presently, as the stranger approached us, we saw emerging from the darkness a dozen or more figures following one after the other slowly and stealthily, evidently fancying that they were not perceived. We had no doubt that they were a party of our late opponents the Dacotahs, but what was their purpose it was difficult to say; they must have known that we had heard the death-shriek of the murdered man, and they could not but have supposed that we should be on the watch for them. Perhaps this only precipitated a previously formed plan. The stranger approached us rapidly; we could hear aimed at him more than one shaft as it flew hissing through the air. Several axes also were thrown in savage fury, as the Indians saw that their hoped-for victim was about to escape them. The stranger came rushing on; he had good need of speed.

“Obed, my boy,” said I, “let us sally out and protect that poor fellow. If we do not, the red-skins will be up to him before he reaches this hill!”

Obed was not a man it was necessary to ask twice to do a thing of the sort, nor were his brothers or their followers. The order was sent rapidly round to assemble together; not a word was uttered above a whisper—the sentries were left standing at their posts as if unconscious of what was going on in the plain below. But a few seconds were expended in preparations.

“Now, my boys, down upon them!” exclaimed Obed, and at the word we sprang over our entrenchments as quick as lightning; we were up to the stranger, who for a moment was somewhat startled at our sudden appearance, but soon, comprehending the state of affairs, took shelter behind us while we sprang on to meet the Indians. We halted within ten yards of them, and poured in a volley from our rifles which brought nearly one-half of them to the ground.

The remainder hesitated an instant, then hearing our loud shouts and huzzas, and seeing us come on with our axes gleaming in our hands, they turned tail and scampered off as fast as they could go. To pursue them would have been dangerous with so large a number of their tribe in the neighbourhood, and it was very probable that they had an ambush near at hand ready to cut us off. The sound of our fire-arms brought up two of our scouts, who joined us as we were returning to our camp, but the third did not make his appearance, and we had too much reason to fear that he had fallen a victim to the Dacotahs. By the time we got back to camp we found Waggum-winne-beg and all his people, both men and women, turned out and ready to resist any attack which might be made on us. We waited under arms for some time, and then finding that the enemy did not seem inclined to approach, we posted sentries all round, with directions to keep a strict lookout, and to give notice directly they perceived any suspicious movement below, and then we once more sat down round our fire. Our number was increased by the stranger, of whom we had not till then had time to take any notice beyond observing that he was a white man, and that he was dressed in the usual rough costume of a trapper. We now perceived, as he sat close up to the fire with the palms of his hands spread out before it, that he looked famished and weary.

“Friend, thou art hungry,” said Obed, placing before him some dried deers’ flesh and biscuit, and filling him up a cup of spirits-and-water. “Eat that while we cook a more savoury mess.”

“Thank you,” said the stranger; “you have discovered my chief want.”

He showed that he spoke the truth by setting to work silently and heartily on the food like a man who had fasted long, and was in no way fastidious as to the nature of his provender, so that it was fit to support life. I have often felt ashamed of my civilised and refined friends as well as of myself, when I have watched the abstemious habits of those inhabitants of the backwoods. However varied, or however delicate, or highly flavoured the food placed before them, I have seen them over and over again sit down and help themselves to the nearest dish, eat as much as they required, and generally a very moderate quantity, and then perhaps, after taking a glass of cold water, get up and leave the table. We waited till the stranger had somewhat recovered his strength before asking him any questions. At last he stopped eating, gave his hunting-knife a turn or two over his legging, replaced it in its sheath, and looking up, said— “Well, friends, you’ve saved my life; I’ve to thankyou for that—not that I know that it is worth much; and now I guess you’d like to know where I come from, and what I’ve been about.”

We all told him that we should particularly like to hear something about him.

“Then I’ll tell,” he replied. “My name is Sam Short; I’m a free trapper; I’ve hunted this country, man and boy, for pretty well fifty years, and that’s a good slice in a man’s life. It was at the end of last fall that I and two companions started westward to trap beavers and shoot bears, or any other game which came in our way. We’d left our horses and taken to a canoe to paddle up the Kansas river. Both my companions, Tom Noggin and Silas Blount, were staunch fellows. It doesn’t do to have a man in our way of life one can’t depend on. We had passed several beaver dams, which we settled to visit on our return, and as long as the season would allow to push higher up the stream. There’s no pleasanter life than that we led. We landed when we felt inclined to stretch our legs and take a shot at a deer or a bear. We killed more deer than we could eat, so we only kept the tenderest parts; but the skins were of no little value.

“One evening we landed at an open spot, with plenty of thick trees though growing round, intending to camp there. We had lighted a small fire, and we took care that the wood was dry, so that it should send up no smoke to show our whereabouts to any lurking red-skins; Silas and Noggin took their guns, and said they would go and have a look for a deer, or a bear, or a turkey, while I sat over the fire and cooked the venison. I cut some right good steaks, and had dressed them to a turn, and was thinking that it was time my companions were back, when I heard Blount’s voice singing out merrily as he came through the wood towards me. We had no fear of red-skins, for we had met with no traces of them as we came up the river, and the first thing we had done that day on landing was to look about for them in every direction. Blount sat himself down by my side and showed me a fat turkey he had just killed, when we heard a shot at some distance from us. We waited some time, thinking Noggin would be coming back; but, as he did not make his appearance, I asked Blount to climb a tree and see if he could make him out anywhere. Curiously enough, he slung his rifle on his back—he had already his shot belt and powder-horn about him—and up a high tree, a little way off, he went. Scarcely had he got to the top, when I heard him cry out, ‘Fly, man, fly; the red-skins are on us!’

“I did not want a second warning. Seizing my rifle, I sprang to the riverside, and as I did so, a band of Indians burst through the woods brandishing their tomahawks, and uttering their hideous war-cries. I threw myself into the canoe, and with a kick of my foot shoved it off from the bank towards the middle of the stream. I looked for the paddles; there was only one in the canoe; I seized it, and began to paddle away down the stream with all my might. The Indians followed me some way, and seeing that I had but one paddle, and made but slow progress, three of them, running on ahead, plunged into the stream, for the evident purpose of cutting me off. I watched them as they approached. If either of them should succeed in getting hold of the canoe, I knew that my life would be lost. Fortunately they had separated somewhat, and were some fathoms distant from each other down the stream. I saw that my only chance was to destroy them in detail. I dropped my paddle and seized my rifle. It was of course loaded. I had no time to lose, for I had to fire and to load again to be ready for another enemy. I took a steady aim. The savage leaped out of the water, casting a look at me of the most intense hatred, and then down he went like a shot, leaving a red streak on the water to mark the spot. I loaded rapidly; the next fellow darted on, hoping to catch hold of the canoe before I was ready to fire; but I was too quick for him. When he saw this, he dived, thinking to escape my bullet. I was surprised at the length of time he kept under water. I thought that he would never come up again.

“I dared not exchange my rifle for my paddle, or I would have got over farther to the opposite bank. All my attention was fixed on the spot where I knew that his head would appear. The instant I caught sight of his savage countenance grinning up at me, my bullet entered his brain, and he sank like his comrade. I had not time to finish loading before the third fellow, by desperate exertion, had got hold of the bow of the canoe with one of his hands, while with the other he attempted to seize my right arm, which was employed in ramming down the bullet into my rifle. He had his knife in his teeth, and I saw that the moment he had grasped my arm, he would seize it with his other hand, and plunge it into my side. My great fear was that he would upset the canoe, so that I had to lean back on the opposite side to prevent him from so doing. There is no more cunning or treacherous a varmint than a true-bred red-skin. When he found that I saw what he was at, he pretended to fall backwards, and as I stretched over to unloosen his hand from the gunwale of the canoe, he sprang up by a sudden stroke of his feet, and clutched me by the throat.

“So tight did he press my windpipe, that I felt I had but a slight chance of escaping with my life; still, I had lived too long a hunter’s life to think of giving in while a hope of escape existed. I caught hold of the side of the canoe with one hand, and with the other, letting go my rifle, I felt about for my knife, which, with my powder-flask and other things, I had thrown into the bottom of the canoe. If I could find it, I had little fear that I should know how to use it.

“The Indian guessed what I was about, and pressed my throat tighter and tighter, till I felt myself growing black in the face. He saw his advantage; the time was come, he thought, to gain the victory. Letting go his hold of the canoe, he seized his knife with his right hand, and attempted to haul himself on board by means of my throat. His naked knee was on the gunwale, when at the same moment my fingers discovered my knife. I clutched the handle. My enemy’s knee slipped off the smooth wood—his weapon missed its aim, scarcely grazing my side, and I plunged mine up to the hilt in his breast. His hand relaxed his hold of my throat, and he dropped back lifeless into the stream.

“I cannot describe my sensations; there was no time to think about them, at all events. I finished ramming down the bullet into my rifle, and while the rest of the Indians were hesitating whether to follow me or not, I pointed it at them, to show them what the first who might venture into the stream would have to expect. They watched me for some time, uttering howls of the most intense rage and hatred; and then, seeing that I was a good match for them, they turned back up the stream again, to wreak their vengeance, as I feared, on my companions. I pretended to be paddling down the stream, till I was certain they were out of sight; but I was not going to desert my friends in that way; such is not the backwoodsman’s law. When I knew that they were well ahead, I ceased descending the stream, and, pulling to the south bank, I made fast my canoe to some bushes, and waited till dark.

“I thought about all that had occurred; Blount, I hoped, might possibly have escaped, but I greatly feared that Noggin would have fallen into the power of our enemies. Waiting till I could not be seen from the north shore, keeping on the opposite side, I paddled cautiously and slowly up the stream. I kept as much as possible in the eddies and little bays, and thus avoided the strength of the current, against which I could not otherwise have pulled. The nearer I got to the spot where I had left my companions, the more cautiously I proceeded; I knew that if the Indians had not killed them at once, they would not destroy them for three or four days, but would keep them alive to torture them, and to exhibit them to their old men and squaws at home. It was very necessary to be cautious how I proceeded; the slightest carelessness would betray me to the cunning varmints, and I should not only risk my own life, but be unable to help my friends.

“At last, about two hours after dark, I got directly opposite the spot where we had encamped; I watched, but could see no light to indicate that the red-skins were there; I pulled up a little farther, and then in perfect silence paddled across. Unless the red-skins had been on the lookout for me, I did not think that there was much chance of my being seen. I did not venture to let the bow of the canoe touch the bank, lest even the slight noise I might make against the grass should be heard, but allowed it to drop slowly down with the current, while I peered eagerly into every opening of the forest which presented itself. I began to fear that the Indians had gone away, and carried off Blount and Noggin with them, when my eye caught a glimmer of light a considerable distance off among the bushes. I had little doubt that the light proceeded from the camp-fire of my enemies: I resolved to ascertain whether this was so, and whether my friends were in their power. I carefully pushed my canoe alongside the bank, and securing her to a bush, stepped out with my hunting-knife in my belt, and my rifle in my hand. I know as well as a native-born Indian how to move silently through the woods, not allowing my feet to tread on a dry stick, or my shoulders to touch a rotten branch.

“Step by step, feeling my way with the greatest care, I approached the spot where I had seen the fire; at last I got close to the boundary of an open glade, and by looking through the bushes, I saw at the farther end of it some dozen or more Indians, decked in their war-paint and feathers, squatted round a fire. One was, I saw, speaking, while the others were listening to him with the deepest attention. I looked around, but could distinguish nothing beyond the immediate circle of the fire. At length the orator ceased, and one of the band threw a small quantity of fresh fuel on to the fire. This made it blaze up; and the glare from the bright flames extending to some distance, it fell upon the stump of a tree to which was bound a human figure. I watched to try and make out who it was, for the light was not at first sufficient to enable me to distinguish objects at a distance. I had long to wait. I should have to guide my movements according to which of my friends was in captivity. If it should prove to be Noggin, I might hope that Blount had escaped their vigilance; but if he himself was the prisoner, I should have to fear that Noggin had already fallen a victim to their ferocity.

“I had long to wait. One warrior after another got up, and made a vociferous speech, till at last one of them threw a large handful of sticks into the fire. At the same moment it was fanned by a fresh blast of wind which rustled through the forest, and flames darting upwards for a few moments, by their light I recognised the features of Noggin. His eyes were fixed on the group of warriors, as if he was trying to make out what they were saying. There was an expression of horror and despair on his countenance, for he knew full well that a death of torture was prepared for him. I observed, however, that his lips were firmly pressed together, as if he had made up his mind not to flinch, however much he might be called to suffer, while life might last. I looked round for Blount; he was nowhere to be seen; and as I could not discern any bloody scalp hung up on a pole as a trophy of their prowess, I began to hope that he might have escaped the vigilance of our enemies, and that I might still fall in with him.

“My great desire was, in the first place, to rescue Noggin; but how to do so was the question. Succour might almost seem hopeless. Even should Blount be alive and at large, he and I together could scarcely hope to succeed. I counted our enemies; there were twenty altogether. Three of these, from their costume and the way they talked, I judged to be chiefs or principal men. Three more, one of whom certainly was a chief, I had sent to their long home. As I could do no more good by staying in so dangerous a neighbourhood, I waited till another long speech was begun, and then crept back as carefully as I had approached, towards my canoe. I reached it in safety, and pushing off I crossed to the opposite side of the stream.

“I hunted about till I discovered a point with bushes growing thickly on it. Here I landed; and hauling up my canoe, hoped that I might remain concealed, should the red-skins again come down to the side of the river to look for me. After I had done this, so fatigued was I, that no sooner did I lie down by the side of my canoe than I fell fast asleep. It was daylight when I awoke. I sprang to my feet, rifle in hand, and peered through the bushes which effectually concealed me. I could distinguish in the distance the Indians, who had likewise just risen, and appeared to be in a state of no little excitement. They had discovered my trail, and were hunting about to ascertain in which direction I had gone.

“‘Ah, ah!’ I thought, ‘I have crossed an element which allows no trail to be left on it. They will scarcely believe that I am still so near them; or should they even suspect it, they will not attempt to follow me, for they know the effects of my rifle, and that if they do, three or four of their number will probably have to pay the penalty of their lives.’

“On Noggin’s account I did not want to exasperate them more than they were already, or I might have picked two or three of them off, when, having discovered my trail, they followed it to the banks of the river. I saw them peering about in every direction—now down the stream, now up it; but, clever as they were, they could not guess what way I had gone. They examined the bushes all round, but they told no tale which they could read. They were evidently not a little astonished at my audacity in having ventured so close to them as to watch their movements. It made them look upon me as a mighty brave, and they would, I doubted not, have tried their most exquisite tortures on me to prove my heroism had they been able to catch me. I knew that there was a possibility of their so doing, for I was resolved not to leave my friends to their fate without trying to rescue them, great as I knew the risk was that I was running. When they could not, with all their ingenuity, discover what had become of me, they stamped on the ground, and dashed their hatchets into it, and gnashed their teeth, and performed many other frantic gestures. I was pleased at this, because it showed that they had abandoned their search after me.

“Once more they came to the edge of the water, and spat, and grinned at it to show their rage at its having disappointed them of their prey, and then they turned tail and went off back to their camp. I feared poor Noggin would be the sufferer, but I could not help that. I waited hidden away for three or four hours, till I thought that they would to a certainty have taken their departure, before I even stirred from my place of concealment. I knew the tricks they were up to, and that very likely they would have remained in ambush in the hope of my coming back to look after my friends. If they had killed Blount, then I felt sure they would not have stopped, but if they had found out that there were three of us, and he was still at large, then I considered it probable that they would be endeavouring to catch us, and that the very greatest caution would be necessary in my proceedings. Still I could not delay till night to commence my progress, which would have been the safest plan; for, in the first place, the Indians, if they had moved, would have got too much the start of me, and I was already so hungry that I was ready to run any risk to procure food to appease my appetite.

“At last I could wait no longer. I slipped into my canoe, and emerging from my hiding-place, went across the stream as fast as my one paddle could urge me. When I was about half-way over I saw something moving among the bushes. I stopped paddling and seized my rifle. It might be an Indian, or it might be a bear, or a stag. I was ready for anything. Just as I brought my rifle to my shoulder I heard a voice sing out, ‘Hollo, Short! don’t fire, old feller.’

“I knew at once that it was Blount who spoke, and right glad I was to hear him. Down went my rifle, and I paddled away, you may be sure, as hard as I could till I reached the shore where he, as big as life, stood ready to receive me. We shook hands warmly, and then he told me that he had been up the tree all the time; that he had watched the Indians pursuing me along the banks of the river, but could not tell whether or not they had killed me, though he saw them return with diminished numbers, and guessed that at all events I had not died without a desperate fight.

“When they came back they hunted about all round our camp, carried off or destroyed all our property, and at last retired farther into the woods to join their comrades. All the night he had spent in a state of uncertainty about me, and it was not till the following morning, when he saw the Indians come down to the river, and watched their movements, that he guessed I was alive and had paid them a visit. He saw them go away, and he then descended the tree, and like a cat in pursuit of a bird, crept after them. To his great satisfaction he saw them breaking up their camp, and then they moved off towards the north-west. Still he followed them till he had assured himself that they really were going in that direction. When he had done this he turned back and looked out for me. We agreed at once that we would set off and try to rescue Noggin as soon as we had killed a sufficient quantity of game to satisfy our hunger.

“We calculated that the red-skins were quite far enough off by this time not to hear the report of our rifles. Hunger, when not too long endured, sharpens men’s wits. We soon killed a couple of wild turkeys and a deer, which we fell in with in great numbers on their way south. We hid away our canoe in the bank of the river, and so covered her with branches that even an Indian’s sharp eyes were not likely to discover her. Having lighted a fire, we smoked, in a hurried way, as much food as would last us for several days, and then, taking a good meal of toasted venison, we set off on our perilous adventure.

“We soon found our way up to the Indian camp, and we observed that they took no pains to hide their trail, by which we judged that they did not suppose any of their enemies to be in the neighbourhood. There were no women or children, which showed that they had been on a hunting or war expedition, and also that their chief camp was at no great distance. This gave us the greatest concern, because if once they reached it we could scarcely hope to rescue Noggin from their power. We calculated that there were twenty warriors altogether. They were on foot. They were dragging Noggin on, but he evidently delayed them as much as possible. Perhaps, poor fellow, he suspected that Blount and I were following him. We travelled faster than they did, and towards the evening of the fifth day of our journey we saw, from the freshness of the trail, that we were not far from them. We examined our rifles to be ready for an emergency; but we knew that we could do nothing to help our friend before night. We supposed that we were about half a mile or so from our enemies, and not deeming it wiser to get much nearer, we continued to follow at the same pace at which they were going.

“At last we came to more open ground, and several times we caught sight of them. We were near enough indeed to count their numbers, and we found that we had made an exact estimate of them. Evening at last came, and we knew that they were encamped. It was now, therefore, necessary to be more careful than ever, for some of the warriors might be prowling about, and should they discover us, even though we might escape them or come off victorious, we should have to abandon all hopes of saving Noggin. We accordingly lay down in some thick cover where no one was likely to find us, and waited till they were likely to have gone to sleep for the night. We talked over all sorts of plans. Blount proposed going boldly into the camp himself dressed as a medicine-man; but then the difficulty was to find the wherewithal to fit himself out. I, too, opposed the scheme; for they would naturally be suspicious, and, come from whatever quarter he might, they would be apt to question him very narrowly before letting him range their camp at liberty.

“‘Well, Short, it’s all very well for you to say this plan won’t do, or that won’t do, but do you just tell me what will do.’

“This was a poser; I could not. We had our deerskin coats. They had been saved in the canoe. He proposed cutting his into strips, and with the aid of a red pocket-handkerchief he judged that he could turn himself into a very good white medicine-man. I at last consented to let him try the scheme, provided no opportunity occurred during the night of helping poor Noggin. When the plan was arranged, we crept nearer and nearer to the savages. They had camped in an open part of a green valley, the sides of which were clothed with trees. They were far enough from any trees not to be taken by surprise from any enemies except those armed with rifles. We climbed one of the trees, whence we could look down on them and watch their proceedings. We might indeed have picked several of them off had revenge alone been our object; but that would have done no good to poor Noggin, unless he could have managed to escape in the confusion.

“Hour after hour passed away. The savages sat up talking over their fire. Several of them at last lay down, but a party went out to examine the neighbourhood of the camp, and when they returned four of those who had previously gone to sleep got up and sat watching their prisoner, evidently with malignant pleasure. This vigilance of the enemy made us almost despair of being able to deliver our friend. Whenever we turned our eyes in the direction of the camp, there were the four wretches gazing up into the countenance of their victim, and he, poor fellow, already looked more dead than alive. Thus we lay stretched out at our length watching them hour after hour. No one moved. Our hearts sank within us. After about four hours the guards gave some loud grunts, and some of their companions starting up took their places. They seemed to watch the countenance of their victim with intense gratification. If, in spite of the bodily pain and mental suffering he was enduring, he dropped asleep, one of them would throw a burning brand at him, to rouse him up again to a full consciousness of his position. It was with the greatest difficulty that I could refrain from knocking over one of the scoundrels, when I saw him treating the poor fellow in that way.

“Daylight was now approaching; with heavy hearts we had to withdraw for fear of being discovered when the Indians should break up their camp in the morning. We feared, too, that we should not have another opportunity, for we judged that the Indians were close upon their village from the way in which they had feasted, leaving scarcely any food for the next day. A hunter is obliged to observe everything, and to make what he observes speak a plain language to him. We crept away from the camp to our former hiding-place, and then, overcome with fatigue, we both fell asleep. We were protected during these hours of helplessness by a power greater than man’s.

“When we awoke the sun was already high in the heavens; we ate our frugal meal, and then set forward to overtake the Indians. They had started early, and had got much ahead of us. We pushed on, but still did not overtake them. We had been travelling some eight or nine hours, when, being on the top of some rising ground, we saw in the distance several curling wreaths of smoke rising up amid the forest. We guessed that without doubt they proceeded from the village of our enemies. Our chief chance of rescuing Noggin was gone. To get him out from among a village full of men, women, and children, all thirsting for his blood, was next to impossible. Still Blount said he would try it. We crept carefully in the track of the red-skins, stopping at every spot from which we could have a clear look ahead, and occasionally climbing trees whence we might hope to get a sight of the village. This was in one respect a dangerous proceeding, for should the Indians cross our trail, they would very likely discover us, although we took care to obliterate, as far as we are able, all marks of our progress. In this way we went on till Blount and I having got to the top of a thick-branched and wide-spreading fir, we saw, scarcely the eighth of a mile off, the conical-shaped wigwams of our enemies. Loud shouts and shrieks reached our ears; the old men, women, and children had gone out to welcome their warriors and their unfortunate captive. We could see him in the middle of them, and the women and children rushing up and hissing at him, and abusing him, and pinching him, and spitting at him, treating him, indeed, with every indignity. He stood quiet, as far as we could see, without flinching. At last he was led on and secured to a tree, close to one of the principal lodges. There the savages let him remain while they retired to their homes, and the women set to work to prepare them a feast.

“We now judged it time to get farther off to take some rest which we so much needed. We knew that the savages were not likely to put him to death that night, probably not till the following evening. We chewed some dried venison, and then fell asleep. It was pitchy dark when we awoke, but the noise from among the Indian lodges was louder than ever. Once more we approached the spot, fires were blazing brightly in the centre of the village, and the savages were dancing madly round them, leaping, and shrieking, and howling, in the most terrific manner. A stake had been run into the ground, and poor Noggin, stripped to the waist, was tied to it. His face was turned towards us; despair sat upon it, it was already as pale as death, indeed he did not look as if he had many minutes to live. The cruel savages thought so likewise, and, afraid of losing their victim, they had resolved at once, it appeared, to commence that series of tortures which would terminate with his death. With horrid cries the women approached him, and ran into his flesh the burning ends of sticks, which they flourished in their hands, and they hallooed and shouted in his ears, to rouse him up to feel the more acutely his sufferings. Talk of the noble qualities of savages, I’ve seen a good deal of human nature, and to my mind, left to itself without anything to improve or correct it, there is nothing too bad or abominably cruel which it will not do.”

“There, I have told you enough of the old fellow’s story for the present,” exclaimed Dick Onslow, throwing himself back in his chair and stretching out his legs. “I know that I am very thankful that I had not to share poor Noggin’s fate.”

“You are a pretty fellow for a story-teller,” cried one of his hearers (I believe it was I, his humble amanuensis, Barrington Beaver). “You leave the honest Delaware in the clutches of the bear; you leave yourself surrounded by a band of fierce Dacotahs thirsting for your blood; and poor Noggin even in a worse predicament; indeed, I would not wish to be in the skins of either Short or Blount; and now you suddenly stop short, and leave us all lost in a labyrinth of doubt as to how they got out of their various dilemmas.”

“Not a word more just now, not a word more,” answered Dick, laughing. “You’ll all do your best to keep me alive, and I promise you I will go on with my tale another day.”

Chapter Eight.

Obed’s story continued—Noggin rescued by the chief’s daughter—Sam and Blount retire, hoping that he may be happy—They continue their wanderings—Blount’s death—Sam proceeds alone—Captured by the red-skins—They prepare to kill him—Not liking it, he endeavours to escape from it—Escape and pursuit—A ride for life—Hard pressed for food—Obed’s adventures—How he escaped from the bear—The faithful Delaware.

“So you all want to know what became of poor Noggin,” said Dick, leaning back in his comfortable arm-chair, after he had taken a sip from his claret glass, and stretching out his legs on the thick buffalo-skin which served as a rug to his cosy dining-room fire-place. “I’ll continue the narrative as old Short told it to me, though not exactly in his own words, for those I cannot pretend to repeat—I cannot even hope to imitate his quaint expressions and racy humour. Noggin stood the attacks of his tormentors with as much heroism as could the most stoical of red warriors. We longed to rush in to his rescue, but we knew full well that the attempt would be worse than useless, and we should inevitably lose our own lives and not save his. The fires burned up brightly, shedding a lurid glare over the whole scene, making the red-painted and feather-bedizened warriors, and their hideous brown squaws, look more horrible and terrific than ever, as they danced, and leaped, and grinned, and shrieked round our friend. To make the picture perfect, you must remember the dark forest in the background, the tents covered with red-tanned skins, and the groups of children and dogs scuttling about in front of them, with the stakes, and the lean-to’s, and sheds of different sorts, on or in which the spoils of the chase and other provisions were hung to dry or smoke. Indians delight in prolonging the sufferings of their captives; so they, in their refined cruelty, took care not to wound the poor fellow in any vital part.

“After a short time the old squaws resharpened the points of their fire-sticks, and then they all advanced together, the warriors brandishing their tomahawks and shrieking louder than ever. Noggin eyed them all, however, with perfect coolness and disdain. I thought that his last moments had come. This conduct, though the savages admired it, only made them the more anxious to conquer his spirit. Several produced their instruments of torture to tear his flesh, and to pull out his eyes and his tongue, indeed, I will not describe all the excruciating cruelties they were prepared to inflict; I well-nigh gave way myself with horror, though my nerves were pretty well strung, when a young squaw, who had been sitting in the shadow of one of the tents, sprang up, and darting between the warriors and old women, before any of them could stop her, threw one of her arms round Noggin’s neck, and holding out her other hand, in a tone of authority ordered her savage country men and women to keep back, and claimed him as her husband. She was a fine, tall young woman, and though her skin was dark, her features were handsome and full of animation, while her eye sparkled with the spirit which burned in her bosom.

“‘Come, loose him, loose him,’ she cried, and we could understand her language. ‘He is mine. Let none of you dare to hurt a hair of his head.’

“I had heard of such things having been done before, but I did not much believe in them. It convinced me that woman has a tender, compassionate, loving heart in every country, and that man should prize it as one of the richest gifts which bounteous Nature has bestowed on him, and consider it one of the most cowardly of acts and the foulest of crimes to tamper with or betray it. The young girl was a chiefs daughter. Her people, as they were bound to do, obeyed her immediately. Noggin was released, and led by her to her tent. Instead of the torments he had been suffering, he found himself tended with the gentlest care which affection could dictate.

“Blount and I seeing this, made signs to each other that it was time for us to be off. In the morning the red-skins would be prowling about, and they would be too glad to get us instead of the victim who had escaped them. We were not likely to find another Poccahuntas to save our lives. We went back the way we had come, obliterating as best we could all traces of our advance, and at last, after many hardships, we reached our canoe. We had our rifles, but our ammunition was growing short, and we had no means of replenishing it; the winter also was coming on, and we were far from any white settlement. Still hunters are not to be frightened by trifles; we knew well not only how to trap beavers, but anything that flies, creeps, or swims, and we agreed that we would lay up a store of provisions, and spend the winter by the side of the river. To think with a hunter is to act. Our great want was salt. We caught soon a supply of fish, fowl, and deer, and we killed a bear, which made very good beef; but all these things we had to dry in the sun or to smoke; we kept our ammunition in case of any extremity in which we might find ourselves. We should have liked to have communicated with Noggin, but we knew that he, like many white men who had married Indian women, would be reconciled to his lot, and from henceforth live the life of Indians.

“We agreed, therefore, as soon as the return of spring enabled us to travel, we would take up our beaver skins and furs left in cache, and go back with them to the settlements. Had we been supplied with powder, we should not have hesitated at once to commence our journey, but unarmed, as we soon should be, we should have been both unable to supply ourselves with food, or to defend ourselves against any enemies we might meet; whereas in the spring we should descend rapidly in our canoe, and carry our provisions with us.

“Several weeks passed away. We had a warm hut built and a good supply of provisions and fuel collected. It was intensely cold, and the river was frozen across, and the snow had set in. My great concern was for my companion. Illness had attacked him: he grew weaker and weaker every day. With a sorrowful heart I saw that he had not long to live. I told him so at last. He would not believe me. He said that he should get better, that the cough would leave him, and that he was stronger than he had been. He almost persuaded me that I was wrong in my surmises and that he should recover. When the cold grew very great he took to his bed, from which, according to my idea, I thought he would never rise.

“At last one day, however, he sat up and said he should like to go out and see if he could not kill a wild turkey; he should like to have some fresh meat. I told him I would get it for him: he said no, half the pleasure would be in killing it himself; he felt as strong as a buffalo, and knew he could walk a dozen miles. So he got up, and put on his thick coat, and took down his rifle from the peg to which it hung, and said he was ready. I looked at him with wonder. His cheeks were so wan and his hands so thin I did not think he could have held his rifle.

“‘If you will go, I will go with you, Blount,’ said I, and took down my rifle to follow him.

“I had just got to the door of our hut, when I heard him say, ‘Ah! there is the turkey cock.’ So, sure enough, there was one sitting on the bough of a tree not fifty yards from us. As he spoke the crack of his rifle sounded in my ears—down came the bird. It seemed as if he was going to run to pick it up; but he staggered forward a few paces, and before I could get up to him he had fallen flat on his face. The blood gushed from his mouth. I lifted him from the ground; he pressed my hand, and before I got him back to our hut he was dead. I sat down and did what I had not done for many a long year before—I burst into tears. He had been my companion and friend, faithful and true, almost from his youth upward—son, wife, everything to me—and now he was gone, and I was alone in the great white melancholy wilderness.

“After a time I became quite foolish—I spoke to him, I called out his name, I entreated him to answer me. I felt at last that I should go mad if I kept him longer near me, so I roused myself and dragged his body to a distance under an old hickory tree. The ground was too hard to let me dig a grave, so I made a hole in the snow, and collected all the stones I could find near the river, and piled them over him; I never went near the spot again. The next three or four weeks were the most miserable I ever passed in my life. Not that I had any great reason to be anxious about myself. I had an abundance of food, and I knew that I could easily find my way to the settlements in the spring; but it was the long, long solitude which I dreaded.”

“I can enter into your feelings,” said I, interrupting him, and I told him what I had suffered, and on comparing notes we found that we had been within a hundred miles of each other. “However, go on,” said I, and Short continued his narrative.

“Three or four weeks had passed away after the death of Blount, when one day, as I was standing near my hut wishing for the return of spring—for I had very little to occupy my hands or thoughts—I saw half a dozen red-skins approaching me at a rapid rate. To attempt to fly was useless, and I knew that I could not hope to defend myself successfully; so, though I did not like their looks, I saw that my only chance of safety was to meet them in a friendly manner. Accordingly, I advanced towards them. As I got nearer I saw that they were Pawnees, some of the very tribe among whom Noggin was located, and three of whose people I had lately killed; I may add also the greatest thieves in this part of the country. Still I put the best face I could put on the matter, and held out my hand in token of friendship.

“Instead of taking it, two of them seized me by the shoulders and hurried me back to my hut. As soon as they entered they began to make free with everything they saw, and it was very evident that they had come to rob me of all they could get. When their eyes fell on poor Blount’s rifle, they asked me what had become of my companion. I made signs to them that he was dead. They examined the hut for a few minutes, and then seemed satisfied that I told them the truth. On finding that I had a good store of provisions they made signs to me to light a fire, and then forced me to cook enough provisions to satisfy their not very moderate appetites. I knew that it was better to comply with their commands than to refuse, and the less spirit I showed the less likely they were to keep a strict watch over me. If they considered that I was a brave fellow they would look upon me as a greater prize, and treat me accordingly.

“After they had eaten as much as they could, they went hunting about the spot in all directions till they came to the place where my canoe was hid away. No sooner did they see it, than there was a great consultation among them, and then they came back and sat round my fire and talked away for an hour or more. The result of this conference was anything but favourable to me. They had undoubtedly heard of the death of their countrymen, and knowing the locality, and seeing the canoe, they had come to the conclusion that the deed had been done by my hand or by that of my late companion. This, doubtless, saved my life for the present. If I had killed their friends, they wished to preserve me to put me to death with the most refined of their tortures. That night they slept in my hut. The next morning, having pulled the canoe to pieces, and totally destroyed my hut, they set forth on what I guessed from their preparations to be a long journey.

“I will not describe that journey. At night we slept within any thick wood or cypress swamp we could find, and travelled on the greater part of the day. My captors exhibited a wonderful power of endurance. I walked, of course, with lagging steps, for I felt sure that could I not find means to escape, I should be put to death at the end of it. At last we fell in with the main body of the tribe. No sooner was I shown to them, than several of them declared that I was the very man who had killed their companions, and my heart sunk within me; I knew that they would to a certainty put me to death if they could. The chief forthwith held a consultation with all ceremony, and speedily decided my fate. I was led into a large wigwam to pass the night, and guarded by my captors. I watched all night for an opportunity to escape, but my arms and legs were secured by leathern thongs which cut almost into my flesh, and I had no power to release myself. My heart, as well, it might, sunk lower and lower.

“Day came; I made up my mind that it was to be my last on earth. I thought of Noggin, and I knew that if he could he would rescue me, but at the same time I was aware that the cunning red-skins would not let him know that I had been captured. The day wore on; the tribe collected from far and near; the fires were lighted; the squaws and children assembled; indeed, the same scene was enacted which I had seen gone through with Noggin. The fire was actually scorching my feet, and the smoke was ascending into my nostrils, when the sky grew dark and a terrific snow-storm commenced. Down it came like a sheet upon the earth and speedily put out the fires. The red-skins rushed into their wigwams. I was dragged back into the one where I had passed the night, and was told that my death was postponed till the next day. I resolved to make use of the time of grace; still my prospect of escape was slight indeed. A stout thong of buffalo-hide was fastened round my neck, and secured to one of the beams which ran across the top of the wigwam; thongs fastened my wrists and ankles, and cut deeply into my flesh; and my guards, squatted closely around, seemed inclined never to take their eyes off me. Every now and then they addressed me and told me for my comfort that I should eat fire in the morning; I wished that they would go to sleep, and, at all events, leave me in peace.

“At last four of them lay down, and I knew by their snoring that they were really unconscious of the present. Two of them still sat up and kept talking at me, describing the horrors I was to go through. At length one of those two lay down, and now only one old man remained awake; I thought he would never cease talking, and smoking, and tormenting me. On he talked; never have I seen a more hideous or vicious old fellow. I tried in vain not to listen. However, at last his voice grew thick, and more and more indistinct; his pipe went out, and his head dropped on his breast.

“Not a moment was to be lost; I tugged and tugged at the thongs which bound my wrists. My heart beat so quick and loud that I thought the sound would awaken my captors. My struggles freed my wrists, and I soon had my ankles free, but the tough, well-seasoned buffalo-hide rope round my neck resisted all my efforts to loosen it. Daylight was approaching. The noise I made, or my loud breathing, roused up the old man. I thought all was lost. Placing my hands behind me, I pretended to be dozing. He got up, stirred the fire, and then sat down again. Oh, how anxiously I waited for him to go to sleep again! Once more his head dropped on his breast, and he snored. That was the sweetest noise I had heard for a long time.

“I had gnawed and tugged at the thong round my neck in vain; but I knew that what a steady strain will not accomplish a sudden jerk may do. I seized the thong with the grasp of despair, gave it two or three rapid pulls, and to my joy it parted. I was free, but still I had many dangers to encounter. A watchful dog or a sleepless Indian might discover me. Treading with the caution I knew was so necessary, I passed between the bodies of the sleeping red-skins and stepped out into the open air. The cold restored my strength. I looked around on every side. The stars were shining brightly above my head, and the lodges of my enemies lay around in the dark shadow of the forest. The neighing of a horse showed me where some of the steeds of the tribe were tethered. I ran towards the spot. I had no time for selection. I threw myself on the back of the first animal I found. The first faint streaks of dawn were already appearing in the eastern sky. Not an instant had I to lose. I should, I knew, be very speedily pursued. I scarcely had time to consider in which direction I should go. The thong which still hung round my neck served me for a bridle. I looked up at the bright stars, and turned the horse’s head towards the south. One thing only I could resolve on—not to pull rein till I was beyond the reach of pursuit. I soon found that I had got one of the best horses of the whole stud.

“Away I went galloping over the snow, fleet as the wind. I could not conceal my trail; but if I had the best steed and an hour’s start, I might keep ahead of my pursuers, and fall in with some friendly tribe, or by some other means obtain assistance before I was overtaken. My horse was a noble animal. He had, I doubt not, been stolen not long before from the whites, and he seemed glad to have a white man again on his back. Poor beast! I did not spare him. Full fifty miles I went without pulling rein. Then I threw myself off and turned his head to the wind to let him regain his strength. But few minutes only I halted; I either heard my pursuers or thought I heard them. Again I mounted and galloped on as before. The noble brute seemed to know the importance of haste. Oh, how willingly he went up steep hills, down wild valleys, across streams, over the most rugged ground—nothing stopped him. We came to a broad river. It was frozen over with a sheet of smooth ice, from which the wind had blown the snow. Still on he went, slipping and sliding. Several times I thought he would be down, and yet I dared not check him; but he recovered himself and reached the opposite side in safety. Sometimes we were almost buried in the snow.

“On the other side of the river we plunged into a deep snow-drift; but he plunged on, and, planting his feet on firm ground, sprung upward again, and on he went breasting the side of a steep hill. We gained the summit. I looked back for an instant. I thought I could discern in the far distance several black spots. I was sure that they were my pursuers. On I went along the ridge of the mountain. It was stony and free from snow, and I hoped that if my pursuers should discover my trail across the ice they might possibly here lose it. This thought gave me fresh courage. I came to the end of the ridge and descended into the plain. My noble steed was becoming much distressed. Still I valued my life more than his. As long as he could go I must make him go. On he went. Full eighty miles had been passed over since dawn. Neither my horse nor I had tasted food. Still I dared not stop. Across the plain we went. Nearly another ten miles were gone over. I felt my horse’s legs staggering under him. He breathed heavily, his pace slackened; still he endeavoured to spring forward. He staggered more and more, and I had barely time to throw myself off when down he came to the ground. Once he tried to rise, but again he fell, and his glassy eye told me too plainly that he had destroyed himself in his efforts to save me. Who but the base-hearted would be unmerciful to man’s most serviceable and sagacious of friends? I had no time to stop and mourn for my gallant steed. Casting but another look on him I ran on over the ground as rapidly as my legs would carry me. I never stopped; I never looked behind me. I knew that nothing would turn aside my blood-thirsty pursuers. Night came on; still I ran without slacking my speed.

“I had been in motion since the morning without food, still the dread of falling into the power of my savage foes gave me supernatural strength. A wood lay before me; I plunged into it. I still could distinguish my course by the stars, and I hoped that my pursuers would be unable to make out my trail. This hope gave me fresh courage, but my strength was failing me, and in a short time, gasping for breath, I fell to the ground, and the blood gushed out of my mouth. I thought I was going to die like my poor horse, but after a time I felt better, and hope revived once more. I lay still in the hopes of recovering my strength. I did not wish to sleep; indeed I knew how dangerous it would be to attempt to do so. As I lay on my back, I saw the moon slowly rise above the still trees, and shed a bright light over the landscape. I gazed at it for some time; then I recollected that by its light my pursuers would certainly be able to follow up my trail. Instantly I sprang to my feet, stiff and full of pains as I felt, and on once more I went. I came at last to a rugged hill. I climbed it, and following the stony ridge for some way, descended into the plain on the opposite side. On I ran. As before, I thought I heard the shouts and threatening cries of my enemies, and fancied that they must have got to the side of the mountain I was on by some other path. As long as I had any strength I determined to run on.

“Day at last dawned; I entered a wood. I had my knife in my pocket. I dug up some earth-nuts, and chewed some snow. I felt revived, but my legs refused to carry me farther. I discovered a hole full of leaves, I threw myself into it; I listened with intense anxiety for any sounds made by my pursuers. I could hear none. Exhausted nature at length gave way, and I slept. Whether I slept more than a whole day, or only a few hours, I cannot tell. My first impulse was to spring up and continue my flight. But before I left the wood I remembered that I must have more food, so I dug up a further supply of nuts, and then dashed away as before across the plain. I looked hastily around me, but could see no pursuers. Still I knew too well their pertinacity and their devices, to suppose that they would desist from following me, till I was actually in a place of safety. On I went, therefore, rejoicing in the darkness.

“Suddenly as I went along I heard some strange sounds. These were human voices. I became aware that I was passing near a large body of Indians. They were not my pursuers, but, till I could ascertain who they were, I would on no account intrust myself with them. To turn back was as hazardous as to proceed, so on I went. They heard me, and came after me. I expected to lose my scalp after all, when you, my friends, came to my rescue, and here I am; rather battered, I own, but still able and willing to pull a trigger for our mutual defence.”

“Spoken like an honest backwoodsman,” cried Obed and his brothers. “Friend Short, if you like to join your fortunes to ours, you are welcome.”

The old man owned that he had no fancy to hunt by himself, and that after the adventures he had gone through he would gladly leave that part of the country, for, as he said, Indian vengeance never slumbers, and never dies, as if in exact contradiction to the Christian law of love.

Knowing that we were surrounded by vindictive enemies, none of us felt inclined for sleep, and I therefore asked Obed to continue the account of his adventures. “Ay, friend, that I will,” he answered promptly. “I left the honest Delaware and the bear and her cubs all rolling away into the river together. The cold water somewhat astonished Mistress Bruin, and made her for an instant let go her gripe. The Delaware took the opportunity of striking his knife with all his force into her neck, and before she could return the compliment, he sprang up the bank, on the top of which I stood ready to assist him. The bear was not killed, but, rendered furious by the wound, she began to scramble up the bank after us. The Delaware sprang to get his rifle, while I pointed mine at the brute’s head. On she came. I fired, and expected to see her roll over, but the bullet did not strike a vital part, and so she made savagely at me.

“The Delaware had by this time regained possession of his rifle, and while I threw myself on one side, he fired with unerring aim full at the bear’s head. In another instant her claws would have been on my shoulders, and her teeth in my cheeks. The ball struck her. With a fierce growl she attempted to spring forward, but I stepped back, and over she rolled at our feet. The cubs came waddling up to see what was the matter with their mother, and as they were rather too big to be pleasant companions, we were obliged to kill them. We ate some slices of them afterwards. We spent the evening very pleasantly over our fire, and next day at dawn we pushed on, that we might encamp while there was an abundance of light to put up our wigwam, and to kill any game we might require. Several days passed away without any event of interest to tell you of. The Delaware was an excellent travelling companion, and I believe that without him the Indians would speedily have found me out, and would have left me without a top to my head. We had quitted the banks of the river, and were progressing across a wide-rolling prairie. Although the wind when it blew was keen, the sun had still at midday great power. We toiled on through the high grass with not a breath of air, hoping to get across the prairie before nightfall. We could see, from the nature of the ground, very little way on either side of us.

“Suddenly we were conscious of a hot wind blowing on our right cheeks, and then it came laden with smoke and fine dust. ‘On! on!’ cried the Delaware, grasping my arm to hasten my steps. There was reason for us to hasten. ‘The prairie is on fire, and before long, if we delay, we shall be surrounded by the raging flames!’ he exclaimed. ‘On! on! on!’ I saw in the far distance a rocky mound, rising out of the prairie, towards which my guide pointed. I saw that he meant that we should seek safety there, but it seemed to me scarcely possible that we should reach it before the fire would overtake us.”

Chapter Nine.

Obed’s adventures continued—Journey with the Delaware—The prairie on fire—They fly for their lives—A stampedo—A narrow escape on the rock—Long journey—Approach of winter—Their life in a cave—Expected visit from bears—Journey continued—Arrival at the fort—Further adventures with bears and wolves—Save the life of a young chief—Carry him onward till they reach their camp—The young red-skin’s gratitude—End of Obed’s narrative—Fresh alarms—Again the enemy approach.

“The Delaware and I ran on at full speed through the high grass,” continued Obed.

“Every instant I expected to be tripped up by its tough roots which trailed along the earth, but my companion, who was well accustomed to the sort of ground, kept me from falling. I asked him, as we ran, why he did not stop, and, as I knew to be the custom, cut down and burn a clear space round us, so as to let the conflagration pass by on either side.

“‘The deer and buffaloes, and other wild animals, would rush through the space and trample us to death,’ he answered. ‘Even now I hear the sound of their hoofs in the distance—haste! haste!’

“I tried to listen as I ran, and I fancied that I did hear a low, murmuring, hollow sound, which had a peculiarly terror-inspiring effect. The wind blew stronger, the air became denser and more oppressive, and the ashes fell thicker around us. We distinctly heard the noise of the rushing flames. The rock towards which we were running rose before us, but, yet near as it was, the fire came roaring on so rapidly that I fully expected it to overtake us. On it came, hissing and crackling. The air grew hotter and hotter, and more and more oppressive. As I struggled on I felt as if I could scarcely move my limbs. It was like a dreadful dream, when a person fancies that danger is near, and that he cannot fly from it. I gasped for breath. The Indian also was much distressed. Some things men can get accustomed to, but to have to run for one’s life, with a prairie-fire roaring at one’s side, one does not like a bit more the tenth time it is encountered than the first. ‘On! on!’ cried out the faithful Delaware. He could run faster than I could, but still he delayed for me. Besides the crackling and hissing of the fire, there was a loud, roaring, trampling, crushing, thundering sound, or mixture of sounds, utterly indescribable. The rock was reached—we clambered up it. We gained the summit. It was a wide, open space, entirely free of grass.

“Almost fainting, I was sinking to the ground, when I saw the Delaware pointing to the plain below us. There, across the ground we had just left, came tearing along, in strange confusion, herds of buffaloes, deer, wolves, foxes, prairie-hares, several bears, and even birds, turkeys, prairie-hens, and other wild fowl, all uttering their peculiar cries of terror, and utterly disregarding each other. Not one stopped to prey on another.

“One feeling of intense terror inspired the whole mass. On they flew, fleet as the wind; all they seemed to think of was that the fire was behind them, and that, unless they would be destroyed, they must fly. Some were left dead or wounded; the weak trampled on by the stronger; but still on scampered the mass, with the fire raging at their heels. I saw what would have been our fate, had we not reached the rock before the herd passed by, and I thanked Heaven that we had been preserved. We remained on the rock for some hours, till the ground below was cool enough to enable us to proceed; but, after the heat of the fire, the air felt bitterly cold, and we had no shelter from it. I do not think we could have endured it during the night. We descended, and began to cross the remainder of the plain, but even then our feet struck up sparks from the yet smouldering ashes, and light clouds of smoke rose up continually, circling round our heads till they were dispersed in the clear atmosphere.

“Desolate, dismal, and barren looked the country through which we journeyed on the following day. Not a vestige remained of animal life, but here and there appeared the skinless skulls and bones of some huge buffalo or stately stag, which had long lain there blanching in the sun. The sky had for some time been overcast. The Delaware pointed towards it. ‘The winter is coming,’ he observed; ‘this is not the place to be overtaken in a snow-storm.’ I agreed with him; so, in spite of the fatigue which, after my wounds and loss of blood, I felt in a way I had never before done, I dragged my heavy legs after him. We reached about nightfall a clump of trees. Under their shelter we lighted our fire, cooked our provisions, and lay down to rest. Nature required rest. Often have I thought of those words: ‘The Sabbath was made for man, and not man for the Sabbath.’ Constituted as man is, what a blessing truly is the Sabbath! how sweet, how necessary is rest!

“We rose before daybreak, stirred up our fire, cooked and ate our breakfast, and, as the light of dawn found its way through the trees which surrounded us, we started on our way. The sky was ominously dark, but the snow had not yet begun to fall, yet the piercing air told us that it would not long be delayed. The Delaware spoke but little. He evidently did not like the state of things. I had made up my mind from the first to be guided by his judgment. One thing was very certain, that we could not stop where we were. Our only chance of safety depended on our pushing on. ‘Where to?’ I thought. I saw nothing but the wide-rolling, blackened prairie before me. The sight alone was depressing, independent of the anticipation of coming evil. Hour after hour passed. Not a break appeared in the clouds, not a gleam of sunshine burst forth to cheer us. Still the snow did not fall, and there was nothing to impede our progress. We stopped at noon to dine. A few minutes sufficed us for our frugal meal. The bitter cold did not tempt us to rest longer than was necessary.

“On again we went. ‘Where is the wood in which we are to pass the night?’ I asked of the Delaware. ‘It is yet far-off,’ was his unsatisfactory answer. Evening was drawing on. I saw a bleak hill, but no wood capable of affording us shelter. Just then a snowflake settled on my face. It was a slight thing. How indifferent should I have been to it at other times! Now it made my heart sink lower than it had ever done before. Another and another fell; then down the snowflakes came rapidly, thickly sprinkling the ground and our garments. The wind sent them driving against us over the prairie. The Delaware pointed to the hill. On towards it we pushed. The snow in a few minutes completely covered the ground, a sheet of white was spread out where lately all had been black, here and there only the taller tufts of grass appearing above it. There was no prospect of the snow ceasing to fall. Soon it covered our moccasins and reached to our ankles. Walking became more and more difficult. It was half-way up to our knees, still we pushed on. My companion remained silent. I did not trouble him by asking questions. He had hopes of escaping, or he would, I thought, very likely have sat down where he was and quietly awaited his fate. Had he done so, it would have been my business to rouse him to exertion. The snow fell thicker and thicker. Daylight was rapidly decreasing. It grew less and less. All we could see was the sheet of snow immediately surrounding us. Still my companion went steadily on.

“Backwoodsman as I am, and am proud to be, I should have been completely at a loss in what direction to go had I been left by myself, except I had trusted to the wind. As long as that blew it would have served as a guide, though a somewhat uncertain one. Even that guide proved fickle. The wind fell and the snow came down perpendicularly, or rather on all sides, floating here and there, and completely surrounding us. Still my companion went on without hesitation. At first I had walked by his side, now I dropped behind him and trod in his footsteps. This enabled me to keep up with him better. As far as I could judge, I believe his course was straight as an arrow for the point at which he was aiming. The cold was less intense than it had been before the snow began to fall, still I felt that if we were to stop we should very likely be frozen to death. Though I kept as close as I could to my companion, almost touching him indeed, so thickly did the snow come down that often I could barely distinguish his misty form before me.

“I never felt so helpless; my manhood seemed to have deserted me. I thought if I should stumble and fall, before I could cry out he might be out of sight and be unable to find me. I confess that all sorts of dreadful fancies came into my head. At last I got ashamed of them, and tried to get a better heart in my body. I began to whistle, but that would not do, then I tried to sing; I got on badly enough in that way also. I don’t think the Delaware quite approved of the attempt. He grunted out something once or twice. Perhaps he was trying to join in the chorus. My voice, indeed, grew fainter and fainter, and at last I was obliged to give up the attempt. My knees, too, were less and less able to support me; I felt them trembling under my weight. Still I toiled on. I would not complain, that would have lowered me in the estimation of my guide, and I would not ask questions, so I remained ignorant as to what prospect there was of our reaching shelter from the storm.

“At last I found that we were going up hill over rugged ground, and I concluded that we had reached the hill I had seen before it grew dark. We went on for some way up and then down, and then along a level place, and then up again, and I saw a dark object rising on my right side, high above our heads it seemed. It looked to me like a precipice. Presently my guide stopped, so suddenly that I ran against him. Then he turned to the right without speaking, and I followed him. We went on a few paces, and I found that we were in total darkness. No snow fell on me, the air felt comparatively warm, and I was conscious that there was something above my head.

“‘Stay,’ said the Delaware, and I heard the click of his flint and steel. The bright sparks came forth and he applied them to his tinder, and I saw the glowing mass lowered to the ground; and the countenance of the Indian lighted up as he blew against it till it grew larger and larger, and a bright flame burst forth, and I found that we were in a high arched cavern. How cheerful the fire looked as it burned up, and sitting round it we warmed our numbed limbs, and felt that we had found a shelter from the storm. The place had evidently constantly been used for the same purpose. There was a good supply of wood on one side, sufficient to light many a fire for some time to come. Farther up, the floor of the cavern was strewed with the bones of animals, many of which must have been of vast size, and have lived in bygone ages. We had killed a deer not long before, so having warmed our hands we set to work to toast some of the meat at the end of our ramrods. The food and warmth once more wakened the Delaware’s tongue, and he told me that in five days, after leaving our present position, we should be able to reach Fort Laramie.

“‘When shall we be able to leave it?’ I asked. ‘Is there not some probability of our being snowed up?’

“‘I cannot answer two questions in one breath,’ answered the Delaware. ‘As to when we can leave the cavern, depends on when the snow ceases falling. It may be in three days, or it may fall for a week or more. As to being snowed up, there is not much probability of that. Should it by any chance drift against the mouth of the cavern, we must cut our out. But do not fear. We are warm here, we have fire and food. Let us be thankful for the blessings we enjoy.’

“I felt the truth and wisdom of his observations, and having piled up more wood on the fire, we wrapped ourselves up in our buffalo robes, and lay down with our feet towards it. The Indian was asleep in an instant. Though I thought for a minute or so, I very quickly followed his example. We both of us awoke at intervals and made up our fire, but were instantly again asleep, and I do not think I ever enjoyed more refreshing slumber. It was broad daylight when I awoke. I got up and went to the mouth of the cavern; the snow fell as thickly and fast as ever, but as it did not appear to be blocking up our cavern, that did not concern me.

“After some time the Delaware awoke, and then we toasted some more venison. After he had eaten it, he lay down and went fast asleep again. I slept a good deal, but I could not manage as much as he did. I asked him how he contrived to sleep so much. He laughed calmly.

“‘When I have thought of what is to be done, why should I think of anything more? Then I sleep to be ready for the work to be done.’

“Day after day passed by; I began to grow very weary of being shut up in the cavern, though I exercised my limbs by walking up and down it continually, and amused myself by examining the bones of the animals in the interior. Many of them were, I doubted not, of elephants, and lions, and tigers, strange animals which I had read about, while with the others I was familiar enough—buffaloes, bears, wolves, stags, and others. I must own that I was not always quite comfortable when I lay down to sleep, expecting that perhaps we might be visited by a roving bear, or a hungry wolf; and more than once, when I opened my eyes, I fully expected to see one poking his head in at the entrance, or standing by ready to fly at one of us the instant we made any movement. The Delaware did not appear to be troubled about the matter, and certain it is that none came near us all the time we were in the cave. The only reason the Indian could give for our not being attacked, was that the animals were afraid of the spirits of their long-dead fellows, whose bones were found there. I suspect that the bears did not come because the cave was so frequently visited, while the wolves kept to their lower grounds, where they were more likely to find animals to prey on.

“The snow ceased at last; but it was not till the tenth day that the Delaware said that it would be hard enough for us to travel on without snow-shoes. We had to ascend the mountain some way, and then to descend. The western side was thickly covered with trees; indeed, the country through which we passed was very rich, and only wanted the hand of an industrious people to make it fertile. We each night reached a good camping place, and as we were fortunate in killing two hen turkeys, the Delaware said we should not be pressed for want of food, and we accordingly travelled on at an easy pace. One forenoon, as we were passing over a height, I knew from the way the trees grew that there was a river below us, though now it was covered with nature’s uniform of white. Carrying my eye along it in the far distance, I saw a wreath of white smoke ascending into the clear, bright blue sky. There was something inexpressibly cheering in the sight, after going so long without seeing the slightest sign of human beings. However, the smoke might be produced by Indians, and perhaps enemies, whom we must of necessity avoid. I asked the Delaware if he would tell what he knew about the matter.

“‘That is the fort,’ he answered; ‘you will there very likely gain tidings of your friends.’

“My heart bounded within me at the thought of being once more united to my family.

“‘The sun will sink thus far down before we can reach the place,’ said the Indian, pointing to the sky with his hand.

“This good news added fresh vigour to my muscles, and I found myself not only keeping up with the Indian, but actually hurrying his steps. After walking for nearly two hours over very rugged ground, up and down steep and wild hills, we saw before us, on an elevated mound overlooking the river, a strong stockade, over which peeped the roofs of several cottages, while a deep trench cut round the hill added yet more to the strength of the place. As the Delaware and I drew near, we saw that we were closely watched through a spy-glass. We waved our hands to show that we came as friends, and as we began to climb the steep height towards the fort, several people came out by the door of the fort to meet us. How pleasant it was to be welcomed as a white man by white men, to hear them talk and to be treated as a brother! The honest Delaware, too, was welcomed, for he had brought letters for many in the fort, and undertook to deliver any others in return, with which he might be intrusted. How pleasant was a cup of hot tea, and some soft bread, and the vegetables for dinner, and then to find myself turning into a real bed, with sheets and blankets! The truth is, however, that after sleeping so long in the open air, I found that of a small room so oppressive that I could not breathe, and had to get up and open the window, and let the cold in. But I am going ahead too fast.

“Having satisfied the governor of the fort all about myself, I inquired if they could give me tidings of my family. What was my satisfaction to find that a party answering their description were encamped in winter quarters not more than a week’s journey to the north-west. My friend the Delaware knew the spot, and undertook to guide me there. We spent two days longer in the fort to refresh ourselves, and both of us truly needed rest, and then we set out. He had guided me so far in safety, that I felt the most perfect confidence in his courage, judgment, and honesty. We got new moccasins at the fort, and our clothes mended, and our friends furnished us with an ample supply of provisions. Though I had been very happy in the fort, and very kindly treated, I felt as I could fancy a man would, just let out of prison, when I found myself once more walking along with my faithful companion over the snow. The weather was very fine, there was no wind, and at times in the day we found it much too hot to wear our buffalo-skin coats.

“One day with us was much like another, though, by the bye, we did meet with some few adventures. We fell in with a fine old grizzly bear, whom we turned out of his cave; but the Delaware shot him through the head, and we afterwards had some capital steaks out of him. Then we were pursued by a pack of wolves, but we climbed a tree and let them pass by us. We were, the Delaware computed, about half a day’s journey from the spot at which we were aiming, when we entered a valley, with a high hill on one side of it, broken into rugged precipices. We had advanced some way along the valley, when, as we happened to look up at the heights above us, we saw a figure rapidly coming down towards it. He was hunting some animal, we thought. He did not see his danger. We shouted to him, but it was too late; he did not hear us, and over he went down a frightful precipice. We ran forward, and thinking he must be killed, expected to see his mangled body hanging to some rugged projection in the rock; but the very precipitous character of the cliff had been the means of his preservation. He had fallen directly into a snow-drift, and though a limb apparently was broken, and he was much hurt, he speedily came to himself. To leave him where he was would have been sheer barbarity; so we told him that we would carry him to my father’s camp, where he would be quickly cured. He thanked us much, and consented willingly to do as we advised. Cutting some boughs from the trees which grew around, we speedily formed a litter, on which we placed him.

“Carrying him between us, we approached the spot where my family were supposed to be encamped. From a hill at a little distance I got a view of it. My heart beat quick at the thought of seeing them all again. They had selected a rocky mound for the site of their encampment, and had surrounded it with a stockade and ditch, so that it was capable of resisting any attack the Indians were likely to make on it. There was room inside, I calculated, not only for their own huts, but for their cattle and wagons, and a supply of fodder and wood. They had spared no pains, I guessed, to make themselves secure and comfortable. The very look of the place convinced me that my family were there. As we drew near, a gate opened, and several people came out. There were, I saw, father and mother, and sisters, and all my brothers but Joab. Then I feared, as I found, that brother Joab had been killed. I said nothing, for I was afraid to ask about him. They all welcomed me as one from the dead, for they thought that I had been killed, and never expected to hear anything of me again, for they had seen me fall, as they had Joab, and he, poor fellow, had been scalped before their eyes, so they had no hopes for him. After they all had done talking to me, I told them about the young red-skin, whom the Delaware and I had brought. The women at once took charge of him, and doctored him in their own kind way.

“In the meantime the Delaware was not forgotten, and everybody tried to show their gratitude to him for the service he had been to me. It was several days before the young Indian began to recover; indeed I believe any one but a red-skin would have been killed with such a fall as he had. When he got better he began to talk to us, but we could make out but little of what he said. At last I begged the Delaware to come to him, as he understood his language. After some hesitation, and a long talk with the Delaware, he told us that he was the eldest son of the chief of the Kioway tribe; that he and his people had planned an attack on our fort, and that it was to take place in three days by that time. He said that his people did not know what had become of him, but that they would not abandon their plans on account of his loss.

“‘Now,’ he added, ‘I will go to them, and tell them all you have done for me, and instead of enemies, they will become your friends.’

“In two days more he was strong enough to move, and he insisted on setting out, saying that he should soon fall in with his people. Off he went, and we waited anxiously his return; but in case of treachery we put everything to rights in the fort to resist an attack. In a few hours the young chief came back with some twenty or more painted warriors in his train—very formidable customers they would have proved if they had come as enemies. Well, to make a long story short, when he heard that I was going to set out with my brothers to bring you assistance, he undertook to send twenty of his people with us, while he and the remainder stopped in the neighbourhood to guard our camp. We lost no time in getting ready; I was as fresh as a lark; we travelled fast, and came in time ‘to do the happy deed which gilds my humble name,’ quoth Dick.

“‘No, no,’ exclaimed several of the party simultaneously, ‘honest Obed Ragget never finished a sentence with a quotation from a play, though it was writ by a minister.’

“‘To confess the truth, no,’ said Dick; ‘indeed honest Obed’s expressions were not always, though highly graphic, grammatically correct, so I have given his narrative in what is generally considered the more orthodox vernacular; yet you have, I own, thereby lost much of the force of his descriptions and no little amusement.’

“Obed had scarcely finished his account, when from every part of the whole surrounding wood resounded the most terrific war-whoops and unearthly shrieks and cries. Seizing our weapons, we sprang from our seats, and rushed to repel the expected assault.”

Chapter Ten.

The red-skins attempt to alarm us—Singularly unsuccessful—The enemy at length commence the assault—We bravely defend our camp—Sam discovers that they are Pawnees and Dacotahs—His device to separate their forces—Discovers Noggin among them dressed as a chief—The enemy retire—Sam’s expedition to rescue Noggin, which I accompany—Our success—Mr and Mrs Noggin—His magnificent appearance as an Indian chief—We push onwards and at length reach the camp of our friends the Raggets.

The red-skins knew that we were on the watch for them, and as they were not likely to take us by surprise, they thought that they could terrify us by their shrieks and hullabaloos. They did not know what we were made of, or they would not have wasted their breath in that way. Two of our scouts came hurrying in, the other two had, we feared, been surprised and scalped by our enemies. We all stood to our arms in dead silence, waiting the expected attack. Our Indian allies wanted to reply to the war-whoops of our foes, but we judged that as they outnumbered us, we should be much more likely to awe them if we remained in perfect silence. Again and again, several times, those unearthly shrieks broke the silence of the night. I own that they were terror-inspiring, and I was very glad each time when they ceased. It was nearly dawn when once more that hideous war-whoop was heard, and instantaneously the snow-clad ground before us was covered with the dark forms of our foes, streaming out from the forest and climbing up the height towards us. The Raggets, Sam Short, Pipestick, and I took the lead in directing the defence, and we were soon joined by old Waggum-winne-beg, who got up, in spite of his wounds and weakness, to give us his assistance.

It was evident that our enemies had been reinforced, though it was still too dark to count them with anything like accuracy. Indeed I don’t, exaggerate when I say that our sight was not a little disturbed by the showers of arrows which they sent among us. In spite of their numbers, we rather astonished them with the warm reception provided for their entertainment. Old Short was in his element; calling some ten of the Kioways round him, he was here and there and on every side of the camp at the same moment, firing very rapidly and never throwing a shot away. He must have killed a dozen of our enemies in as many minutes. In about twenty minutes they seemed to have had enough of it, and rushed back under shelter as rapidly as they had come out of it. The dawn appeared. The rising sun spread a ruddy glow over the field of snow already stained with the blood of the slain. We thought that our enemies would retire, but no. Without a moment’s warning, on they rushed once more up the height. This time our rifles told with more certain effect than even before; not a shot was thrown away, and the redskins fell thickly around us on every side.

“What are they about now? They seem to have some scheme in reserve,” I observed to Obed. Scarcely had I spoken when some who had retired again came forth, accompanied by a stout, sturdy-looking warrior, who, however, did not seem very anxious to advance. He held a rifle in his hand, which he fired every now and then as he advanced; but he was very long in loading it, and each time his bullet whistled above our heads. His companions were too intent on the attack to observe this. Just then we were joined by old Sam Short. I pointed out the warrior to him.

“Why!” he exclaimed, “those fellows are Pawnees, the very villains from whom I escaped, and that seeming chief is no other than poor Noggin. Tell your fellows not to hurt him, and I will have a talk with him before long. If I can get him to draw off the Pawnees, we may easily settle with the remainder of the Dacotahs, whom you have, I see, handled pretty severely already.” Saying this, the old hunter disappeared among the tents, but speedily came back rigged out in the most fantastic fashion, holding a long staff in his hand literally covered with rags and tatters, which as he held it aloft streamed in the wind. We, meantime, had been effectually keeping the enemy at bay. “I think this will do for the nonce,” he exclaimed; “give them one volley more, and then let me see what I can do.”

We followed his advice, and the moment we ceased firing, while the enemy were still skipping about to avoid our shots, he rushed from among us, crying out, “Noggin, old friend, tell your fellows that the mighty medicine-man of all the Indians has come to get them out of a great scrape, and that the sooner they take themselves away from this the better.”

The Indians, astonished at his sudden appearance, hung back, and no one attempted to attack him, as I fully expected they would have done. Noggin, on hearing the voice of his old friend, instantly called his companions around him, we meantime taking care to reserve our fire for our old enemies the Dacotahs. Presently we saw the Pawnees drawing off, while the old hunter, indulging in all sorts of fantastic gestures, came hurrying back to the camp, no one attempting to stop him. I asked him why he had not brought his friend Noggin with him.

“Ah, he is an honest fellow,” he answered. “He refused to come without Mrs Noggin. The poor girl had trusted to him, had saved his life, and he would not desert her. I honour him for it, but I do not despair of seeing him and her yet. If he can induce her to come, he will bring her as soon as he can make his escape from her tribe. He has no wish to live the life of a red-skin for the remainder of his days. It is my desire, and I think it will be his, to join my fortunes to yours. From what I hear you are bound for California, and I should like to go and try my luck in that country too. I may be of use to you, and you will afford me that companionship which I begin to feel the want of in my old age. I have no fancy again to run the risk of being scalped or roasted, or having to lie down and die by myself like a worn-out old wolf, or other wild beast in the desert.”

The Raggets and I expressed our satisfaction at the thoughts of having so experienced a hunter as our companion, and that matter was settled off-hand. The Dacotahs had retired when they saw the Pawnees drawing off. They probably tried to ascertain the cause of this desertion. They made but one more very faint attack, and finding, as we supposed, that their chance of success was less than ever, finally retired out of sight into the wood. We could not restrain our Indian allies from rushing out to scalp the slain, though we warned them against surprise, and charged them not to touch the wounded; but I suspect they did not much heed our words. They came back with fully thirty scalps, saying that our bullets had made such sure work, that every one was killed outright. As the day drew on, we were more and more convinced that our enemies had had enough of it. We sent out our scouts, who felt their way cautiously, following their trails. The chief body of the Dacotahs had gone off to the north and east, while the Pawnees had taken the direction of the north-west. The latter had retired with deliberation and order, while the former had made a hurried retreat. A little later in the day a scout came in, saving that the Pawnees had halted about five miles off.

“Then I know the reason why,” observed Short. “Noggin has persuaded them to halt, and, depend on it, he will try to escape with his wife. If some of you would aid me, I should like to go and meet him, to help him along.”

Obed and I and John Pipestick agreed to accompany him, with four of our Indian allies. As soon as it was dusk we set off on our expedition. We crept cautiously along from the very fist in Indian file, the scout who had discovered the trail leading, and Short going next. Indeed, the man who wishes to keep the scalp on his head cannot be too cautious when in the Indian country, and with enemies in the neighbourhood. Not a word was spoken, scarcely a sound was heard, while we kept our rifles trailing by our sides, ready for use at a moment’s notice. We could not tell, of course, whether the Dacotahs or Pawnees might not have taken it into their heads to come back and attack us, or, at all events, might not have left some scouts to watch our proceedings. We went on thus, till the sounds of drums beating, bones rattling, keeping time to the voices of human beings, creating a most unpleasant sort of music, warned us that we were in the neighbourhood of the Pawnee camp. It was difficult to say when Noggin might take the opportunity of slipping away. It might be at once, while all the noise was going forward, or it might not be till the inhabitants of the camp were asleep. So we all sat down and watched in silence.

It was agreed that Short should go forward and meet his friend, so as not to alarm him. I must own that I had fallen asleep, and was dreaming of old England and my comfortable arm-chair, when I was awoke by finding my companions rising and beginning to move on at a rapid rate—I was so sleepy that I could not tell where. On we went, no one speaking, following each other as before, so I judged that it would be wise not to speak either.

It was still very dark, all I could do was to see the person immediately preceding me. On, on, we went: at last we began to go up hill, and I found that we were approaching our own camp. The light of our fires was shining brightly from it. Obed answered with a cheerful voice to the challenge of our sentinels, and as we entered our stockade I found, for the first time, that our party was increased by two persons. One was habited in the full costume of a red-skin chief, and a big commanding-looking fellow he was; the other was an Indian squaw; she was a fine but modest girl, and she seemed to shrink back with true feminine timidity from the gaze of so many strangers. To my surprise I found that the handsome chief, who decidedly would have created a great sensation in any London drawing-room, and, perhaps, have won the hearts of half a dozen young ladies, and persuaded them to settle down as the mistress of his faithful retainers in his extensive territories in the Far West, was no other than Tom Noggin, whose adventures I had just been hearing. I do not know what sort of an orator Tom might have made as an Indian, his English vernacular was not of the choicest.

“I wish some-on you chaps would get this young woman of mine stowed away with some of her own kind among the Indians, they’ll know her, and comfort her a bit, poor thing,” quoth Tom. The words and tone were really kind and kindly meant, but they sounded odd as coming from the lips of a full-fledged red-skin warrior. Noggin at once fell into old Short’s plan, and having all laid down to take some rest, we packed up our traps and were once more on the move. We accompanied the kind-hearted Ottoes three days further on their road till they considered themselves out of the reach of their enemies. Had I pressed John Pipestick I believe he would have brought his wives and joined our party, but I did not altogether admire the young gentleman’s notions on things in general, so I kept silent on the matter. I had an affectionate parting from old Waggum-winne-beg, who once more pressed his beautiful Firefly on me; but my heart was proof against even her brilliant attractions. The young lady pouted a little when I wished her good-bye, and, I have no doubt, thought me a man of very bad taste. Once more our course was turned towards the West. With a good supply of ammunition, little baggage, and forming as we did a band of practised hunters and backwoodsmen, together with a body of faithful allies, we had no fear as to the result of an attack which any Indians might venture to make on us, provided we exercised all necessary precaution in our advance.

More than once we were aware that Indians were on our trail, or hovering round our camp; but when they ascertained the state of preparation we were in, being assured that they would have to buy victory, if they got it at all, at a very dear rate, they thought it wiser not to attack us. We expected to have been pursued by the Pawnees, but for some reason or other they did not seem to wish to get back Noggin or his wife. They followed us, however, and ten days afterwards two of them made their appearance in our camp. We watched them narrowly, for they are thievish fellows, and would have stolen anything they could have laid hands on. They came, they said, to bring a message from their chief to his daughter, which, as far as we could make out, was equivalent to his blessing; telling her at the same time that as she had chosen to marry a white man, she must follow his fortunes for the future, and not look to the red men for support. The young lady replied that she was perfectly contented with her choice, and had no intention of going home again. Short all the time kept out of sight of the Pawnees, for he thought his appearance would not fail to enrage them he advised us, however, to follow theirs trail as they went away, to ascertain in what direction they were going, and to assure ourselves that they were not plotting some piece of treachery. We found, however, that they went right away to the north-east, and were not likely to trouble us any more. We travelled steadily on, making good twenty miles a day at least.

The instant we arrived at a wood or other fit place for camping, some collected wood and lighted fires, others tore down strips of bark and branches of trees to form wigwams, while the sportsmen ranged round to look out for game, and the scouts explored the neighbourhood to ascertain that no enemies were lurking near. Mrs Noggin made herself very useful in cooking our provisions, and her husband and Short helped her. The latter had not yet recovered from his long run and the exertions he had made to free himself, and it seemed wonderful that he should be able to support the fatigue of travelling as well as he did. Altogether, we led a very pleasant life; but I was not sorry, I own, to see in the distance the stockade in which my old friends the Raggets, and two or three other families who had associated themselves with them, had passed the winter. We arrived just in time before the frost broke up. After that, till the warm dry weather began, travelling would have been very difficult. Our friends were very glad to see us all back again safe, and gave a hearty welcome to old Short and to Noggin and his wife. They were not people to turn up their noses at a red-skin. With all due respect to my white friends, Mrs Noggin appeared to great advantage alongside them. She was a very well-mannered, amiable, kind, sweet young woman, and though some of her ways were not just quite what a refined Englishman would admire, I do not think friend Noggin objected to them, and they seemed as happy as possible.

We had altogether not an unpleasant time in the stockade, and we had plenty of work in repairing the wagons and tents, and in making other preparations for our further progress through the wild passes of the Snowy Mountains. The travelling, barring the attacks from the red-skins, had hitherto been easy; we were now to enter on a region wild and rugged in the extreme, where we should have to encounter dangers innumerable from grizzly bears, avalanches, mountain torrents, and steep precipices, added to those we had already gone through. However, their contemplation in no way daunted any of our party. From old Mr Ragget’s forethought and judgment, he had amply supplied his camp with provisions before the winter set in, and the same qualities he was now exerting in making preparations for our journey. We thus avoided many of the disasters and miseries from which so many parties of emigrants suffered proceeding over the same route in following years.

Chapter Eleven.

Our winter encampment—Our huts—How we spent our time—A night alarm—Visit from a grizzly—My encounter with the same—Short saves me—We start in search of Mrs Bruin—We enter the fastnesses of the Rocky Mountains—Short’s battle with the bear—His perilous situation—Still in danger—We go round to assist him—The snow moves though the bear does not, and we find ourselves on the top of an avalanche—A most unpleasant made of locomotion.

I cannot say that I looked forward with any rest degree of satisfaction to the idea of spending the remaining months of the winter, without books or any other means of intellectual enjoyment, in the encampment at the foot of the Rocky Mountains. The Raggets were very worthy people, and kind and considerate in every way; but some of our other companions were somewhat rough and uncouth, and none of them were addicted to literary pursuits, so that there were not six readable volumes of any sort or description to be found among all the party. At times I felt quite a craving for books, when my fingers grew weary mending harness, or manufacturing snow-shoes or moccasins; when conversation, which was never very brisk, altogether flagged. Still I had one great resource, and that was my note-book, though what I was putting into it my companions were very much puzzled to guess. My friends at home will not have much difficulty in guessing what I was writing about. Take it all in all, however, we spent a very pleasant time up among the snow, though it was brought to a conclusion rather sooner than we expected.

We had plenty of provisions; we had made ourselves tolerably snug; our numerous well-armed party might set any prowling red-skins at defiance; and, above all things, we had laid in such a fine stock of good-humour and good-nature, that we had nothing like a quarrel or an angry dispute during the whole of the time. We also cut out plenty of employment for ourselves, and in spite of the cold, were never long shut up in our huts without making an excursion in one direction or another. Sam Short, Obed, and I, with the other Raggets, slept in one hut by ourselves. It was the outer hut of all, and forming part of it was our principal store, in which the greater portion of our provisions were kept. Here were piled up casks of flour, and sugar, and salted meats, and fish, and many other necessary articles. We none of us were much addicted to lying long in bed; but when we did turn in, we slept sounder than, I am sure, any tops ever did. We might generally have all snored as loud as a dozen bears growling away in concert, without in the slightest degree disturbing each other. One night, however, a piece of salt tongue had stuck somewhere on its downward passages or Mrs Ragget had given me too strong a bowl of green tea, as a special mark of her favour, or from some other unaccountable cause, I could not for some time get to sleep. I found out that Sam Short did snore, and most lustily and variously too, with notes resembling what one might fancy a broken-winded bagpipe with a bad influenza would give forth more than any other sounds. My other friends were not much behind him in the loudness of their snores, though rather less varied and musical. At length, in spite of the delicious concert, I did manage, by dint of counting and repeating my own name over and over again, and other similar devices, to get into a sort of dose. Still, though I was asleep, I could hear all the noises as clearly as before, only I forgot where I was, and a variety of strange and ever-changing notions came into my head.

I thought that I was at sea, when a violent storm arose, and that a huge whale got hold of the vessel, and towed her on at a terrific rate, spouting away and roaring most furiously. Suddenly there was a crash, and I found that the whale had dragged us against a rock, and ran itself on shore. There it lay floundering away, till suddenly it gave a curious kick with its tail, and sprung back again right over our heads into deep water. I never saw a whale, or indeed any creature for that matter, give such a leap. I had very serious doubts, however, whether it was a real whale after all. As it went off skimming over the sea, it looked back with such a wicked expression in its little twinkling eye, as much as to say, “There, I’ve done for you. I hope you may like it;” at the same time snorting and blowing louder than ever, in a way most unusual, at all events for whales, which, except when in a flurry, are generally quiet, well-behaved creatures.

The boiling sea soon knocked the vessel to pieces, and the crash of the wreck made me start up to swim for my life. There really had been a crash, though not so loud as I supposed, for it had not awakened the rest of the sleepers. The noise still continued, as if some one was breaking into the hut or store, and turning over the articles piled up in it. I jumped into my clothes, for with the thermometer twenty degrees below zero, it is not pleasant to run out without some covering, and calling up my companions, seized my rifle and axe, ever ready at hand, and rushed out to ascertain what was the matter. I fully believed that the camp was attacked by red-skins, and that we were about to have a desperate affray. The door of the store was close to that of our sleeping hut, but it was closed of course at night. I opened it and sprang in with my axe, ready to strike, hoping by the suddenness of my attack to scare the Indians, and prevent them from defending themselves. The moon was shining with a splendour which she never exhibits through the denser atmosphere of merrie England, and she was just then casting her beams through the open doorway. There was a window in the hut which had been boarded up, but the boards had been torn away, and a glistening sheet of snow was seen through it. Thus there was enough light in the shed to render a lantern unnecessary. I started back; for, instead of the party of red-skins I expected to see, my eyes fell on a huge grizzly bear, who was busily rolling the casks about, in a vain attempt to get at their contents.

He was a ferocious-looking monster, gaunt and hairy, and had evidently been driven out to forage in our camp by the pangs of hunger. When he saw me he gave forth a fierce growl of defiance, and instead of decamping, as I expected he would, he made a desperate rush at me. I stepped back and lifted my axe, intending to make its sharp edge fall with all my strength on his head; but he was too quick for me, and seizing my arm, in another instant the savage brute had me fast locked in his deadly embrace. He would have killed me in an instant, I verily believe, had I not as he caught me, shoved the head of the axe into his open mouth, where it served the purpose of a gag, and considerably incommoded him. It may be supposed that I sung out pretty lustily at the same time for help. As to doing anything for myself, I found that was impossible, beyond the holding the axe with all my might in the bear’s mouth. I felt certain that the moment it got out would be my last.

“Help! help! Obed, Short! Quick, quick!—a huge grizzly bear has got me,” I shouted.

The monster seemed to comprehend the meaning of my cries; for he made off with me through the aperture by which he had entered, carrying me along as easily as if I was an infant in arms. As he made off through the window, my companions, whose responding shouts I had just before heard, made their appearance at the door. It would have been easy for them to shoot the bear, but in doing so they would very likely have hit me, so I begged that they would not make the attempt. They therefore followed the bear and me with their glittering axes in hand. If my weight did not prove much of a hindrance to him, my axe at all events did, and they were not long in overtaking us. A bear’s winter coat is almost as impervious as a suit of armour, and for some time, though they hacked away at him very lustily, their axes had but little effect. At length, Short, who had his rifle loaded in his hand, and was ever as cool as a snow-ball, which, I conceive, is cooler than a cucumber, managed to get ahead of the bearish marauder, and looking him full in the face, levelled his weapon.

“Shall I fire, Dick?” he asked. “I know that I can hit him.”

“Yes, yes; fire,” I grunted out as well as I could; for the brute, fearing that he was going to lose me, began to give me some unpleasantly strong hugs. I was afraid also that should my strength fail me he might get the axe out of his mouth, when he would soon have made mincemeat of my nose.

“I’ll hit his right eye, then,” cried Short.

“Fire,” I cried.

There was the crack of his rifle, a loud roar, and I found myself well bespattered with bear’s grease, rolling over and over in the snow, but at length Bruin turned on his back, opened his claws, and to my great delight I found myself free. On jumping out of bed I had slipped on my thick buffalo-skin coat, which fastened round the waist with a thong, and this had much preserved me, or I should have been mangled terribly. As it was, I could scarcely rise to get clear of the bear; and if my friends had not come to my assistance I could not have crawled home. Bruin was dead and fit for smoking. While Obed helped me along, the rest dragged him to the camp, where we found all the rest of the men afoot to ascertain what was the matter. I went to bed feeling very much bruised and knocked about, but by rubbing myself over plentifully with grease I was next morning tolerably limp and pliable. After breakfast we cut up the bear, but as may be supposed, he was in very bad condition, nearly all sinews and bones, though when in good condition he could not have weighed less than eight hundred pounds. We, however, managed to get some ham and a few steaks out of him, and a small supply of fat, while his skin afforded a very acceptable addition to our bed coverings. Just as the operation was concluded, Short, who had gone out, came back, saying that, a little snow having fallen in the first part of the night, he could make out the bear’s trail.

“If we follow it up, we may come upon Mrs Bear’s lodgings, and find some young ones at home. Who’s for the game?” he exclaimed.

The project suited our tastes, and the young Raggets and I, with two or three others, declared ourselves ready to set out forthwith. Off we set, with a little pemmican and bread in our pockets, and our rifles and long poles in our hands, fully expecting some good sport. Short said that the she-bears and cubs are supposed to hibernate; but that no doubt we should be able to poke them out of their holes. We soon left the plain, when the trail led us up among the rugged defiles of the mountains. I confess that I could not have distinguished the marks of the bear’s feet in the snow; but Short’s more practised eye did so, and he every now and then pointed them out to me, so that we knew we were on the right track.

Our undertaking was a very hazardous one. There is not a more ferocious, at the same time powerful and cunning monster, among all wild beasts than the grizzly bear. When he meets a man, he has something to fight for besides the honour of victory; for he eats him for his dinner or supper as the case may be. As we advanced we found ourselves in a scene of almost terrific wildness. Dark rocks rising out of the snow towered above our heads, so as to completely shut us in, while mountain-ranges appeared one beyond the other, showing us the elevation we had attained. The old grizzly had certainly chosen a very inaccessible post for his domicile. The cold was very intense, though the exercise we were performing kept our blood in circulation. I own that I felt very much inclined to turn back, for the hug the old bear had given me had made my bones ache, and I doubted, as the French say, “whether the game was worth the candle;” in other words, whether it was worth while running so great a risk as we were doing, and getting so cold, and enduring so much fatigue, merely for the sake of killing an old she-bear. However, I said nothing, as I knew that my companions would not enter into my views of the matter. On we plunged farther and farther into the wild recesses of the mountains, till Short made some remarks which led us to suspect that even he began to doubt whether we should find the bear after all.

“Well, Sam, but where’s the trail?” asked Obed, looking round.

“The trail, boy; why, that’s just gone and lost itself long ago,” answered Sam, with a quizzical look on his dried-up countenance.

“If the trail has lost itself, don’t let us go and follow its example,” remarked Elihu Ragget, laughing. “However, I vote we sit down and have some dinner, while we agree what’s next to be done.”

His proposal met with universal assent. We accordingly all sat down on the snow in the most sheltered spot we could find and opened our store of provisions, but Sam Short very quickly jumped up, and taking his share in his hand said he would go and explore a little ahead while we finished our repast. We were none of us sorry to rest; but before we had quite finished our frugal meal, a loud shout was borne down the glen to our ears. We had little doubt that it was Sam calling to us. We seized our rifles, and rushed on.

We had not gone far before we saw him standing in front of a large rock, and in the rock there was a cavern, and at the mouth of the cavern there appeared a huge grizzly she-bear rubbing her eyes, Elihu declared, as if just awoke out of her winter’s sleep. I rather think she was licking her lips at the thoughts of the repast she was going to make of Sam Short. She would have found him a tough morsel I suspect. Why she did not at first rush on and try to gobble up our friend I could not tell, till Elihu observed that she probably had her cubs inside the cave, and that she was guarding them. Our appearance, however, instead of daunting her increased her rage, and with a savage roar she began to waddle towards Short. He retreated slowly. We sang out to him to give him confidence. He had before not thought it prudent to fire, lest, as was very likely, his shots should not kill the bear; but when he heard our voices, he lifted his rifle and fired. I thought that the ball had gone through her head; but I suppose that it did not, because on she came at poor Sam faster than ever.

Near the cavern was a precipice, with a glen or gully below it. The precipice did not go sheer down, but there were several ledges on the way covered with snow, while the bottom of the glen was filled with snow, how deep it would have been difficult to ascertain. As we drew nearer we discovered, to our dismay, that this glen ran up between where we then stood and the cavern, to get to which Short had made a considerable circuit, though his keen eye had detected it from the hill on which we were. How to render him the most effectual assistance was now the difficulty. While some ran round, Obed and I went to the edge of the glen to fire across it at the bear. As the bear advanced, Short sprang back and seized the barrel of his rifle to use it as a club. A walking-cane would have been of about as much use to him. Still he wielded it gallantly, and gave the bear an ugly knock on the nose. This naturally enraged Mrs Bruin, and grasping the fire-arm she pressed on. Poor Sam! One of three dreadful deaths seemed prepared for him, either to be torn by the bear or to be dashed to pieces down the precipice, with the very great chance of being shot by us, his friends, should we attempt to fire at the bear. He dared not look back to see where he was going, lest the bear should seize him. He felt his left foot over the edge of the precipice.

“Fire, fire,” he shouted, dropping on his knees almost under the bear. Mrs Bruin had sense enough to know that the consequence of a fall to her would be very unpleasant, and she was as unwilling as Sam to fall into the ravine. She therefore instinctively drew back. That instant one ball entered her head, and another her shoulder. The former from my rifle staggered her. It prevented her from seizing Short with her teeth; but what was our terror to see the snow give way under our companion’s feet, and to all appearance inevitable destruction awaiting him. He struggled violently to save himself, and just as the greater part of his body was over he caught hold of one of the hind paws of the bear, who had fallen on her back, and lay kicking furiously in an attempt to rise. Sam, however, held on with all his might. It seemed his only chance of safety. I was afraid lest the bear in her struggles should slip over also.

Neither Obed nor I had been idle while watching the scene. We both loaded our rifles, and now stood ready once more to fire. By moving a little on one side, we saw that we could get a good shot at her without hitting Short. Not a moment was to be lost. Running on I fired, Obed followed my example. The bear’s struggles grew less violent, and Sam began to try and haul himself up by her leg. It was a dangerous proceeding; there being an inclined plane at the edge, his weight appeared to move the body of the bear on. She could not rise, but she turned round and dug her sharp claws into the snow to save herself. Now, instead of wishing her to die, we were anxious that she might survive till the rest of the party could get up to her. Her growls became more and more feeble. She could scarcely hold on another minute. Poor Sam! We trembled for his fate. We shouted to the rest of the party to hasten on. They had had a difficult place to cross in single file at the head of the gully. Now they came on, hurrying over the snow. The bear gave two or three convulsive struggles. I wished that I could have leaped across the chasm to poor Sam’s help. I thought that the bear was slipping down again. If she had got any way on her, as sailors say, it was evident that the united strength of the party could not stop her. They sprang on, and just as I felt sure the bear would have slipped over the precipice, they seized her by the fore-paws. She was not dead, however, for in return for the act of kindness she made some desperate attempts to bite them.

“Haul away, haul away,” sang out Sam, and they did haul with all their might. Though they could not move the bear, they prevented her from slipping down. She gave several severe kicks with her hind foot. Sam clung on to it, and by the most violent efforts managed to drag himself up by her shaggy coat till two of the party caught hold of his collar and hauled away till they got him up from the edge and placed him in rather a safer position, but still not one free from danger. For the first time for some minutes I breathed freely, and as we could do no more where we were, Obed and I hurried round to help the rest. When we arrived the bear had received her quietus, but it was astonishing how many shot and what terrific blows she had received before she was killed. We were congratulating ourselves on the additional supply of hams and steaks she would afford us when a crack appeared in the snow just below our feet, and to our horror we found that the whole mass, carrying us and the carcase of the bear with it, was slipping off over the precipice.

Chapter Twelve.

We feel as if we were going over the falls of Niagara—Smothered by snow—We appear by degrees—Obed missing—We give him a warm bath inside the bear—Our dangerous predicament—How to get out of the ravine—Sam appears above us—We climb out with no little difficulty—The bear’s cave—Having had enough bear-hunting we return home—Find a native visitor, who informs us that we may expect soon an attack from an overwhelming force of red-skins.

We were all standing round the carcase of the huge she-bear, when it and the surrounding mass of snow began perceptibly to glide onwards over the edge of the terrific precipice. I have seen a poor fellow sitting in a boat, utterly beyond his control, gliding rapidly down the rapids towards the falls of Niagara. Quicker and quicker it has moved, till, reaching the edge, it has seemed to hover for a moment, as if unwilling to make the fatal plunge, and then over it has leaped with the rapidity of lightning, and it and its hapless occupant have been for ever hid from human sight. I felt at the moment very much the same sort of sensations which I can fancy the occupant of the boat must have experienced, as the mass of snow, increasing in speed, rapidly neared the precipice. From where I was, I had not the slightest power to leap off it. I fancied that all my companions were in a similar condition.

There is an eastern story, in which a man puts his head into a basin of water, and during the few seconds he holds it there, he finds that he has gone through the adventures of a lifetime. I do not think that many seconds could have passed from the moment that the snow began to move, till Short and I, and the rest, found ourselves, with the body of the bear, rolling over and over, and bounding from rock to rock, amid confusing heaps of snow, down into the bottom of the glen. How I am alive to tell the tale I do not know, and that fact makes people listen to me with no small amount of incredulity. I was more blinded, stunned, and confused than I had ever been in my life before, and each bound I made I thought would knock the breath out of me; but as for reaching the bottom, I never expected to do that—at all events alive. Now I got a kick from one of my companions in misfortune; now I was knocked against the hairy carcase of the bear; now I was almost suffocated with the overwhelming masses of snow which were showered around me. One thing I own—I did not just then think much about anybody else; I could not help anybody, and I knew that no mortal could help me. Down I went, as I was saying, bounding away, snow above, below, and round me. At last I was quiet. I opened my eyes—I was under the snow—I felt a suffocating sensation.

“After having got thus far without broken limbs, it won’t do to have the breath squeezed out of my body for want of exertion,” said I to myself, working away with arms and shoulders, till, as a chicken cracks the shell of its egg, I broke through the covering of snow which was above me, and once more I popped my head into daylight. I was in the midst of a sea of snow, the hind paw of the big bear was close to me, so I hoped that friend Short was not far-off, while I could make out several of my other companions struggling up through the snow around us. High above us towered the cliffs, and it seemed indeed wonderful that any of us could come down such a height alive.

There is a Greek fable I remember reading as a boy at school, of the ground being sown with teeth, and out of it coming armed men. I cannot help thinking that we must have looked very much like those ready-made heroes, as I and my companions struggled up out of the snow. Elihu Ragget was the first who joined me. Sam Short did not appear; I told Elihu that I thought he must be near—probably under the bear, and that if not released, he would certainly be smothered. So, without a word we set to work with our hands, shovelling out the snow as well as we could. We thought, as we worked away, that we heard a groan. This made us redouble our exertions to release our friend. We had not been a minute at work, when a shout reached our ears, and on our looking up, there appeared the very man we were in search of, standing on a ledge of rocks, high above our heads. He seemed unhurt, and he was shouting to us to ask how we were. We thought, therefore, that we must have been mistaken as to the groan, when some one asked, “Where is Obed Ragget?”

“Oh, lads, help me!” cried Elihu; the thought that his young brother lay buried beneath our feet, and that he had not missed him, striking him with shame.

“Ay, ay,” was the answer, as we all set to with even more energy than before. We dug and dug away round the bear, till at length a man’s leg appeared, and then his body, and in a few seconds the snow was cleared away, and my friend Obed Ragget was drawn up out of the snow. But we gazed at him with sorrow, for not a spark of life appeared in him. The rest were going to give him up as dead, but I entreated them not to despair. I examined him, and found that, as far as I could judge, there was not a bone broken, and when I put my mouth down to his, I felt sure that he still breathed.

“What he wants is warmth,” said I, just then recollecting that the body of the bear would still afford it. No sooner thought of than done. It was a desperate, and not altogether a pleasant remedy. We cut a huge slit in the body of the bear, and stripping off Obed’s outer garments, we clapped him in, keeping only his head outside, while all of us stood round to assist in giving him warmth. We watched anxiously for the result. First one eye opened, then another; then he sighed heavily; and at last he sang out, and asked where he was. In a little time he laughed quietly.

“Don’t call me a cub,” said he, “that’s all; I think that I am wonderfully better. I am much obliged to you and the bear, but now I would just as soon come out into the world again.”

After this we had no longer any anxiety about him, and certainly our remedy had a very wonderful effect in restoring him to animation. Now came our difficulty as to how to get out of the gully into which we had fallen. There was an outlet, but the way to it was evidently almost impracticable, and where it might lead we could not tell. Besides this, there was Sam Short, perched like an eagle above our heads; only Sam, not having wings like an eagle, could not get down to us, nor, as far as we could see, could we get up to the top of the cliff above him. We shouted, but we could not make each other hear.

“If the big bear was up at the top, we should not be long before we would be up to him,” observed Obed; “Sam would soon cut her hide up into strips and haul us up.”

We looked about; as to climbing up, that was out of the question. For fifty feet above our heads there was a perpendicular wall of rock. Above that there were numerous ledges or platforms, and the cliff seemed comparatively easy to climb. While we were looking about and discussing the matter, we saw Sam attempting to climb up the cliff. After many attempts he succeeded in reaching the top, and disappeared from our sight. He was absent for some time, and when he was again seen, he had a coil of something or other, we could not exactly make out what, round his neck. We now saw him, after carefully examining the cliff below him, begin to descend. We watched him anxiously, for our very existence depended on his success. He reached at last the place where he had before stood, then he cautiously commenced descending still lower.

“What donkeys we have been!” suddenly exclaimed Elihu; “the coil of stuff he has got won’t drag any of us up, we must make a rope for ourselves.”

We quickly had our knives going, and soon had Bruin completely flayed, and his hide cut up into short strips joined together. All the time we were at work, we every now and then looked up to see how Sam was getting on. The fear was that he might slip on the frozen rock, and come toppling down unable to save himself. Just as we had finished our rope, a shout from him proclaimed to us that he had reached the lowest ledge he could hope to gain. Without a moment’s delay he began to unwind his line. It was a very thin one, and had numerous knots and joints in it. As we watched it, we were in doubt whether the end would reach us; it just came down above our heads. By leaping up we could touch it; but as to making a rope fast to the end, that was out of the question. Sam soon discovered our difficulty. The rope was drawn up a little, and then down it came, so that we could make fast to it the end of our newly formed bear’s-skin rope. “Haul away!” we sang out, and up it went.

There was a doubt, however, whether that would be long enough. We watched it anxiously as it drew near the end, and then up, up, up it went, far beyond our reach. We went back and shouted to Sam. What he said in return, we could not make out. Here was a bitter disappointment indeed. Our labour had been fruitless; our hope of escape well-nigh vanished. Presently we saw the end of the rope descending till it came easily within our reach. Short, directly afterwards, appeared at the edge of the cliff.

“What will you do? Shall I haul you up, or will you climb up?” he asked.

We were unanimously of opinion, that it would be safer to climb up, as we might help ourselves a little by placing our feet on the inequalities in the side of the cliff, and there would be less chance of the rope chafing and breaking. We drew lots who should go up first. The lot fell on Obed.

“Stand from under if I come down,” he said, laughing, and seizing the rope.

Up he began to mount. He was very active and muscular in proportion to his weight. Still it was no light undertaking to have to ascend such a height. For his sake, as well as our own, we watched him with intense anxiety. Up, up he went. Now he swung off from the cliff, now his feet were planted on a ledge of rock, and he stood there to rest. Then again on he went. The fresh hide stretched fearfully, and it seemed as if to a certainty it would give way. There was no turning back, however. Now he came to a part of the cliff where he had to trust entirely to the rope. With hands, and knees, and feet, he worked away. None but a seaman or a backwoodsman could have accomplished the undertaking so rapidly, if at all. He was almost at the top. Sam reached over to help him. We held our breath. Now seemed the critical moment. How was he to scramble up over the edge of the cliff, exhausted as he must be with his exertions? Sam seized him by the collar and throwing himself back, dragged him up by main force. Now we all uttered a loud shout of congratulation, for thus far Obed was safe. Three or four of the other men followed. The last, having more friends to help them over the edge of the cliff, found it easier than Obed had done.

My turn came at last. Only Elihu and another man had to follow. My arms ached as I got half-way up, and the sickening idea came over me that the bear’s hide was chafed, and would break with me just as I got up to the most critical part. I rested for a moment on the last spot which afforded space for my feet, and then swung off into mid-air. I now knew the sensations which my companions must have experienced. They were very like those which one has occasionally in a nightmare sort of dream; to feel that one ought to be climbing up, and yet scarcely to have strength to lift one’s arms. It must be remembered that we were all clad to keep out extreme cold, and that a buffalo coat is a pretty heavy weight to have on one’s shoulders even under ordinary circumstances. My great consolation was, that the snow was pretty soft, and that if I did fall, I might possibly, having once taken the tumble, escape without breaking my neck.

To make a long story short, I did reach the ledge at last, and so did the rest of my companions; and then we hauled up the bear’s hide, and commenced our still more perilous ascent to the top of the cliff. By the bye, Elihu and the other man had bethought them that we might be hungry after our exertions, and had brought up a supply of bear steaks, which added not a little to their weight. I doubt if one man alone could have succeeded in scaling that height, for it must be remembered that Sam Short had only gone up the higher part. Still, with a number together, all heartily assisting each other, we found the task comparatively easy. When we came to a difficult place, we shoved the lighter ones up first, and then they let down a rope, and the rest hauled themselves up by it.

At length we all stood on the top of the cliff, not far from the bear’s cave, and when we looked down into the valley we were indeed surprised that we had escaped with our lives, and I hope that we all felt truly thankful for our preservation. Short now told us that he had, when he had before gone up to the top, caught and killed one of the young bears, and had cut up its hide to make a line, but that one or more still remained. I had a great fancy for a young bear, so Obed and I resolved to try and capture one. Accordingly, while the rest of the party were cutting some wood to light a fire for the sake of cooking the bear steaks, Obed and I started away with part of our rope towards the cave.

“I suppose there are no more big bears inside there,” said Obed; “they are mighty ugly customers to beard anywhere, but especially in their own den.”

“No fear,” I answered; “if one had been in there, he would have appeared long ago. We shall only find a cub or two, and there will not be much difficulty in capturing them.” I ought to have said that most of the party had recovered their fire-arms. Obed and I had left our rifles far back, away from the snow which had slipped with us over the cliff, so that we had them now uninjured. The cave was large, and for some distance there was light enough to enable us to see our way, but it at length became so dark, that we could not see ahead. All we could do was therefore to feel our way with our rifles.

“I think we must be near the end,” said I at last. We had a tinder-box: Obed struck a light. The blue glare of the match showed us two hairy bundles rolled up near the the wall of the cave. While he lighted another match, I rushed up to one of the bundles, which I found, by receiving a sharp bite, was a little bear. I soon, however, had the young gentleman’s fore-paws bound tightly together, and was dragging him out towards the mouth of the cave. Obed seized the other, while the match was still burning on the ground, and we thus had them both captives. We brought them in triumph to our friends, who were feasting on their mother. We did not offer them any of the poor brute, and I dare say they thought us very greedy for not doing so, not probably entering into our delicate feelings on the subject.

Having refreshed ourselves, all hands agreeing that we had had quite enough bear-hunting for the day, we set off on our return to camp. We had no little difficulty in getting our young bears to move along. Poor little things! they did not like the cold, and of course missed their mother. Still, by dint of poking and pulling, we made them keep up with the rest of the party. Now the excitement was over, I must say that I never felt so tired in my life. Still I would not relinquish my captive. Indeed it would have been barbarous for us to have done so, as it would have died of cold and starvation. At last, at nightfall, we did get in. We found all the camp in a great state of agitation, very much on our account, and not a little on their own. When we inquired what was the matter, they took us into the general sitting-room, and pointed to an Indian, habited in the full-dress warrior costume of winter, who was squatting down before the fire. He looked pleased when he saw us, and counted our numbers. “Good!” he exclaimed, in the deep-toned voice of his people. “Now fight well; drive away bad man.” The English vocabulary of our guest was very small, and no one in the camp had been able to comprehend exactly the information he came to give, except that an attack might be expected, at some time or other, from a large tribe or tribes, hostile to the white man. Short, however, who understood several of the Indian dialects, now came in to act as interpreter. The information he elicited was still more alarming. It was to the effect that before long we might expect to be attacked by overwhelming numbers of red-skin warriors, from whom, if they took us by surprise, we should have very little chance of escaping.

Chapter Thirteen.

Short and Noggin act as interpreters—We prepare to move onward—The White Dog—We guard against surprise—I go out as a scout—Pursued by red-skins—Return to the camp—More visitors—We suspect treachery—White Dog warns us that they are enemies—We prepare for a start while Noggin holds a palaver with the Indians—They are allowed to enter—Their chief’s treacherous attempt to kill Laban, but gets killed himself—We seize the rest—Noggin’s regret that we do not kill them—We start on our journey—White Dog accompanies us—We push on—Our first encampment—A fresh alarm.

The report brought by the Indian warrior of the intended attack of the red-skins on our camp soon collected all the party together in the common hail. Our men had pretty well strung nerves, and the women, old and young, were in no ways given to fainting; so, although the latter listened with the greatest attention, and the former spoke gravely and deliberately, there was not much excitement, and no great amount of anxiety perceptible on their countenances. Our feather-bedecked, skin-clothed visitor was not much addicted to giving forth long-winded speeches as are some of his countrymen. Short and Noggin were his chief interrogators, as they understood his dialect, and they translated his answers for the benefit of those who did not. He was asked how it was he became acquainted with the information he had brought us.

“Can you say, O white-skins, how the blossoms come on the trees? how the mist fills the air? how the snow melts on the ground?” was his reply. “I heard it; I speak the truth; enough.”

“But when, friend, are they coming?” asked Short.

“Can you say when the thunderbolt will fall? when the tempest is about to burst? where the prairie-fire will break forth?” he replied.

Short and Noggin seemed perfectly satisfied with his answers. But that was more than I felt, when he replied to the questions put him as to their numbers.

“Can you count the flakes which fall in early winter? do you know the number of the stars in the blue canopy above our heads? can you reckon the buffaloes as they scamper across the plains in a stampedo?”

Noggin on this got up, and bowing to the old chief who was squatting on his hams by his side, in a most polite way, observed— “All this rigmarole, which this old red-skin here has been telling to us, comes to this, as far as I can make out. He has heard the plot of those thieving, varmint red-skins through his wife, or some friend or other. When they will come he does not exactly know, but it will be about the time that the snow begins to melt, and travelling is pretty heavy work, and then they’ll come down upon us in no small numbers, enough, I guess, to make us look pretty foolish if we don’t keep our powder dry, and our eyes wide awake around us. The question now is, shall we stay here and fight the varmints, or shall we strike tents, and push away over the mountains?”

Various opinions were given on this point. If we remained where we were the red-skins would attack us, and though we might beat them off, they would probably surround us, and come again and again till they starved us out, or compelled us to retreat at a disadvantage. The moving our provisions and baggage was our great difficulty. Still, the general opinion was, that it would be better to move on at once. Laban Ragget at last stood up, and gave the casting vote.

“You see, friends,” said he, “where there’s a will there’s a way. That’s been my notion through life. Where I’ve had the will to do, mind you, what ought to be done, I’ve never failed to find the way. I’ve fought the red-skins often, and I’d fight them again, if need be, with pleasure; but I don’t want to expose the women and children to the chances of a battle with them; and so I say we’ll move on. We’ll put runners to the wagons, and make snowshoes for ourselves, and by to-morrow evening we’ll be ready for a start. Then we’ll lie down and rest, and by early dawn we’ll be on foot and away. Meantime, some of the young men will keep a lookout round the camp, to watch that we are not taken by surprise.”

I give Laban’s speech entire, because his proposals were carried out to the letter. All agreed and, literally, I do not believe that a minute had passed before everybody was busily engaged in preparing for our departure. Some were making snow-shoes; others runners for the sleighs; others packing our goods and provisions in small, light parcels easily carried; the women were as active as the men, and several were cooking and preparing the flesh of the bear we had killed the night before, by making it into pemmican. Mrs Noggin was very useful in making show-shoes, and so was the old Indian. His name, by the bye, was Wabassem-mung, or the White Dog, and to prove his title to the name, he would set up a barking, which no one could have supposed was from the voice of a human being. He had only about twenty followers, all the rest of his tribe having been treacherously murdered by the Flintheads, against whom he had now come to warn us. He wore a white mantle, as appropriate to his name, or, probably, he obtained his name from his fancy for wearing a white mantle; at least, one that was white by courtesy, for it had become so smoke-dried and stained, that its original purity was considerably damaged. Our venerable friend assured us that there was no chance of the Flintheads attacking us that night, and that we might, therefore, sleep in peace, because his own people were on the watch, and would give us timely notice. This was satisfactory, for, after our bear-hunting expedition, I, for one, was very glad to get some rest. Few people have ever slept sounder than I did on that night for a few hours, notwithstanding all the bustle and noise going on in the camp.

By the evening, as Laban had promised, everything was ready for our departure. This night it was judged prudent that scouts should be sent out to watch for an enemy, and Obed, Elihu, Sam, Noggin, and I, with a few others, were appointed to that duty by Laban. He had been chosen leader and dictator, and we were all bound implicitly to obey him. We scouts, with our rifles in hand, started away together, two and two. Obed was with me. With the snow on the ground, and a clear sky in those regions, it is never dark, and our difficulty, as we advanced, was to conceal ourselves from any lurking foe. Still we worked our way on, taking advantage of every mound, or the tops of trees, or bushes appearing above the white smooth plain. It had been agreed that, as soon as we should see an enemy, we were to retreat at full speed to the camp. If we were discovered, we were to fire off our rifles as a warning to our friends, but if not, we were to reserve our bullets for the bodies of our foes. We each had on tight snow-shoes, with which we could walk well enough, but running with such machines is altogether a very different affair to running in a thin pair of pumps. Having proceeded about, as we judged, three miles from the camp, we began to circle round it, for it was just as likely that the cunning redskins would approach from the east or south, as from the north. They, wiser than white men, never commit the fault of despising their enemies, but take every advantage which stratagem or treachery can afford them to gain their ends.

Obed and I began to think at last that it must be near dawn, and turned our eyes eastward, in the expectation of seeing the pale red and yellow streaks which usher in the rich glow, the harbinger of the rising sun. That was my idea, not friend Obed’s. He remarked, “Daylight will soon be on, I guess, and it is time we were back at camp to get some breakfast, before we begin our trudge over the mountains, for I’m mighty hungry, I calkilate; ain’t you, Dick?”

I agreed with him; but just before we turned our faces campward, I climbed up the south side of a rocky mound, above which I allowed only my head to appear, that I might take a leisurely survey of the country beyond where we then were. Obed followed my example. We gazed through the shades of night for some time.

“I’m main hungry, Dick,” said Obed, “let us be going.”

Still something kept me there. Just as I was getting up, I thought I saw some dark shadows moving along over the white sheet of snow.

“Look, Obed,” said I, “what are those out there?”

His eyes were even sharper generally than mine.

“Indjens, red-skins,” whispered Obed. “It’s time that we cut. They are not far-off.”

We first, before moving, satisfied ourselves that we were not mistaken; there were a dozen or more people, probably the advance guard. We then slipped down from our height, and began striding towards the camp as fast as our legs and snowshoes would carry us. It was a satisfaction to feel that there was a high mound between us and the Indians, or our scalps would not have felt comfortable on our heads. We did not turn our eyes to the right hand or the left, but looked straight on, keeping our legs going with a curious movement, between sliding and running, and skating and kicking. It was fatiguing, but we got on rapidly, and we had an idea that our enemies were not advancing nearly so fast. It was a race for life or death. Strange to say, I rather liked the excitement.

I always prefer having an object when I walk; now I had got one. We knew that if the Indians crossed our trail, they would instantly find us out and give chase, but then it was a satisfaction to know that they could not go faster than we were going. We had got almost within sight of the camp, when we heard a shout from behind us. I was unwilling to stop to look back, but if I did not stop, and attempted to look over my shoulder, I should very likely, I knew, topple down on my head. On we went again. There was another shout. We could just see the tops of the huts. I turned my head round, and there I saw a dozen or more red-skin warriors scampering like mad creatures over the snow, and flourishing their tomahawks. Fast as we were going, they were going faster. Still we might reach the camp before them, but it was necessary to warn our friends. As I ran, I unslung my rifle, not to fire at them, for that would have been useless, but to discharge it in the air as a signal. I did so, but by some means, by this act, I lost my balance, and toppling over, down I came at full length. I tried to rise, but that on soft snow is no easy matter to do at the speed circumstances demanded; and then, what was my horror to find that I had broken one of my snow-shoes! I gave myself up for lost, and entreated Obed to fly and save his life.

“Fly, Dick!” he exclaimed indignantly; “that ain’t the way of the Raggets, boy. No; if the redskins want your scalp, they must have mine first, and I’ll have a fight for both of them, depend on’t.”

While he was saying this, he was helping me to rise, and as one snow-shoe would be worse than useless, I cast them both off, and then did what was the next best thing, loaded my rifle; and turning our faces to our approaching foes, we stood ready to receive them. When they saw us stop, they came on more leisurely. As they got nearer, I counted about a dozen of them only. On this my heart began to beat more regularly.

“I say, Dick, my scalp sits pleasanter, like, on my head,” observed Obed.

In a short time the Indians got near enough to us to hail. “What are they saying?” I asked of Obed.

“Why, Dick, as far as I can make out, that they are friends,” he answered; “but, you know, these red-skin varmints are so treacherous, that we mustn’t trust them on no account. They may be old White Dog’s friends, or they may be some of the Flintheads. If they are the last, they’ll scalp us in another minute, or maybe they’ll try and get into the camp, and then play us some scurvy trick.”

These surmises were not pleasant. Still, we could not hope to cope with twelve well-armed Indians, with any chance of success, and we must therefore, we saw, attempt only pacific measures. In another minute they were up with us. They held out their hands in a friendly manner, and we observed that their general appearance was very similar to that of old White Dog. In a friendly manner, therefore, we proceeded towards the camp. When we got near, we made signs that we would go and prepare our friends for their reception. They made no objection to this, but, letting us go, squatted down on the snow about two hundred yards from the camp. Immediately we got in, we told Noggin, who interpreted our report to White Dog.

“Tell him not to show himself,” said Laban.

The old chief was, however, far too wide awake to do that. Covering himself up with one of our cloaks, so that even the sharp eyes of an Indian could not discover him, he crept to the north of the hut, and looked through the stockade. Noggin accompanied him.

“Flintheads,” whispered Noggin. “He says they are not his people. They are up to some deep treachery. They, of course, don’t know that old White Dog is here, and that we are warned of their intentions. What is to be done? I wish Short and the rest were here.”

Laban, after Noggin had spoken, stood for a minute or two in an attitude of reflection. I believe that if a great gun had been let off at his ear he would not have heard it just then. At length he said— “Wait till they come, and then we will let the red-skins enter the encampment. As they do so we must seize every mother’s son of them, and bind them all to the posts of the huts. We won’t brain them, as they would have brained us, and maybe the lesson we thus give them will teach them that the religion of the white-faces is better than that of the red-skins.”

We eagerly looked out for the return of the other scouts, for we were afraid that they might have been picked off by some prowling bands of Flintheads. Soon after daylight, however, they came in, without having seen any one. Our arrangements were speedily made. The women were to keep out of the way, and to pretend to be nursing the children. As we far outnumbered the Indians, two of us were told off to take charge of one of them, the rest were to act as a party of reserve to seize any who might escape. The instant they entered the camp they were to be seized, as, seeing us prepared to move, of course their suspicions would be aroused. Noggin, who best knew their ways, undertook to tell them that they might come in.

“The varmints, knowing their own treacherous ways, are so suspicious, that if we show that we are too willing to let them come, they’ll fancy that we’ve some plot in hand, and will be off to their friends.”

The gate of our stockade being opened, Noggin carelessly sauntered out and squatted himself down before the Indians, as if prepared for a regular palaver. Not to lose time, the rest of us got our breakfasts, harnessed the horses, and prepared for an immediate start. I must say I never bolted my food at such a rate as I did that morning. At last Noggin got up, and he and the Indians came towards the stockade. My heart beat in a curious way. We watched Noggin. He looked glum, and made no signal that we were to alter our tactics. The Indians all trooped in one after the other, looking sedate and quiet enough, but their dark eyes rolled furtively about, and there was a scowl on their brows, which showed that they were not altogether at their ease.

We waited for Laban to give the expected signal. It was to be the instant the chief of the party reached him and held out his hand, as we knew he would. Slowly, a tall athletic warrior, with a very malignant countenance, however, advanced, casting his suspicious glances on every side, till he was close up to Laban. Obed and I were to seize the same man, but I could not help following the leader, and I felt sure that his hand was stealing down towards his tomahawk. Laban must have thought so too. In an instant the tall warrior’s weapon was in his hand, and was descending on Laban’s head, when a shot from behind a hut struck him on the forehead, and he fell forward dead at our friend’s feet. At the same moment we all threw ourselves on his followers; but many of us received some severe cuts in our attempts to secure them, for all of them, prompted by the same feeling, had grasped their axes, with the intention of fighting their way again out of the camp. We had a severe struggle with them before we had them all secured; scowling and vindictive glances enough they cast on us when we had them fast. Old White Dog had, we found, saved the life of Laban Ragget by taking that of the chief. Never had a more treacherous plot to murder a whole party been more mercifully counteracted. Still neither the Raggets nor I would consent to kill our captives. Our proposal was simply to deprive them of their arms, and having fed them, to leave them bound, knowing that the rest of the tribe would, before long, visit the spot and release them. This plan, however did not at all suit old White Dog’s or Noggin’s notions on the matter.

“The treacherous red-skin varmints! you don’t suppose they’ll thank you for letting ’em live?” exclaimed the latter. “They will be after us, and follow us up like bloodhounds the moment they are free, that they will.”

“Never mind, friend Noggin,” replied Laban calmly. “Right is right all the world over. It would be wrong to kill a prisoner, do you see, and so I guess it’s right to let these people live. I’ll stand the consequences, come what may.”

Noggin said no more; and now everybody was busily engaged in preparing to start. The sleighs were loaded, the horses were put to, and in a long line we filed out of the fort. All the women walked, and carried the children; there were not many of the latter, for it was a rough life we were leading at the bush, and not fitted for such delicate beings. Many of the men also had to drag hand sleighs, and, as it was, they were obliged to leave behind them some of the heavier baggage. Old White Dog volunteered to accompany us. He had been looking for the arrival of the small remnant of his tribe, and as they had not appeared he began to fear that they had fallen into the hands of their enemies. When all the party had gone out, and proceeded some hundred yards, Obed and I went back, by the directions of Laban, and put some food within reach of our captives’ mouths.

“They won’t take a very pleasant meal, but they won’t starve,” observed Obed, as we left them.

Laban, meantime, had undertaken to watch the old Indian and Noggin, whom he suspected of an intention of going back and scalping our captives. We, however, watched them so narrowly that they could not accomplish their object. We now pushed on as rapidly as we could towards the mountains, as it was most important that we should gain a secure position at a considerable height before night. At first, where the snow was beaten down, we went on merrily enough, but when the ascent of the mountain really began, it was very heavy work for man and beast. Our horses were not in good condition, as they had had nothing but dry prairie grass and very little corn all the winter, but they were very little animals, all bone and muscle, and had no weight of their own to carry, at all events.

As we proceeded, we kept a very bright lookout behind us, both to the north and south, to ascertain that we were not pursued.

At length we entered the pass in the mountains for which we had been making, and here our difficulties began. High black cliffs towered above our heads on each side to the height of many hundred feet, while before us were masses of the wildest and most rugged mountains, over and between which lay the path we had to pursue. Short, who had crossed the mountains at this place two or three times, acted as our guide. Frequently one party had to go ahead with spades and clear the way, and we had also often to take out the horses, and drag on one sleigh, and then come back and get the next. We had reason to be thankful that on this occasion we had no enemy to molest us. Old White Dog was very much astonished to see the men work as we did, and hinted that if he had the direction of affairs, he should make the women labour as those of his people are compelled to do, while he sat still in dignified idleness. He did not gain many friends by his remarks, among the gentler sex of our party. A sheltered platform, surrounded by rocks on the mountain side, had been described by Short, and fixed on for our resting-place.

Up, up, up, we worked our way. At last we reached it, pretty well worn-out. I never felt my legs ache so much before. It had not a very inviting aspect when we were there. It had, however, a great advantage, as from its position it might easily be defended, should we be pursued and attacked by the Flintheads. Having driven our sleighs on to it, we set about the business of encamping. As usual, we placed the sleighs in a circle, so as to form a breastwork, with the cattle inside it. The side of the mountain was covered with pine trees. We cut down a number of these, at least, so much of them as appeared above the snow, and having beaten hard a large circle in the centre of the camp, by walking over it with our snow-shoes, we placed them side by side so as to form a large platform. On this we piled up all the branches and logs we could collect dry and green, and set the mass on fire. The platform, it will be understood, served as our hearthstone, and kept the burning embers off the snow. Otherwise, they would quickly have burned out a cavern, into which they would have sunk and disappeared. We required, as may be supposed, a large fire for so numerous a party, and it was a curious sight to watch the different countenances of the travellers, as we sat round it eagerly discussing our evening meal. We did not neglect the usual precautions to prevent a surprise, and two of the young men at a time took post as sentinels a little way down the mountain, to give timely notice of the approach of a foe. After supper, all the party sang a hymn, led by Laban Ragget, and very sweet and solemn were the notes as they burst through the night air, and echoed among those rocks, never before, too probably, awakened to sounds of praise and thanksgiving.

“It’s an old custom of mine,” said Laban to me, “when I cannot expound to my family, or hold forth in prayer as usual. If, Dick, we didn’t keep up our religious customs very strictly in the back settlements, we should soon, as many do, become no better than heathens.”

As I had been on my legs for the best part of the last two days and nights, I was excused doing sentry’s duty, and no sooner had I wrapped myself in my buffalo robe, with my feet towards the fire, and my head on a pine log, which served me as a pillow, than I was fast asleep. How long I had slept I could not tell, (it was, I afterwards found, some hours), when I was awoke by the most unearthly shrieks and cries, which seemed to come directly from under the very spot on which I lay.

Chapter Fourteen.

A sudden alarm—White Dog nearly roasted—Continue our march—My young friends Gog and Magog—Disappearance of Short and Obed—I descend to search for them—A magnificent ice cavern—Cross a frozen lake—Indians ahead—Friends—A scene in the Rocky Mountains—Camp, and fortify ourselves—Approach of Flintheads—Desperate conflict—An avalanche comes thundering down on us.

I was describing how I was fast asleep in our first night’s encampment on our winter’s journey across the Rocky mountains, when I was awoke by the most terrific cries, whence proceeding I could not tell. I thought a whole host of the Flintheads were upon us, and, seizing my rifle, sprang to my feet. When I was really awake, however, I found that the sounds came from under the platform, and a large hole near me soon showed what had happened. I had left our friendly old chief, Wabassem-Mung, or the White dog, fast asleep there. He had selected it from being the warmest place and nearest the fire. The consequence was that the snow had there melted more rapidly, and a deep chasm of seven or eight feet having been formed, he had glided into it, and only awoke when he found the hot ashes coming showering down on his head and burning the tip of his long nose. For once, in his astonishment and fright, he forgot his dignity, and shrieked out as heartily as any paleface. Laban and I and Short, who were nearest, stooping down, soon dragged him out of his uncomfortable position, and except that his nose was a little burned, and his feathers were singed, and his cloak was a hue or two darker, he was not much the worse for his adventure. He took it very good-naturedly, and seemed somewhat ashamed of having expressed his terror in the noisy way he had done.

Even before dawn we were on foot, and, having taken our morning meal, harnessed the horses and began our march. Our great object was to get to a certain elevation, to which we knew the Indians of the plain could never attempt to mount, even for the sake of glutting their revenge on us. We hoped also, should they attempt to follow us, to be better able to defend ourselves in the mountain passes than, from the smallness of our numbers, we could in the more open ground. In the hurry of describing more stirring events, I forgot to mention my two young bears. I did not like to desert them, as I might not have an opportunity of capturing any others.

Laban at first objected to my dragging them along with me; but at length he consented, observing, “Well, you know, Dick, if we get hungry, we’ll eat ’em.”

Of course I could not but consent to this arrangement. Although the full-grown grizzly bear is the most ferocious of the ursine race, these little creatures in a few hours became comparatively tame and contented with their lot. They trotted alongside of me very willingly, and at night lay coiled up together like a ball of wool, to keep each other warm. I gave them a small piece of fat and a little meal porridge, and that was all they seemed to want, besides sucking their paws, which they did as babies do their fists when they are hungry. Poor little things! they seemed to know that they had nobody else but me to look to as their friend. My friends, the Raggets and their companions, were very kind people, but they had a decidedly practical turn, and would have eaten my pets forthwith if I would have let them. I called one Gog and the other Magog, names about which the honest backwoodsmen, who had never heard even of Guildhall, knew nothing.

In appearance there was very little difference between them, but there was a considerable amount in their characters. Gog became much sooner tame, and was of a more affectionate, gentle, and peaceable disposition. Magog would sit and growl over any thing given him to play with, and run off with it away from his brother, while Gog would frisk about and seem to take pleasure in getting the other to join in his sports. Of course Gog became the favourite with all hands, and even the children were not afraid of playing with him, whereas Magog would snap at them, and very often tumbled them over and hurt them.

“I say, Dick,” said Obed to me, “if we want food, we’ll eat that Magog of yours up first.”

That is what Magog got for his surliness and ill-temper.

We continued to push on over the mountain-range. It was not all ascent. Sometimes we came to a level on a wide open space where there was not much snow, and then we got on rapidly. Our only passage through one part of the route was up the bed of a torrent frozen hard and covered with snow. It was very heavy work, but Short assured us that it would not last long, so we pushed on.

Obed, Short, and I, with others, were clearing the way with our spades, when suddenly, without the slightest warning, the two first, who were ahead of me, went right through the ice and disappeared. Horror almost overcame me, for I knew that the torrent would have the power of sweeping them down in an instant far out of our sight. Obed was my greatest friend. Short’s loss to all the party was irreparable. The three other men with me and I shouted to our friends, several of whom had long poles to assist their progress, to hasten to our aid. Fastening four of these together, two and two, I secured a rope round my body, which the others held, and then worked myself forward till I was over the hole. Another rope was made fast to the poles; by this I descended. I was surprised to find the chasm so deep, for I thought that I should see the water rushing down a little below the surface. Instead of that, there was below the hole a hard, very nearly smooth, floor, I lowered myself gently, and found it perfectly firm and strong; but, alas! neither Obed nor Short were to be seen.

Under other circumstances I should have been delighted with the appearance of the place in which I found myself. It was like a magnificent cavern of the purest white marble, ornamented with glass stalactites of the most brilliant rainbow hues. I should call it rather a gallery, because it extended up and down to an indefinite distance. No work of art could be more light or graceful.

But my thoughts were with my friends, and all the beauty which surrounded me seemed only to mock my anxiety for their fate. I heard those above, Laban Ragget and his sons, asking eagerly if I had found them, and I had to answer mournfully, “No.” Still I saw that they could not have gone through the ice into the stream itself, for that everywhere appeared unbroken. Then it struck me that, as the floor was an inclined plane, they had probably slipped down over the smooth surface without meeting anything to stop them. This was a solution of the problem of the cause of their disappearance, but it did not relieve my anxiety as to their fate. I sung out to my friends above to lengthen the rope as far as they could, for I had no inclination to proceed without it, and slid down to as great a distance as its length would allow me to move. I shouted and shouted, but there was no answer. I began truly to despair. “Poor fellows, they must be gone,” I thought. “It will be a sad report I must take to Laban.”

I began to ascend to get under the hole again. I found that I could easily crawl up the incline on hands and knees. I turned to rest for an instant, and thought that I would give one shout more. There was a roaring, rumbling noise of the water underneath, which made it necessary to sing out very sharply to be heard at any distance. I therefore shrieked out this time at the very top of my voice.

A few instants passed while the echoes died away, and then a faint cry came up from far, far down the long ice gallery. It was repeated. There could be no doubt that it was from my friends. I waited to consider whether I should return and get others to come down with more ropes, so that should Short and Obed have fallen into an ice-pit, we might help them out; or whether it was best to wait and see if they were working their own way up, as I found from experience they might be able to do. It was while thus waiting for them that I was able to admire the beauty of the scene. The floor was dark blue, the sides were white, and the ceiling was of every variety of green and red and yellow, and in some places so transparent that it seemed surprising that any person, much less a horse or sleigh, could have passed over it without breaking through; then there were in the distance arches and columns, and whole buildings and statues, of every grotesque form imaginable, at least so my imagination carved out the excrescences and masses of ice I saw piled up in a long vista before me. I did not stay long without shouting again, and once more the voices of my friends assured me that they were drawing near. My heart was now much lighter, and at length I caught sight of their heads as they crawled up like two four-footed creatures in the distance. I was truly glad when they got up to me; they had been, they owned, not slightly alarmed, and were, they showed, very tired and out of breath.

On breaking through the ice, the impetus they got sent them sliding down the sloping floor at so great a rate that they could not stop themselves. On, on they went, not knowing when their journey would end; but dreading that it might be into some deep hole, or perhaps the torrent itself. They were well pleased, therefore, when they were brought up suddenly against a mass of rock which rose out of the bed of the stream; and doubly grateful were they when, on looking beyond it, they saw that on the other side there was a deep fall through which the water itself was forcing its way.

We were all soon dragged up again to the surface, and though I described the magnificence of the icy gallery, no one seemed inclined to pay it a visit. We had now to drag our sleighs up a steep bank, and to proceed with the greatest caution, our progress being very slow. At last we once more got on level ground, and soon reached a long narrow lake, out of which the torrent descended. This accounted for there being water under the ice. Many of the torrents we came to were frozen completely through.

It may seem in theory very pleasant work walking in snow-shoes over the smooth surface of the snow, often high up among the boughs of trees, and level with the roofs of cottages; but when a person is not accustomed to the proceeding, it becomes painful in the extreme.

Snow-shoes are frames of light wood from four to six feet long, pointed at both ends like a boat. The intermediate space is filled up with network. They are secured to the feet by leathern thongs, and there is a hole in which the heel works. From their shape and size they present a very wide surface to the snow, and prevent the walker from sinking in.

Great care is required in fastening the thongs, which must be tight; but if they are too tight, when they get wet, as they frequently do, and shrink, they cut into the ankles and cause serious injury. Often the feet are so benumbed with the cold that, at the time, no pain is felt, and it is only when the sufferer comes to take off his shoes, that he finds the thongs have disappeared in a mass of swelling. We had no fears as to the ice on the lake bearing us, so we merrily slid on to it, and proceeded faster than we had done since we left the camp. The horses especially seemed to enjoy the ease with which they dragged on the loads which had before seemed so heavy, while the rest of us, taking off our snowshoes, glided over the smooth surface as rapidly as they did. Fortunately, but little snow had fallen in this region, and the wind had blown it off the ice. This was the first, and indeed only advantage we gained by travelling before the frost broke up. Had we not begun our journey as we were now doing, we should have had to wait several weeks longer, till the snows had melted from the mountain-tops, and the streams had subsided to their usual level. Still we could not conceal from ourselves that we had many dangers to encounter, even should we not be pursued by the red-skins.

I was generally in the van with Obed and Short and my two bears. I did not venture to let the Masters Bruin go loose, but yoked them together, and had a rope fastened to them besides. Thus united they waddled on; not lovingly, for very often they grumbled and growled, and seemed to be making far from pleasant remarks to each other. They kept on all fours, it must be understood. Bears only stand on their hind legs when they have learned to dance, or are going to eat a man, or at all events are standing at bay. On reaching the end of the lake we found that a considerable portion of the day had been spent, but still we had some distance to go before we could reach the spot proposed for our camping-ground. However, it was thought advisable to push on. I suggested to Short that it might have been better to camp on the shore of the lake.

“So it would, Dick, if we hadn’t to guard against these cunning red-skins. But old White Dog has heard, and I believe that he is right, that there is another path over the mountains, which leads to the very spot near where we propose camping; at least a little to this side of it. Now, if our enemies know of this, and it’s not likely they’ll be ignorant, and they make chase after us, some of the cunning varmints will take that path to cut us off, depend on’t. We haven’t told the women of it, nor the men generally, because there’s no use making them anxious till the time comes; and then there’s no fear but that they’ll all behave as they ought.”

I could not but admire the calm self-possession of my friends, who, in expectation of so fearful an event, could show so little concern, and at the same time placed such implicit confidence in the nerve courage of their companions. I must own that I felt very anxious, and carefully examined the lock of my rifle, and assured myself that I had properly loaded it. Soon after this we entered a broad defile with high broken rocks on either side of us, beyond which towered up to the sky the white masses of mountain-tops. The defile as we advanced gradually narrowed, till I found that we were approaching a narrow gorge with cliffs rising on each side almost perpendicularly above it. Just then I thought that I saw something moving among the rocks before us. I asked short. His quick eye had detected the movement.

“Indjens!” he exclaimed. “Oh! the treacherous varmints.”

Scarcely had he uttered the word than from behind the rocks in our front up sprang a numerous band of Indians in war-paint and feathers, uttering the most terrific shrieks and cries, and dancing and leaping about in the most extraordinary manner. Our rifles were in a moment in our hands. I was on the point of firing at an Indian whom I had covered, when old White Dog rushed to the front, exclaiming what Short interpreted to mean, “Don’t fire; they are friends, my people.”

This was satisfactory information, for, however pleasant fighting may be to some people, in our case it would not bring either honour or plunder. The fact was that, posted as they were, they might, had they been enemies, have picked us off, supposing they had rifles, without our being able in any way to get at them, except by climbing up the rocks, when, of course, they would have picked us off in detail. After White Dog’s followers had amused themselves sufficiently with dancing and shrieking, they came down from their position, and paid their respects to their chief, who inquired how it was they happened to be where we had found them. They all seemed to be very eager to tell him, but he selected one as the spokesman, and told him to narrate what had occurred. It appeared that after their chief had left them they got notice that the Flintheads purposed to attack their lodges and destroy them. To avoid this result they had packed up their goods and fled from the spot, merely leaving some scouts to watch the proceedings of their enemies. They had not to wait long before they observed a party of warriors approaching. This party seemed very much disappointed at finding their lodges deserted. Having set fire to everything that would burn, they continued their route towards our camp, followed closely by the scouts. When these saw them enter within the intrenchments, they instantly set off back to their companions. A council was then held, when it was agreed that it was their duty to set off to help their chief, who might be in danger.

Old White Dog had, I found, left directions outside our camp, which they would clearly understand, telling them to follow him. On reaching the camp they found that we had deserted it, but before going on, they very naturally took a glance round inside. There they found the unfortunate Flintheads whom we had left bound.

“I hope, Short,” said I, “that they respected our intentions, and left them there unhurt.”

“They left them there, you may be sure, Dick,” answered Sam quietly. “But you may be equally sure that they cut the throats of every mother’s son of them.”

“Cruel, murderous wretches!” I exclaimed.

“It’s their way of doing things,” said Sam. “As they are taught in their youth, so they act now they’ve grown up. If you had been taught to scalp your enemies when you were a boy, you’d do the same with pleasure now, whenever you had a chance!”

I could not deny that this would too probably have been the case, and therefore made no further remarks on the subject, only feeling thankful that I had been born in a Christian land, and brought up with Christian principles.

The meeting with these Indians caused another short delay, and they and their wives, and children, and dogs, falling into the rear of our party, we all proceeded together. The women and children, I ought to have said, had been hid away among the rocks, and were only produced at the last moment, as we were moving on. We could not object to White Dog’s tribe accompanying us, but as they came but scantily furnished with provisions, we were under some considerable apprehension that they would create a famine in our camp.

A strong party of us, consisting of Short and Noggin, and some of the Raggets, and myself, with old White Dog and several of his tribe, now pushed on to occupy the pass which led into the one through which we were travelling. We soon reached it, and, climbing up the surrounding heights, looked around. As far as the eye could range, not a moving obstacle was visible; all was silent and solitary. We had purposely concealed ourselves in case an enemy should be approaching, and as I stood on that mountain height looking out into the distance over interminable snow-covered ranges of rock, I was more sensible than I had ever before been of the sensation of solitude; never before had I remarked silence so perfect. Truly it seemed as if Nature was asleep. So she was: it was the sleep of winter.

In England, where birds are constantly flying about, and often insects humming, even at Christmas, we have no conception of the utter want of all appearance of life in the mountain regions in which I was now travelling. We waited on the watch till the main body of our party came up, and then, seeing no enemies, pushed on to our camping-ground. I must say that I was very glad to get there without meeting with the Flintheads. I felt sure that as soon as they found out the fate of their friends, they would track us, and, if they could, not leave one of our party alive. Probably Laban and others thought the same, but wisely kept their thoughts to themselves.

We fortified ourselves as usual, and kept a strict watch during the night. The weather was much less cold than it had been; indeed, there were evident signs of the coming of spring, and it became more than ever evident that we must push on before the frozen-up torrents should again burst forth, and render many spots impassable. After a hurried breakfast, we were once more on our way; we marched in true military order, with an advanced and a rear guard; the first carried spades, and acted as a pioneer corps. This morning I was in the rear guard, with Obed and Short, and all the Indians with their old chief. We had marched about a mile, and had just entered one of the defiles I have spoken of, with lofty cliffs on each side, and the mountains rising, it seemed, sheer up above our heads for thousands of feet, when I saw the Indians prick up their ears; then they stopped and bent down to the ground as if to listen. There was a great talking among them, and old White Dog called to Short: and Short announced to us the unpleasant information that we were pursued by a large body of Flintheads. They could not have overtaken our party in a position more advantageous to us; for, from the narrowness of the pass, even should they be very superior in numbers, we could show as good a front as they could. While our main body moved on with the women and children and goods, I and about a dozen young men remained with the Indians to defend the pass, and to drive back, if we could, our enemies.

“There’s one thing we may look for,” observed Sam Short; “they’ll fight to the last gasp, rather than lose the chance of their revenge; only don’t let any of us get into their hands alive, that’s all; they’d try our nerves in a way we should not like, depend on that.”

Every man among us looked to his rifle, and felt that his hunting-knife was ready to his hand in his belt. We advanced a little farther, and then halted at a spot where it seemed impossible that the Indians could scale the heights to get at us. We had not long to wait. Suddenly before us appeared a band of Indians just turning an angle of the pass. On they came at a rapid pace till the whole road, as far as the eye could reach, seemed full of them. As soon as they perceived us, they set up the most terrific yells, and rushed frantically forward. We waited for them steadily, but I feared, by the very force of their charge, that our people would be overthrown and driven back.

“Now, lads,” exclaimed Laban, as they came on, “be steady. Wait till I give the word. Fire low. Don’t let the bullets fly over their heads. Bring down the leading men. Now ready—Fire!”

All obeyed our brave leader, and several in the front ranks of the enemy fell. Yet it did not stop the rest, but rushing on with the fiercest shrieks, they threw themselves madly upon our party. The White Dog’s followers bore the brunt of the charge, and very gallantly did they behave. Again and again the Flintheads were driven back, and again and again they came on. They seemed resolved to conquer or die. There must have been nearly a hundred warriors among them. The air was at times darkened with their arrows, besides which a number had rifles. Four or five of our Indian allies had been killed, as had one of our people, and numbers had been wounded. We kept up at them a hot fire all the time, and many of them fell. Still, in proportion to our numbers, we had lost more men than they had. Once more the whole column rushed on together. I fully thought that we were lost, when, as I glanced my eye upward, I saw what I fancied was the mountain-top bend forward. Yes, I was not mistaken! Down it came with a wild, rushing noise directly towards us, shaking the very ground on which we stood. The Indians saw it too, but it did not stop them, as with headlong speed they were rushing towards us, about to make another onslaught. They and White Dog’s people met, and the last I saw of them they were dashing their tomahawks into each other’s brains.

I shouted frantically to Laban and the rest to retreat. It was a mighty avalanche, a vast mass of snow and ice. As it descended it increased in size, gathering fresh speed. As one mast of a ship drags another in its fall, so did one mountain-top seem to lay hold of the one next to it, and bring it downwards into the valley. Down, down came the mountains of snow, thundering, roaring, rushing. My brain seemed to partake of the wild commotion. I cannot attempt to describe the effect. I was leaping, running, springing back from the enemy, with every muscle exerted to the utmost, in the direction the women and baggage had gone. Laban and his sons were near me, I believed, but already dense showers of snow, or rather solid masses, the avant-coureurs of the avalanche, were falling down on us and preventing me seeing anything many feet from where I was. Unearthly shrieks and cries of terror and despair reached my ears; a mass of snow struck me, and brought me to the ground deprived of consciousness.

Chapter Fifteen.

I find myself under the snow—My attempts to escape appear to be vain—Struggle on—Am free, but find myself alone among the mountains—Push on—Encounter a grizzly bear—A fight—Will he eat me, or shall I eat him?—The pleasantest alternative occurs, and Bruin saves my life—I hurry on in the hopes of overtaking my friends—Take up my lodging for the night in a cavern.

When I saw the avalanche come thundering down towards me, although I used my utmost exertions to escape, I in reality had completely given myself up for lost. My feelings were very bitter, but they were of short duration, when I was brought stunned to the ground. I came to myself at last, or I should not be writing this; but where I was, or what had occurred, it was some time before I could recollect. At last a dim consciousness came over me that something terrific had happened, and I opened my eyes and looked about; I was under the snow, or rather under a mass of ice in a space ten or twelve feet long, and about three high, being rather wider at the base. This was a very respectable sized tomb, and such I feared that it would prove to me, unless I could work my way out of it. Of course I knew that I might be released when the snow melted, but I should inevitably be starved long before that event could take place, not to speak of dying of chill, and damp, and rheumatism.

My principle has always been never to say die; if it had been otherwise I should not be again in Old England. My rifle lay on the ground close to me where I had fallen; my hand still grasped the long pike I always carried, and the ever constant weapon of the backwoodsman, my hatchet, was in my belt. I crawled along to one end of the icy cavern, tapping the roof to ascertain if there was any crack through which I may work my way, but it was one solid sheet of ice; the end was blocked up also by a solid mass, through which, after making several attempts, I found it impossible to bore. Finding all my efforts useless at this end, I went to the other. Appearances were not promising; still I would not allow myself to believe that by some means or other I might not work my way out of my icy prison. Not a moment was to be lost; my friends might go away and suppose I had perished, or I might be starved or exhausted before I could reach the open air. It was a great thing having a little space to start from, though it was little enough. I set to work at once, therefore, with my axe, and began chopping away at the ice. My idea was to cut myself out a circular shaft, and thus, like a mole, work my way up. I chopped and chopped away, and when I had cut a couple of feet out of the mass, I carried the chips to the farther end of the cave; my object in doing this was to obtain sufficient air to breathe, for I found that I very soon consumed what there was in the cave, and that the heat of my body had already begun to melt the ice above me. I suffered, therefore, rather from heat than from cold; I went chopping on till I had space enough in which to stand upright. This was a very great advantage; I felt most encouraged, and could now work with far greater ease than at first, when I had to be on my back, and to chop away above me. I felt very thankful that I was not a miner, either in a coal, iron, or lead mine.

Sometimes as I was working away I fancied that I head the voices of my friends calling to me, but when I stopped there was again a perfect silence. On I went again, but still it appeared as if I was as far as ever from getting out of my prison. I had now cut my shaft as high as I could reach, so I had to make steps in the walls on which I could stand while I worked upwards. This I did till I had got up a dozen feet or more. It showed me the great thickness of the block of ice which had fallen above me, and how mercifully I had been preserved, for had it come upon me, it would have crushed me as thin as a pancake. I was now exposed to a new danger: should I fall as I was tunnelling away, I should break my legs. I already had removed, as I said, a considerable portion of the ice I had cut out to the other end of the cavern. I now saw that it would be better not to remove any more; so, securing my rifle at my back, and taking my pike in my left hand, which indeed I found very useful in keeping me firm, I determined not again to descend, but to continue working upwards as long as I had strength left.

To decrease the risk of falling down, I contracted the diameter of my shaft, and thus got on also faster. At length, as I gave a blow above my head, what was my satisfaction to feel that my axe had entered a mass of snow. Ask an engineer if he would rather bore under a river with a rocky, or a sandy and muddy bed, and he will tell you that the rock he can manage, but that the sand or mud is very likely to baffle him. So I found with regard to the snow; I got on rapidly through the ice, but as I worked up through the snow, I had reason to dread every instant that the superincumbent mass would fall in and smother me. I found that I made the most progress by scraping it down and beating it hard under my feet, forming a rude stair as I went on. I had got up ten feet or so through it, when either my foot had slipped, or a mass of snow had come down upon me, I could not then tell; but I know, to my horror, that I felt myself sent toppling down, heels over head, as I feared, to the bottom of the shaft. I began to give myself up for lost, and would have shrieked out; perhaps I did so, in very grief and disappointment more than through actual fear, when I found that I was brought up by my pike, which had become fixed across the shaft. I held on for some time till the snow had ceased sliding down below me, and I looked up, and there to my delight I saw, far above me, through a narrow aperture, the clear blue sky. I now could have shouted for joy; but my emancipation was not yet complete, the smooth side of the funnel was to be scaled.

Having secured my pike, I set about it. I tried to run up and gain the height by a dash. That would not do, I quickly found, for the snow slid down with my feet as fast as I could lift them, and that made still more come sliding towards me. The only way to gain the top was by slow and patient progress, I discovered, after many experiments. I therefore carefully made step above step, beating each one down hard as I progressed, and with infinite satisfaction I found that I was again making an upward progress. At last my perseverance was rewarded with success, and I found myself standing on a vast mass of snow, which blocked up the whole of the valley for a considerable distance on the eastern side and for some way on the west, so far, indeed, that my first delight at my own deliverance was very much damped by the fears which seized me for the safety of my friends and companions. There I stood, in the most silent and complete solitude, amid a heaving ocean, as it were, of snow, with the dark granite peaks rising up here and there out of it, and increasing the appearance of bleakness and desolation which reigned around. I shouted again and again, in the hopes that possibly some of my companions might be within hearing; but my voice sounded faint, and indeed, almost inaudible, it seemed, while no echoes reached me from the surrounding rocks.

I did not, however, waste much time in hallooing, for instant action was what was required. I felt very hungry, and that fact made me suppose that I must have been some time in my icy cavern before I returned to a state of consciousness. I took out my watch; it had stopped. It was early in the morning when the Indians had attacked us. The sun had not now risen any considerable height in the eastern sky. This made me feel sure that one whole day, if not more, had passed since the catastrophe, and that if I would preserve my life I must push on to overtake the travellers. I had left my snow-shoes in the camp, so that I had great difficulty often in making my way over the snow in some of the spots where it lay most loosely. More than once I sank up to my shoulders, and had it not been for my pike I should have had great difficulty in scrambling out again. I had got on some way, and was congratulating myself on having got over the worst of it, when I felt the snow giving way under my feet. I tried to spring forward, but that only made me sink down faster; down, down, I went in a huge drift. I had sunk to my middle; then the snowy mass rose to my shoulders, and, to my horror, I found it closing over my head. Though I knew if I went lower I might struggle on for some time, yet that death would be equally certain in the end. My feelings were painful in the extreme. I could not get my pole across above me, but I succeeded in shoving it down below my feet, and, to my infinite relief, after I had made several plunges, it struck the point of a rock, or a piece of ice. I kept it fixed there with all the strength I could command, and pressing myself upwards got sufficiently high to throw myself flat on the snow and to scramble forward. This I did for some distance, holding my staff with both hands before me. It was not a pleasant way of making progress, but it was the only safe one.

At length I got into the main pass, where the snow lay at its usual depth, and where it was beaten down by the passage of men, and wagons, and horses. This gave me renewed spirits, though, on examining the traces, I discovered that they were at least a day old, perhaps older. My chief immediate wish was to have something to stop the cravings of hunger. I felt in my pockets. I had not a particle of food; nor had I a scrap of tobacco, which might have answered the purpose for a short time. I tried chewing a lump of snow—that was cold comfort; so all I could do was to put my best foot forward, and to try and overtake my friends as soon as possible. I might have walked on for three or four hours engaged in the somewhat difficult endeavour to forget how hungry I was, and to occupy my mind with pleasing fancies, (I suspect few people would have succeeded under the circumstances better than I did), when I heard a loud growl, and on looking round to my right, I saw, sitting at the mouth of a cavern formed in a rock in a side valley of the main pass along which I was travelling, a huge grizzly bear. There he sat, rubbing his nose with his paws, putting me very much in mind of pictures I have seen of hermits of old counting their beads; nor was he, I suspect, much less profitably employed.

I stopped the moment I heard him growl, and looked firmly at the grizzly. I knew that it would not do to turn and run. Had I done so, he would have been after me in a moment, and made mincemeat of my carcass. I do not know what he thought of me: I do know that I thought him a very ugly customer. I bethought me of my rifle. The last shot I had fired had been at the Indians; I had not since loaded it. I dreaded lest, before I could do so, he might commence his attack, which I guessed he was meditating. He had probably only just roused up from his winter nap, and was rubbing his eyes and snout as a person does, on waking out of sleep, to recover his senses, and consider what he should do. To this circumstance I owed, I suspected, my present freedom from attack. I, meantime, loaded my rifle as fast as I could, and felt much lighter of heart when I once more lifted it ready for use to my shoulder, with a good ounce of lead in the barrel.

“Now, master Grizzly,” said I to myself, “come on, I am ready for you.”

Bruin, however, was either not quite awake, or wished to consider the best means of making a prize of me. The truth was that both of us were hungry. He wanted to eat me, and I wanted to eat him: that is to say, I determined to do so if I could, should he attack me. If he left me unmolested to pursue my journey—I felt that discretion would be in this instance the best part of valour—that it would be wisest to leave him alone in his glory; for a grizzly, as all hunters know, even with a rifle bullet in his ribs, is a very awkward antagonist. He was so long rubbing his nose, that I at last lost patience, and began to move on. I had not taken a dozen steps when his warning growl again reached my ears. I stopped, and he went on rubbing his nose as before.

“This is all nonsense, old fellow,” I exclaimed. “Growl as much as you like. I am not going to stop for you any longer.”

So, putting my best foot forward, as I had need of doing, I stepped quickly out. I very naturally could not help turning my head over my shoulder, to see what Bruin was about, and, as I did so, a growl louder than the previous one reached my ear, and I saw him moving on at a swinging trot after me. This I knew meant mischief. Flight was totally out of the question. I must fight the battle like a man. It must be literally victory or death.

Strange as it may seem, my heart felt more buoyant when I had made up my mind for the struggle, independent of certain anticipations of the pleasure I should derive from the bear steaks I had in contemplation, should I be successful. I speak, perhaps, too lightly of the matter now, because I do not want to make more of my deeds than they deserve; but it was in reality very serious work, and I have cause to be deeply thankful that I did not become the victim of that savage beast. Let this be remembered, that I was then, and I am now even more so, most grateful; yet not grateful enough; that I also feel for the merciful way in which I was brought through all the perils to which I was exposed. This being clearly understood, I shall consider myself exonerated from the frequent introduction of expressions to show that I was not a heartless, careless mortal, without a sense of the superintending providence of a most merciful Creator. I do feel, and I have always felt, that there is no civilised being so odious among all the races of man as a person of that description.

Well, on came the huge bear. I knelt down and took my pike, as a rest for my rifle. This was a great advantage. Growling and gnashing his teeth, the enemy advanced. I prayed that my arm might be nerved, that my hand might not tremble, and that my rifle might not miss fire. Thus I waited till the brute got within six yards of me. Had I let him get nearer, even in his death struggles, he might have grappled me. I aimed at his eye. I fired, and the moment I had done so, I sprang back, and did not stop till I had placed twenty paces between myself and the bear, scarcely looking to see the effect of my shot. When the smoke cleared off, I saw the monster struggling on, with the aim, it seemed, of catching me. I was thankful that I had been impelled to spring back as I had done, for I certainly had not previously intended doing so. I knew how hard the old grizzlies often die, and so I put some dozen or more yards between me and him. He fell, then got up once, and made towards me again, and then rolled over, and I had great hope life was extinct. I had meantime reloaded my rifle, and approached him with due caution, for bears are, I had heard, cunning fellows, and sometimes sham death to catch the unwary hunter. When I got near enough I poked at him with my pike, and tickled him in several places, and as he did not move, I got round to his head, and gave him a blow with my axe, which would have settled him had he been shamming ever so cleverly.

Without loss of time I cut out his tongue and as many steaks as I could conveniently carry, and stringing them together with a piece of his hide threw them over my back, and hurried on till I could find a sufficient collection of wood or lichens, or other substance that would burn, to make a fire for cooking them. I need not dwell on what I did do, but the fact was I was ravenously hungry; and let any one, with the gnawings of the stomach I was enduring, find his nose within a few inches of some fresh wholesome bear’s meat, and he will probably do what I did—eat a piece of it raw. I was very glad that I did, for I felt my strength much recruited by my savage meal, especially as I only ate a small piece, very leisurely chewing it as I hurried on my road.

It was a satisfaction to believe that I was going much faster than the women and vehicles could progress, and so I hoped to overtake them in a day or two at furthest; still, as long as there was daylight, I did not like to stop, and so on I tramped, till just before it grew dark I reached a broader part of the pass, where, in a nook in the mountain side, I discovered the remains of the camp formed by my friends, and left, I had little doubt, that very morning. There was wood enough about, with a little more, which I set to work to collect, to keep a fire burning all night. While thus engaged I found in the side of the rock a cave of good depth. I explored it at once, while there was light, to ascertain that it was not the abode of another grizzly. Having assured myself that the lodgings were unoccupied, though no signboard announced that they were to be let, I piled my wood up in front, and collected all the branches of fir trees and moss which I could find, to form a bed for myself inside. These arrangements being made, I lighted my fire and sat down with considerable appetite to cook and eat my bear steaks. My adventures for the night were not over.

Chapter Sixteen.

A night in a cave—I fortify myself, and go to sleep—Unwelcome visitors—My battle with the wolves—I drive them off, and again go to sleep—Continue my journey—Night again overtakes me—I build a castle for my resting-place—Voices of friends sound pleasantly—Escape of my companions—Fate of surly Magog—Reach the camp—The summit of the pass—Commence our descent—An Irishman’s notion of the best way to go down the mountain.

I soon got up a good fire, which threw its ruddy glare on all the rough points and salient angles of the cavern, but cast the hollows and recesses into the deepest shade. I glanced my eyes round, however, on every side, and having satisfied myself that it had no previous occupant in the shape of a grizzly and her hopeful family, I proceeded with my culinary operations. Having skewered a supply of bits of bear’s flesh sufficient to satisfy my appetite, on as many thin willow twigs, I cut out a number of forked sticks and stuck them round the fire. On these, spit-fashion I placed my skewers, and turned them round and round till they were roasted on every side. A few, to satisfy the immediate cravings of my appetite, I placed very close to the fire, but they got rather more burned than a French chef would have admired.

After that, as I had nothing else to do, I could afford to take my time, and to cook them to perfection. I should have liked to have had a little pepper and salt to eat with them, and something more comfortable than melted snow to wash them down. I could not afford to expend my gunpowder, otherwise the nitre in it affords a certain amount of flavour, counterbalanced, to be sure, in the opinion of some people, by the sulphur and charcoal. I don’t think, however, any one need fear being blown up by partaking of such a condiment. After I had finished my supper, I sang a little to amuse myself and any bats which might have been hanging on by their claws to the roof of the inner part of the cave, and then, having no book to read or anything else to do, I prepared my bed and made up my fire for the night. In other words, I collected a bundle of sticks and fastened them together to form a pillow, and scraped into a heap all the dry earth I could find to make myself a mattress. This a backwoodsman would have considered great effeminacy; and though I always adopted their ways when with them, I must own that, when left to myself, I could not help indulging in some such approximation, as I have described, to the luxurious habits of my college life. It was pleasant to recall my arm-chair and slippers, my cheery coal fire, my table covered with books, and a cup of coffee, or perhaps a bottle of port and a plate of biscuits, to apply to in case, after my mental exertions, my physical being should require some slight renovation. Some lazy fellows might rather think that I had not changed for the better.

I was on the point of stretching myself on the aforesaid luxurious couch, when I bethought me that it would be more prudent to erect a barrier of some sort between my dormitory and the entrance of the cavern, that, should any uninvited visitors intrude, I might have time for taking measures to protect myself. It, by the way, also occurred to me that a wall might guard me from the cold wind which blew in at the mouth of the cavern. I, therefore, shaking off my drowsiness by an impulse I can scarcely now account for, built a wall of all the stones and earth and bits of wood I could heap together, nearly two feet high, reaching from the fire to one side of the cavern. I then carefully examined my rifle, and placing it by my side, lay down alongside my wall with my feet towards the fire. Why I did this, I repeat, I cannot say. The idea that such a precaution might be necessary had not till that very moment crossed my mind. The additional exertion somewhat wearied me, and not a minute after I placed my head on the pillow, and like a hen had worked myself a hole to fit my body in the sand, I was fast asleep. I don’t know what occurred after that, till I awoke by finding my feet very cold, which was no wonder, for the fire had almost gone out, and the thermometer was down to zero. I lifted myself up on my elbow while I was recovering my senses after my sleep, when not five paces on the other side of the wall I saw what looked like at least a dozen sparks of light in a row, reaching across the mouth of the cave, while farther off appeared several other small fiery orbs. I looked and looked again.

“Fireflies,” said I to myself, half dreaming. “Bosh! fireflies in midwinter on the top of a mountain!” I rubbed my eyes. “Sparks from my fire?” Several peculiar low snarling growls made me start up, wide awake with a vengeance. “Wolves!” I said to myself; “there is no doubt about it.” The brutes had smelt me out, and with their usual caution, they were making this advance to commence an attack.

How many there were I could not tell, but there must have been a flock of them—parents and children, the biggest and fiercest as usual in the van. I concluded that they had not yet seen me in the dark, but I knew that they would find me out as soon as I moved. I felt quietly for my rifle, and got that ready to fire when it was required. Then I lay watching the brutes as slowly they crept on, one foot before the other, just as a pointer advances towards where the covey lies hid. In another instant they might spring upon me. It struck me that they probably did not like the embers of the fire, so I took my long pole, and beat or stirred up the ashes with it, making them send forth showers of sparks. I fancied that the wolves were retreating, so I jumped up, and threw the bundle of sticks which had served me for a pillow, as well as all others on which I could lay my hands, upon the ashes. This act exposed me to the view of the hungry brutes, who instantly, with loud growls, rushed back towards me. Just then the dry sticks, aided by a puff of wind, ignited, and blazing up exhibited the whole savage troop to me. It was a highly picturesque scene I doubt not, the fire blazing up, and the dark rugged walls of the cavern, and my figure brought into strong light, with my gleaming brand pointed towards my savage assailants; but I don’t mean to say I thought about that just then. All I saw were the fierce glaring eyes, the shaggy coats, and the hungry-looking fangs of the brutes, as they licked their jaws in anticipation of the feast they hoped to enjoy off me. I did not, however, like to throw away a shot among them, which could only have killed one, so I waited to see what they would do. In my late combat with the bear, I had the anticipation of a meal off my foe, should. I prove the victor, but on this occasion I had not that incitement to exertion, for a man must be very hard up for food who could complacently dine of the flesh of a gaunt wolf at the end of winter; and even the cubs, though probably not quite such tough morsels as their parents, had already far too much muscular development to afford satisfactory employment to the jaws. Though, however, I did not want to eat the wolves, they wanted to eat me, which was quite sufficient reason to make me excessively anxious to gain the victory.

After baying at me for some time, the brutes in the front line once more stealthily advanced, followed by those in the rear, whose forms appeared less and less distinct, till all I could make out of them were their fierce eyes, glaring like hot coals through the darkness. By this time a good portion of the sticks had caught fire. As the wolves got nearer, the scent of the remainder of the bear steaks, which I had put aside for my breakfast, filled their nostrils; their eagerness increased, and, with a loud howl, they in a body sprang towards me. I must conquer gloriously, or die and be eaten ignominiously; so, seizing a bundle of the burning sticks, I threw them in among the advancing ranks, and then, with loud shouts, grasping my pole, sprang out towards my foes, and belaboured them with might and main about their heads. They snarled and bit fiercely at the pole, but did not advance. Still they would not take to flight, and as it was very evident I should have a disturbed night’s rest if they remained in the neighbourhood, I was very anxious to make them decamp. I got together, therefore, an additional supply of burning sticks. These I put in readiness for use. Then I levelled my rifle at one of the foremost and biggest wolves, and knocking him over, brandished my pole in one hand, and hurling the burning sticks among them with the other, I made a second furious onslaught on the wolves.

With unearthly howls and cries away they fled, leaping and scrambling over each other like an affrighted flock of sheep, and in complacent triumph I returned to my sandy couch, expecting to enjoy a quiet and comfortable night’s rest. A heap of stones served me now for a pillow. Some of my readers may say, if you had had a downy couch or a feather-stuffed pillow, in a nice room with curtains, and a good fire, you might have had some reason for your hopes; but let me assure them that our ideas of comfort arise from comparison. The first night I slept in a feather bed after my camp life I caught the worst cold I ever had. Well, leaving the dead body of the wolf where he had fallen, I took the precaution to make up the fire with the remaining sticks I had collected, and lay down once more to enjoy the sweets of repose. Can it be believed! I had not been ten minutes wrapped in the arms of Morpheus, when I was again roused out of them by a terrific snarling and barking and growling. I looked up. There, as I expected, were the wolves, unnatural brutes, tearing away at the carcass of their ancient kinsman, and quarrelling over his limbs. “If that is what you are about, my boys, you are welcome to your sport, only let me alone,” said I to myself; and leaning back I was immediately fast asleep again. The truth is, not having had a comfortable night’s rest for some time, I was very sleepy, which will account for my apparent indifference to the near neighbourhood of such unsatisfactory gentry.

In spite of snarling, and barking, and howling, and growling, and every other variety of noise which the genus canis, whether in a tame or wild state, is capable of making, I slept on. To be sure I could not help dreaming about them; sometimes that they were running off with my ten toes, then with my fingers; then that a big fellow had got an awkward grip at my nose. The last dream, which was so particularly unpleasant, made me lift up my hand to ascertain whether that ornament of the human visage was in its proper place, when I felt several hot puffs of air blow on my cheek, and opening my eyes I beheld the glaring orbs of half a dozen wolves gazing down upon me over my barricade. Had not my dream given me warning, in another instant they would have been upon me. As it was, they seemed inclined to make a spring and to finish the drama by eating me up, which I calculated they would have done in ten minutes, when, seizing my spear, I swept it round, and as I knocked one off after the other the loud yelling they made showed the force of the blows I had, in my desperation, dealt on them.

I then got up, and scraping a portion of the fire within reach of my hands, I kept the ends of a number of sticks burning in it, and as soon as the wolves came back, which they did not fail to do, I hove one at their noses. This made them wary. They must have taken me for a Salamander or some fire-spitting monster; at all events, although some of the bolder ones every now and then came and had a look at me, licking their jaws and wishing they could eat me up, the singeing I gave their whiskers quickly drove them away, while the greater number kept at a respectful distance. At last when morning light returned, I started up, and uttering shouts and shrieks with the most hearty good-will, fired again at the foremost, and, as before, laying about me with my pole, put the remainder to an ignominious flight. I had not enjoyed a quiet night certainly, but I was much warmer than I should have been had my fire gone out.

“It’s an ill wind that blows no one good.”

“Good may be got out of everything,” I say.

So the wolves said, when they supped of their old grandsire instead of me. Having also enjoyed a warm breakfast, I shouldered my rifle and pushed on as fast as my legs could carry me to overtake my friends. I was extremely anxious to get up with them before they descended into the plains; for as I supposed that the snow would be melting there, I knew that I might have great difficulty in following their traces. I pushed on till noon, and then stopped but ten minutes to dine, or rather to rest and chew a bit of bear’s flesh. That done, on again I went as fast as before. I did not at all like the notion of having to camp out by myself, for I was so sleepy that I fancied I might be torn limb from limb by wolves or a bear without awaking; and certainly I might have been frozen to death. The evening came, the sun set, and though I was on the track of my friends, I could see nothing of them. Still I pushed on, because I might overtake them before dark; but at length the shades of night crept up the mountain’s sides, and for what I could tell I still might be many hours distant from them. I could see very little way ahead; but I had arrived at a part of the mountain-range where there were some very ugly-looking precipices on either side of the pass, and I thought it more than likely, should I push on, that I might slip down one of them, when very probably I should not be brought up till I had had a jump of a couple of thousand feet or so.

I could find no dry wood for a fire; but there were plenty of stones, and a superabundance of snow and a big overhanging rock near at hand. I, therefore, built myself a hut with the stones and snow, the big rock forming the back. There was no door nor window, seeing that such would have been more useful to an enemy than to myself; but as there was no roof the space where it should have been enabled me to get into my abode, and allowed air and such light as the stars afforded to enter also. Some men would not have taken so much trouble for a single night, but as I thought that I very probably should be eaten if I did not, I did not think the trouble thrown away.

My castle being complete, I climbed over the wall, and sat down on a stone, which I intended as my pillow, to munch a piece of bear’s flesh. I felt much better after it, and before going to sleep I bethought me that I would exercise my voice a little, and fire off my rifle to frighten away any prowling bear, who might otherwise take a fancy to inspect my fortress while I might be asleep. My voice rang loudly amidst the solemn silence of that mountain region, and the crack of my rifle echoed from rock to rock, but I heard no sound in return, and having reloaded my rifle, and sung a few songs and a hymn, I knelt down, said my prayers, and placing my head on my rough pillow, went to sleep. I had slept some time when I was awoke by hearing a noise as if some one was climbing over the walls of my tower. Grasping my rifle, which I had placed leaning against the wall nearest me, ready for instant service, I looked up and there I saw the head of a bear looking down upon me. I was on the point of firing, as was natural, when I heard a voice say—

“Hollo, stranger, you snore loudly.” I sprang to my feet.

“Why, Obed and Elihu, old boys! is it you?” I exclaimed. “And my young friend Gog!”

“I might well say, is it you, Dick?” cried Obed and his brother, almost wringing off my hand.

“We thought you were some hundred feet under the snow, with all the red-skins, the White Dogs, and Flintheads, and none of us ever expected to see you again, that we did not, let me tell you; but it won’t make us less glad to find you come to life again. How is it you are here? Tell us.”

In reply, I gave them a rapid sketch of my escape and adventures, and inquired anxiously after my friends. He told me that only two white men of our party had lost their lives, though several had been dug out of the snow, whereas, of the Indians, only old White Dog himself had escaped.

“And Magog?” I asked, “my other young bear.”

“Oh, we ate him,” answered Obed; “he was an ill-natured brute, and as he bit one of the children, and we wanted some fresh meat, father ordered him to be knocked on the head. I guessed it would come to that. Now, the moment we heard your shots and shouts, Gog was full of fidgets, till he saw us starting off to see what it was about, and then up he got and followed us like a dog. He’s a sensible little brute, that he is.”

This conversation took place while I, like a Jack in a box, stood inside my castle, and my friends outside. At last I bethought me that I should like to be on the move, if it was only the sooner to enjoy a cup of hot coffee and a pipe, luxuries I had had all day an especial longing for. They had been so eager to learn what had occurred to me, that it did not occur to them that the sooner we could get back to camp, the better for me. It was pitched, I found, in a sheltered nook, in a valley some way down the mountain, and thus their fires had been hidden from me, as well as the sound of their voices. Off we set, therefore, little Gog jumping and frisking before me as playful as a young puppy. It was a wonder he did not tumble over the precipices in the dark. I received a warm welcome and got a warm supper, and when I did once go to sleep, I believe that it would have taken a pretty heavy piece of ordnance fired over my head to awaken me.

We had now reached the extreme western edge of the Rocky Mountains, and our course was henceforth to be all down hill. We had expected to have had easy work of it, but when we stood on the edge of the cliffs and looked down the terrific precipices, the bottom of which we had by some means or other to reach, we very soon changed our minds. First we had to search for the side of the mountain with the least slope; that is to say, forming the greatest angle with the base. When found we saw that no oxen or horses could, by themselves, prevent a loaded wagon rushing down and being dashed to pieces. We therefore held a council to consider the best means to be adopted. Two plans were agreed on according to the nature of the ground. Where the descent was short and steep we unharnessed the cattle, and making one end of a rope fast to a rock or tree, we passed it through a block in the hinder part of the wagon, and thus lowered the vehicle down gradually to the next platform. The ropes were then unrove and secured to another rock or tree. It was a very slow operation, but it was the only safe one. Indeed, in some places the descent was so precipitous that we had to unload the wagons altogether, and carry each article down separately.

Two days were thus occupied; but when we looked up and saw the heights from which we had descended, and the steepness of the precipices above us, we had reason, I thought, to be thankful. We now came to a series of sheer descents, long, excessively steep slopes of half a mile or more each. They were of a more treacherous character, and required as much caution. We first cut down as many trees, with their branches on them, as we had wagons, and secured the butt-ends to the axle-trees, while the thick branchy tops trailed behind digging into the ground. We were too wise, however, to risk the whole at once. First we got one of the lighter wagons with a steady pair of horses ahead. Then we locked all the wheels, and besides that made fast some stout ropes to either side.

We remembered that: “The greater haste the worst speed.”

“Gently, so ho,” was the word. On moved the wagon. Obed and I went to the horses’ heads. It was ticklish work with all our care. Downward we slid. Often we could scarcely keep our own footing. I was very glad, I know, when we reached the bottom of the first descent. We had several more, however, to accomplish. Others, seeing our success, came following with the same caution, and succeeded as well. All but one party, a family of Irish emigrants, agreed that our plan was the only safe one. Pat Leary, however, and his sons, and sons-in-law, and wife, and daughters, and daughters-in-law, for though the eldest was not twenty, they were all married, cried out lustily against our proceedings.

“Arrah, now, why are ye afther bothering so long on the side of the mountain?” exclaimed Leary the elder. “Jist let the wagons now take an aisy slide down by themselves, they’ll raich the bottom safe enough. Don’t ye see no harm has come to any one of them yet, at all, at all?”

“For the very reason, friend Leary, because we have taken proper precautions to prevent an accident,” observed Mr Ragget, who had adopted a peculiarly sententious tone in speaking to Pat, a great contrast to the other’s rapid style of utterance.

Pat was not to be convinced. One of the longest and steepest of the descents lay before us. On one side was a precipice of some six or seven hundred feet in depth. Pat insisted on leading the way. He and his boys were certain that they could trot their horses down it. “It was all so straight and aisy.”

We entreated them to let the women and children remain behind. With a bad grace they consented, charging us to bring them on to Californy after them. On they went. The descent was tolerably gentle for some way. They looked round laughing at us, cracking their whips. However, steeper and steeper it grew, and faster and faster they went, till, dashing on at a terrific speed, they were hidden from our sight.

Chapter Seventeen.

Sad fate of the poor Learys—Grief of the mother and sisters—We go in search of the missing ones—Find them at the bottom of the ravine—The burial—Wild scene—Return to camp—Go on a sporting expedition—My battle with the hawks—Very nearly beaten—Short comes to the rescue—Consequences of indulging in a fit of romance on a journey—Go to sleep, and find that my only companion is a huge rattlesnake.

I was describing our passage down the western slopes of the Rocky Mountains, our worthy companion Pat Leary having taken it into his head that he had discovered a much more rapid way of reaching the bottom than the slow one which the rest of our party thought it prudent to pursue. As we stood on the platform immediately above the slope he had taken, we saw him dashing on at a furious speed not at all conscious of the danger he was running. As his wife and daughters, however, saw his rapid descent, they became so, and screamed out for him to stop. He was a great favourite with us all, in spite of a few eccentricities, for he was a capital fellow in the main; and had he not been so, the cries of the women would have made us anxious for his safety.

Obed and I, who were in advance of the rest of the party, could not resist the temptation of setting off to see what had become of him and to render him any assistance in our power. Leaving our wagon, therefore, in charge of two lads, we ran down the slope of the mountain as fast as our legs would carry us. On we went till we were almost done up, but the only sign of the Learys were the ruts which their wagon wheels had made in the softer spots on the mountain side; often they approached fearfully near the edge of the precipice on the left, and then apparently the animals, seeing the danger, had inclined again to the right. We were already carried much farther down the mountain than we intended, and began to repent having come, and to think of our long climb up again, when we saw, a considerable way below us, close to the precipice, some objects moving, which, on descending farther, we discovered to be human beings. They were lying on the ground and waving their hands. As we proceeded we found that the nearest was our poor friend Leary.

“Oh, help them!—save them! murther, murther, or they’ll all be dashed to pieces,” he shouted out, pointing down to the deep glen or gorge below us, through which rushed a rapid, roaring, foaming stream.

Two of his sons lay close to him almost stunned. Four had started in the wagon. Where were the other two? Where was the wagon? The marks of the cart wheels verging to the left, and the broken ground at the edge of the precipice, told us too plainly what had occurred. We looked down the fearful ravine. No attempt we could make to aid the two unfortunate young men would avail. Far, far, down amid masses of rocks at the edge of the torrent lay a confused mass, amid which we could distinguish the wheel of a wagon, and the head of one of the animals which had drawn it, but nothing moved, no sound was heard. It was our conviction that both men and beasts had been, long ere they reached the bottom, deprived of life.

We did not describe to the poor father what we had seen. He was hoping against hope that his sons had escaped. We needed no one to describe to us how the accident had occurred. The road sloped away to the left, and the animals, losing their footing, had been forced by the impetus of the wagon over the precipice, while he and his other two lads had mechanically leaped out at the moment it was about to make the fatal plunge. The two lads were stunned and so much bruised that when they came to themselves they could not walk, while Leary, though less hurt, what with grief and regret at his folly and alarm, had his nerves so completely unstrung that he lost all command over himself. To leave them in this condition was impossible, so I volunteered to climb up the mountain to hurry on some of the party with assistance; but Obed would not hear of it, and insisted on my remaining while he returned. I consented to his proposal, and having assisted me in dragging the three men to a distance from the precipice, off he started. My watch was a very painful one. Poor Leary was constantly raving, asking why his boys did not come up from below there, and crying out that he would go and look for them. I often had great difficulty in restraining him. One of his sons, too, was so severely hurt that I feared he would sink before assistance could come. The other, who was the eldest, was fully conscious of what had occurred, and groaned and cried bitterly, blaming himself and his father as being the cause of the death of his younger brothers, which was indeed too true. Many an anxious look did I cast up the mountain in the hope of seeing my companions on their descent. I expected them long before they could possibly arrive, for I had not calculated how much time it would occupy Obed in ascending, and the wagons with their wheels locked, and the trees astern in descending the mountain.

The state of my poor friends almost unnerved me, and I began to think of grizzly bears and wolves, and all sorts of monsters which might scent us out. Though I had my rifle at my back I could scarcely hope to defend myself and my companions. Still I, of course, determined to do my best. As I looked towards the glen into which the wagon had shot over, I saw high in air several huge birds rapidly winging their flight from various directions, and hovering over the spot ere they made a pounce down on it. I knew too well what they were—vultures drawn by their keen scent from afar to their dreadful banquet. They knew, whatever we might have hoped, that death was there. At last the wagons appeared, and the sound of female voices shrieking and wailing gave me notice that Obed had told the poor wives and sisters of the sufferers what had occurred. It was a most piteous scene. As soon as the wagons could be safely brought to a stop, some of the women threw themselves by the side of the sufferers, and hung over them, and kissed them, and embraced them convulsively, while the bereaved widows cried out for their husbands, and asked what had become of them.

This state of things might have continued all day had not Mr Ragget arrived and somewhat restored order. He first judiciously applied such remedies as were at hand to the sufferers, and then had them all lifted into a wagon, and on we proceeded to the bottom of the mountain. Soon after this we reached a spot whence what appeared a vast plain was seen stretching out before us, and became aware that we were near the termination of the mountain portion of our journey. Here and there we observed slight elevations, while several silvery lines meandering amid groves marked the course of what seemed small rivulets flowing towards the Pacific. We afterwards found that the slight elevations turned into considerable hills, the groves into vast forests, and the small rivulets into rapid rivers, which cost us much toil and danger to pass. We had still some way to descend before we reached a level spot, when, near the edge of the stream which rushed out of the gorge I have mentioned, we halted to encamp.

Leaving the rest to make the usual arrangements, without stopping to take food, I and three of the Raggets, with Leary’s sons-in-law, and one or two others, set off up the gorge to try and find the spot where the wagon and the bodies of our late companions lay. I should say that as we descended the mountain we had looked out for any practicable place by which we might reach the bottom of the gorge, but none could we discover. We had, of course, our rifles at our backs and our axes in our belts, and either crowbars or poles in our hands. The ground was rugged in the extreme. Sometimes we had to climb the sides of the precipices, now to wade along the edge of the stream, running a great risk of being carried off by the current. Sometimes we came to marshy spots, into which we sank nearly up to our middle; then we worked our way onward under trees, swinging ourselves from bough to bough, but the greater part of the way we had to climb over huge boulders with crevices between them, into which it would have been destruction to slip. We had all climbed to the top of one huge rock, expecting that we should see from it the spot at which we were aiming, when, on looking down the opposite side, we found that there was at the bottom a watercourse with a fall of nearly twenty feet into it, while nothing could we see of the broken wagon. We had, therefore, to slip down the way we had come up, and to progress as before. It was weary, fatiguing work. Still we persevered; for there was, of course, a possibility that the poor young Learys might be alive, though of this we had very little hope.

We had been deceived as to the distance, and we judged that we must already have travelled a league, or three miles. Obed suggested that we might have passed the spot, but this I did not think possible. Our course, as I mentioned, lay along the side of the torrent; but frequently we lost sight of it, though we did not cease to hear its loud roar, as the foaming waters rushed over its rocky bed. I calculated, as I looked at it, what a mighty torrent would be shortly hurrying onward, when the snows above melted by the heat of the approaching summer. At length, climbing another rock, we saw not fifty yards from us the sad spectacle of which we were in search, the fragments of the wagon and the dead horses. We hurried on and soon reached the spot. Already over the horses were hovering eight or ten huge vultures, flapping their wings as they alighted, while with unearthly cries they tore away the flesh with their sharp talons and hooked beaks. They seemed inclined to dispute their prey with us; but on Obed and I firing we killed two of them, and the rest flew off; but we could see them hovering in the distance, ready to pounce down again as soon as we had retired.

We instantly set to work with our crowbars and poles to turn over the broken wagon. The sight which met our eyes was sad indeed. There lay the two young men, fearfully crushed and mangled, directly under the wagon. They must have clung to it as it descended, or have been entangled among the goods in it. They must instantly have been killed. We had wished to carry the bodies back to the camp, but in consequence of the impracticable character of the road we had come over this was impossible. We hunted about till at last we discovered a sort of basin among the rocks, into which the earth from above had washed. Here we dug two graves as deep as time would allow, and with scant ceremony, though not without a tear, we placed in them the two brothers. We knew that prayers for them were of no avail; they had gone to their account; but we did pray that we might not thus be hurriedly snatched away without a warning. There were plenty of slabs of stone on the side of the mountain chipped off by winter frosts and summer heats and rains, and so we placed one at the head of each grave, and then we left them to sleep on undisturbed. Probably many ages may roll by before that spot is again visited by human footsteps. So engaged had we been in our painful employment that we did not perceive how rapidly daylight was decreasing, and before we had proceeded half-a-mile on our return journey we came to the disagreeable conclusion that we should be benighted before we could possibly reach the camp. Still we of course pushed on as long as we could see our way. As we had had no food since the morning, we were desperately hungry; but as Obed observed, “I guess we’ve plenty of water, mates, and maybe we shall kill a rattlesnake, and that won’t be bad eating.”

The cold we did not much mind, though somewhat icy blasts came down the glen, for we were pretty well inured to that; but as we had had nothing since the morning, our stomachs craved lustily for food, and I would have tried my teeth on the flesh of a gaunt wolf, or even on one of the vultures we had killed, if we could have got at them. We found our way in among a circle of boulders, and there we passed the night, and a most unpleasant one it was. At the earliest dawn we were on foot, but it took us nearly two hours to reach the camp. I will not describe the lamentations of the Leary family when we gave them an account of our proceedings—the shrieks and wailing which the poor women commenced and continued for the greater part of the next twenty-four hours. As there was plenty of wood, water, and grass for the cattle, we determined to remain there a day to prepare for our journey along the level country. To avoid the lamentations of the unhappy wives, as soon as I had performed the part of the work allotted to me for the general good, I stole from the camp to enjoy some portion of quiet. When the sun got up, as the wind was from the west, the heat became very great, and I did not feel inclined to move very fast.

Soon after leaving the camp, I observed several hawks hovering round a spot in the wood, the abode probably of some rabbits, hares, or other small game. By cautiously creeping on, I got within shot of one of them. I fired, and down tumbled the monster bird. He was a huge creature, with a large hooked beak and immense claws, who, if he could not have carried off a lamb or a goose, would have had no trouble in flying away with a duck, or a fowl, or a rabbit. I observed where the others went to, and followed them till I reached a tolerably accessible cliff, at the top of which a whole colony seemed to reside; big and little, sires and offspring, were circling round, and making themselves quite at home. Having a fancy to examine the nature of their habitations, I looked about me to see how I could get up the cliff, and with my pole alone in hand commenced the ascent. This, from the nature of the ground, was not very difficult; and I had got within a dozen feet or so from their nests, and was standing on a broad ledge, looking up to ascertain how I could best ascend higher, when they espied me, or, as they had been all along watching me, they probably came to the conclusion that it was time to put a stop to my further proceedings. I had just discovered their nest, which was as large as the baskets market women carry on their heads. It was composed of twigs and small sticks, none less than an inch in circumference. On the ledge below it were scattered numerous bones, and the skeletons and half-mangled bodies of pigeons, hares, and a variety of small birds. Without much consideration, I constituted myself the champion of the smaller denizens of the wood, and, axe in hand, was ascending to knock the robber stronghold to pieces, when old and young, with fierce cries, made a desperate sortie to drive off the assailant of their castle. Down they came upon me with the most desperate fury, dashing at my head and face, and evidently aiming at my eyes. I struck right and left with my axe, but it is a bad weapon for defence, and they laughed at all my efforts, only wheeling round to renew the attack.

Ten times rather would I have had a combat with a dozen wolves, or a hungry grizzly. I should instantly have had both my eyes torn from their sockets, had I not kept my left arm like a shield before them; and as it was, my forehead got some ugly blows which almost drove in the bone, while the blood flowing from the wounds nearly blinded me. Never have I felt so unmanned,—so terribly alarmed. It was like being attacked by a host of demons. I could not seek safety in flight, for I should have broken my neck, as I dared not for a moment move my left arm from before my face, while my right was fully occupied in dealing blows on every side at my fierce enemies. I shrieked out at the top of my voice with downright terror, but I was too far from the camp, I fancied, to have any hope of being heard. Even my right arm began to get weary with striking at the empty air, and at the same time the boldness of my assailants increased. They attacked me in rear as well as in front, darting against my neck and the back of my ears; and so terribly did they beat me that I began fully to believe that I should be done to death by birds. Still, had it not been for the dread of losing my eyes, I could easily have escaped.

At last, one big fellow, the father of the brood, pounced down and hit me on the temple within an inch of my right eye.

Just then, when almost in despair, I heard the voice of Sam Short shouting out, “Throw yourself on the ground, Dick; face downward, Dick.”

I did as he counselled, and the next moment a shot from his rifle brought down my chief foe, who fell close to me. Still he was not dead, and with the fury of despair, flapping his way up to me, he began to make such determined attacks on my head, that I feared he would have bitten off my ear before I was able to disengage my right hand, with which I then gave him a blow on his head, which made him quiet for ever. Still the rest of the amiable family kept circling above me, giving me most disagreeable prongs, till another shot from Short’s rifle killed two more, and the rest, discovering that I had an ally in the field, took to flight. He then came up, and having destroyed the nest, helped me down the cliff, for I really could scarcely have descended by myself, so completely shaken were my nerves with the novel contest in which I had engaged. I begged Sam not to mention in camp what had occurred, but he kept my counsel very badly, for he could not resist asking when I would like to go birds’-nesting again, and made so many other allusions that I thought it was best to tell the story, and got heartily laughed at for my pains. I, however, have always felt that it was no laughing matter, and that I was never in greater peril than on that occasion.

We next day proceeded on our journey, and for ten days or so made but slow progress, as we had numerous rivers to pass, and the change of climate from the cold of the mountains to the heat of the plains was very trying to man and beast. We now took to encamping during the middle of the day, and travelling very early and late. In that way our animals got two unbroken rests instead of one, which was a great advantage.

One day, after a long morning’s journey, we had camped near a stream bordered by rich pastures of red and white clover. As I have hinted, although I was on the most friendly terms with all my companions, I now and then had a longing to be by myself, to commune with my own thoughts, and to call to mind friends whose ideas and manners were so different from those of my present associates. As I frequently did, therefore, I left the camp, and wandered on up the stream till I came to a little grove of sumach and cherry trees, under whose shade I sat down to enjoy the cool air, and to watch the clear water which flowed bubbling by. The sweet-scented flowers of spring were bursting out from many a bush, and encumbering the ground around me. Their balmy odours filled my nostrils, the fresh air played round my brow, and the murmur of the stream sounded in my ears, till my pleased senses became completely overcome by the surrounding soporific influences, and wandered far away amid the regions of dreamland: in other words, I went fast asleep. At last I awoke, and rubbed and rubbed my eyes; I had good reason for rubbing them, for the beautiful landscape on which they had closed was no longer before them. There was the murmur of the stream, and the scent of the flowers, but obscurity was around me, and the stars were glittering brightly overhead. How far in the night it was I could not guess. How to follow my companions too, was a question, as it was so dark that I could not have found my way to the camp, even if they had been there. The only cause I could then assign for my having slept so long, was that I must have been surrounded by some herbs of soporific power, though, perhaps, the perfect tranquillity of the spot, the heat of the weather, and the exertion I had of late gone through were sufficient reasons for the unusual length of my nap. Having no hopes of overtaking my friends that night, I judged that the best thing I could do was to stay where I was and go to sleep again. This was, however, not very easy to do. I was lightly clad, and the night damp had made me feel very chilly. It was not, therefore, till morning that sleep again overpowered me. It would have been better for me had I kept awake. Suddenly I opened my eyes with a start. The sun had already risen, and was glancing through the woods on my head. I heard a noise—a rustling in the grass. I turned my head, and there, to my horror, I beheld a huge rattlesnake about to spring on me.

Chapter Eighteen.

A fight with a rattlesnake, and a description of my enemy—Find the camp deserted—Feel very hungry—Kill a goose—See some horsemen in the distance—Find a river between me and them—Build a raft, and take a longer voyage than I intend—Shoot a fall, and have the pleasant prospect of being carried down a cataract.

I sprang up as if I had been galvanised, and leaped a dozen feet or more away from the fangs of the rattlesnake. I had left my pole at the camp, and I had placed my rifle by my side when I went to sleep. There it lay close to the rattlesnake. My axe was in my belt, but it is not a good weapon for the attack of either birds or snakes. My enemy was advancing towards me, his tail rattling ominously. My foot, as I leaped back, struck a stone—the only one appearing thereabouts among the grass. I seized it, and dashed it down on the head of the reptile, who was not then a yard from me, with such force that it drove its body right down into the earth, while its tail wriggled and rattled away in a vain endeavour to extricate itself. I ran and picked up my rifle, and looked round to see that I had left nothing behind me. I could not help stopping, before I proceeded on my way, to examine the creature I had killed.

It was of a yellowish-brown colour, marked all down its back with spots of a dark-brown, while from the head down the neck ran three longitudinal lines of the same hue. The head was large and flat, and covered with small scales. It was about five feet long, and as thick as my wrist, and altogether a very formidable-looking snake. The rattlesnake has a small set of teeth, which serve to catch and retain its prey, and the poisonous fangs with which it kills them. These latter are placed in the upper jaw, and when not employed remain flat along it. It is one of the most deadly of poisonous serpents, and would be very dangerous were it not that it is very sluggish in its movements, and that it has a rattle at the end of its tail, with which it cannot avoid giving notice of its approach. The rattle is a collection of bones, formed something like the backbone of a human being. It looks as if it were fastened on outside the tail, at its very tip. The broad part of the rattle is placed perpendicularly to the body, and it is so contrived that each bone strikes against two others at the same time, so as to multiply the rattling sound. I have often thought how glad the rattlesnake would be to get rid of his rattle, just as a person with a bad character, justly obtained, would like to have the stigma removed, that he might commit more mischief on the unwary.

The more I have travelled, and the longer I have lived, the greater reason I have to admire the wonderful and beautiful arrangements of the Creator of all things. Why venomous serpents were formed I cannot say, though I am very certain it was for a good object; but it is very evident why the snake I have been describing was furnished with a rattle—that man might be warned of its approach. My examination of the snake did not last long. I afterwards saw and killed many others. Quitting the spot, I hurried towards the camp. When I thought that I had gone a sufficient distance I expected to hear the voices of my associates; but all was silent. I pushed on as fast as I could among the trees. The camp had been placed in a pleasant open glade. I was certain that I had reached the spot. I looked round on every side. No one was there; but there were the black patches where the fires had been, and a few bones, and straw scattered about, and other signs of a deserted encampment. From the character of the ground the trail was very indistinct. Still I thought that I could follow it, and off I set as fast as I could walk. I had not gone far before I became aware that I had lost the track. I looked about in every direction in vain. I could not find it. I was getting very hungry. At last I could go on no longer; so I bethought me that I would kill some bird or beast for breakfast. On examining, however, my powder-flask, what was my dismay to find that I had only five or six charges at the utmost. At that early time of the year there were no berries or wild fruits ripe. Later I might have found wild cherries in abundance, and raspberries, and strawberries, on which I could have supported nature.

“I must take care not to throw a shot away,” I said to myself, as I looked about in search of game. Just then I saw the glimmer of water through the trees, and walking on, I found myself by the side of a beautiful lake, a mile or more long, and half a mile wide. I was not certainly in a humour to contemplate its beauty, but I was very much in the mood to admire some flocks of geese and ducks which were disporting themselves on its surface, in happy ignorance of the presence of man. I almost trembled with anxiety as I crept along the margin of the lake, till I could get near enough to obtain a shot at one of them. A duck would have satisfied me, but as a goose, being larger, would last longer, I waited till one came near. A stately fellow came gliding up, picking insects off the reeds close to the margin. I fired. He rose and fluttered his wings awhile, and then down he flopped close to me. I sprang forward like a famished wolf, and very nearly toppled heels over head into the water, when, had I escaped drowning, I should, at all events, have spoiled the remainder of my powder in my eagerness to grasp my prey. At first he fluttered away from the land, but something turned him, and he came back so close that I caught hold of a wing, and, hauling him on shore, very soon put an end to his sufferings. To collect sticks, light a fire, pluck, and clean out my bird, was the work of a few minutes. I cannot say that the first part I ate of him was very much done, for I tore off a wing and then put the body back to get more roasted while I satisfied the more violent cravings of hunger. I washed down my breakfast with a draught of water from the lake, and then hurried on again towards the west.

Before, when I had lost my friends, I dreaded suffering from cold, now I had to fear the heat. The sun came down with terrific force on my head, and seemed, at times, as if it would scorch my brain to a cinder. At last I felt that if I went on longer I might be struck down by it, so I threw myself on the ground under the shade of a wide-spreading cedar, in a little wood, which contained besides cedars, pine trees, birch, wild cherries, hawthorn, sweet willow, with honeysuckle and sumach. I slept an hour or more, and, having eaten some more goose, continued my journey. Though I kept my eyes actively engaged on every side I could discover no trace of my friends.

It was evening, when, as I was travelling along the banks of a river towards the west, I saw on the opposite side, and on the summit of a rocky ridge, which extended at a distance for some miles parallel with it, two horsemen. From the way they rode along I had no doubt that they were my friends the Raggets in search of me. Had they been going east I might have had hopes of cutting them off on their return; but they were moving west, and going from me. I shouted at the top of my voice, though at that distance they could not possibly hear me. I took off my jacket; I waved it frantically. I was about to plunge into the river to swim across, but the current was very strong and rapid, swelled by the melting snows of the mountains. I had good reason to dread being carried away should I make the attempt. I ran on, hoping to find a ford or some high spot whence my signals might be more easily seen. No elevated ground appeared, but the banks were very uneven, sometimes rocky, in some places overgrown with brushwood, so that my progress was very slow, and the horsemen disappeared in the distance.

It soon after this grew dark, and this circumstance made me hope that should the horsemen I had seen have been the Raggets, the camp could not be very far-off; but then again I had sufficient experience to teach me that it would be vain to attempt reaching it in the dark. I had now to look about for a place in which to pass the night. I wished to avoid the vicinity of rattlesnakes as well as of bears and wolves. I selected a dry bank near the river, and set to work to collect a quantity of long grass which grew about, not only to form a mattress, but to protect me from the cold and the dew of the night. The thick grass cut my hands sadly as I plucked it, and laughed at the efforts of my axe to cut it down. At length, however, I managed to cut and pluck enough for my purpose, and piling it in an oblong heap, I burrowed under it longways, keeping a bundle in my hands to serve as a pillow. I was surprised to find how warm and comfortable I felt.

I was congratulating myself on this, and was just dozing off into sleep, when I was roused up again by the dreadful sound of the rattlesnake’s tail. I started up to listen from which side the serpent was approaching; for had I moved I might have run directly on it. A horror seized me. It appeared as if I was surrounded by the creatures. On every side of me there was the same noise. I began to fancy that I was dreaming. I had never heard of so many rattlesnakes being found together. Still I was sure that I was awake. There was the noise again. It was quite close to me. I put out my hand and caught a grasshopper, or rather a sort of locust. The sound of their wings resembles very much that made by the rattlesnake when about to dart on its prey. I was sure that was the noise I had heard. “There may be thousands of them for what I care; they can’t eat or sting me,” I said to myself; and then I went fast asleep.

I awoke very much refreshed, but so strongly had the thought of rattlesnakes been impressed on my mind, that my first impulse on waking was to look cautiously round to ascertain that none were near. Finding that, as far as I could see, the coast was clear, I jumped up and shook myself, then bathed my face in the river; and having said my prayers, which I never failed to do, and returned thanks to Him who had hitherto so mercifully preserved me, continued on my journey.

I was now anxious to get to the other bank of the river, which I was convinced my companions had crossed by some ford higher up, and which I had missed. In vain, however, I searched for one; the river, as I advanced, grew wider and more rapid, as more streams poured into it; and at length I came to the conclusion that I must either go back again till I had found the ford, or swim the river and ferry over my gun and powder-horn, or construct a raft, and attempt the passage on it myself. While I was balancing in my mind which I should do, my eye fell on a patch of withies or osiers, growing in a shallow bend of the river close to the bank. This decided me. I would make a raft, for the withies would enable me to fasten it together. I set to work, and cut down with my faithful axe a number of young trees, selecting firs and those of the lighter description of wood. That reminds me, that I would advise every traveller in wild countries to carry an axe, and to know how to use it. It is a weapon which to use properly, requires both care and practice.

In my search for fit trees I came upon several dry logs, which, from being so much lighter than the green trees, were very valuable. Having collected my materials, I commenced the construction of the raft, and finished it in half an hour, very much to my satisfaction. I built it partly in the water, so that I might have less difficulty in launching it. I had to prepare a very essential implement to enable me to perform my voyage, namely, a long pole with which to shove the raft along. I had cut down a tall sapling, and cleared it of its boughs, when I heard a rushing noise louder than that hitherto produced by the current.

I ran towards the river, dragging my pole, when, as I got near it, I saw that a fresh body of water, caused by the rapid melting of the snow, or by the giving way of some natural dam higher up the stream, was rushing down the channel, and raising its waters considerably above their usual level. I was just in time to see my raft, which I had constructed with so much labour, and which I had left safely resting on the shore, slowly gliding away from it. I could not bear the idea of losing it, and, without a moment’s consideration, I made a rush into the water, caught hold of it just as I found myself up to my middle, and with a spring threw myself flat upon it, still, however, keeping hold of my pole. The shove I of necessity gave the raft sent it further from the shore, and by the time I gained my feet, and was in a position to attempt guiding the raft, I found that it had got completely out into the impetuous current, and was being rapidly hurried down it. I tried to reach the bottom with my pole, and though I succeeded, I could in no way stem the current. I should have been wiser had I tried to get back to the shore I had left; instead of this, by following up my first purpose of crossing, I quickly got into a stronger part of the current, and was sent whirling more quickly downward. Holding my pole, I balanced myself as well as I could, prepared for any emergency. The river was four or five hundred yards wide at least, and I saw that I could not hope on this part to reach the opposite or northern shore. The river seemed free from rocks, and as there was no particular danger that I saw to be apprehended, it occurred to me that I was prosecuting my journey in a far more expeditious and pleasant way than I had expected.

I was congratulating myself on this circumstance, when I became suddenly conscious that the noise of the rushing water had greatly increased. Looking ahead down the river, the water seemed to bubble and foam more than where I was, while a cloud of mist hung over the spot. The dreadful conviction forced itself on me that I was approaching a rapid, or perhaps a waterfall, down which I should be whirled hopelessly, and dashed to pieces. Again I plunged my pole to the bottom, but it only made the raft whirl round—I had no power of guiding it. On it went. The raft began to tumble and pitch; it was in a rapid of considerable length. The additional rush of water hid many of the rocks; now and then, however, I saw their black tops rising out of the mass of foam which surrounded them. I prayed that I might not strike one. I looked anxiously ahead with compressed lips. The water roared, and foamed, and hissed about me. I might have been proud of my raft-making skill; had not my ark been well built it would soon have gone to pieces.

Before long my fears were with reason increased. Before me rose a line of black rocks. There seemed scarcely room for the raft to pass between them. I could no longer keep my feet. I sat down, holding my pole. The raft was driving directly down upon a rock. It swerved a little. I shoved my pole against the rock, and it glanced clear. On it went—but numerous other dangers appeared. I was whirled by the rocks, the foam dashed from them, flying over me. I felt a dreadful blow; the raft quivered. I thought all was over with me, but it floated clear of the rock against which it had struck, and on I went. Suddenly the jerking motion of the raft ceased. I was clear of the rapid. I tried again to pole towards the shore, but the water was so deep, and the current so rapid, that I was able to make but slight progress across the river, when the raft began to pitch again, and I found that I was in another rapid. Away I was whirled as before. There were more rocks in this rapid; at all events the raft drove against more, and it began to suffer from the repeated shocks it was receiving—parts of it got loosened, and I dreaded every moment to see it part asunder, and to find myself hurried amid its fragments to destruction. Again a space of smooth appeared, but it was smooth because it was deep, and I could make but little way towards the shore among its whirling eddies. Still for the present I was safe, and had time to look about me. Thus I floated on, when a loud thundering noise assailed my ears, and a mass of mist rose before my eyes, giving evidence indubitable that I was approaching a formidable cataract. I had seen Niagara. Should this be only half its height it would be sufficient to make mincemeat of me. In vain I looked around for aid, and clinging desperately to my raft, I resigned myself to my fate.

Chapter Nineteen.

Unexpectedly reach the bank, and land in safety—My clothes are in tatters—After making a long journey find that I have returned to the very spot I left—Encounter a hungry wolf—Suffer from want of water—Meet a lynx, but find no liquid—Go to bed among some nests of rattlesnakes—Slaughter a host of snakes and sip the dew of the morning—More rattlesnakes—My onward journey continued—My cry is still for water—Obtain a larger share than I require—I swim down the stream, and on landing am received by a huge grizzly.

There was only one way I conceived by which, humanly speaking, I could possibly have been saved. I was whirled furiously down the current. I saw, a short distance before me, the commencement of the rapid which led to the cataract, when I felt the raft turn slightly round, and half stop, as it were, and by the appearance of the water I was convinced that it had got into an eddy. I darted down my pole. It speedily struck the bottom. I shoved on with all my might. New energy returned to me. I sprang to my feet. The raft no longer advanced towards the rapid, but I found that I could urge it surely and steadily towards the shore. A shout of joy, and an exclamation of thankfulness escaped my lips as it reached the bank, and, by the aid of my pole, I leaped on to the dry land a dozen feet at least from the edge. I was preserved from immediate death. But where had I drifted to? Where were my friends? What prospect had I of obtaining food to sustain life till I could find them? All these were questions which I asked myself, but to which I could give no satisfactory answer. Scarcely had I reached the shore than my raft, which I had not secured to it, began to drift away. Onward it went down the stream. I could not recover it; so a very natural impulse made me follow its course along the banks. I ran on for two or three hundred yards, when I arrived at the edge of a roaring cataract, some forty feet deep at least. First, there was a foaming rapid, with here and there black rocks appearing amid the sea of froth, and then came a dark treacherous mass of water, which curled over and fell downwards in a broad curtain into a deep pool, out of which there arose a cloud of dense spray with a deafening roar; and then the river went gliding away, dark and smooth, in innumerable eddies, showing the rapidity of the current, till it was concealed by thick woods and rocks. I now felt more than ever how deeply grateful I ought to be for the way I had been preserved, for not an instant longer could I have existed had I once reached the edge of the cataract.

I had, however, no time to lose, so shouldering my rifle and pole, I struck off at a right angle from the course of the river, hoping thus to across the track of my late companions. I had, it must be remembered, but two charges of powder remaining, and as at that season of the year there were no fruits ripe, my existence depended on my making an economical use of them.

I had another source of anxiety. I had left the camp in a pair of thin old shoes, and they were now so worn-out and coming so completely to pieces, that they no longer afforded any protection to my feet, which were already cruelly cut. My only resource, therefore, was to tear off the sleeves of my jacket, with which I bound them up. This afforded me some relief; but the ground near the river was in many places rocky, so that these bandages quickly again wore out. The sky, too, became cloudy, and the wind changed constantly, so that when I got into a hollow where I could not see any distant object by which to guide my course, I was often uncertain in which direction I was going. I found also, after I left the river, a great scarcity of water; the heat had dried-up all the water-holes and rivulets, and I thus began to suffer much from thirst. The pangs increased as I walked on. I might have killed a bird, or some animal, and quenched my thirst with their blood; but as I might require their flesh for food, I did not wish to expend a charge of powder till my present stock of meat was expended. It was getting dark. I was more thirsty than hungry; so on I went in the hopes of reaching a spring before it was quite dark. I looked about me. After a time, I could not help fancying that the features of the country were very similar to those through which I had passed some hours before, and at length the disagreeable fact forced itself on me that I had returned back on my own track, and that all my late exertions had been completely thrown away. For an instant I felt very much inclined to despair of reaching my friends, but I quickly recovered myself, and the clouds clearing away in the west, the glow of the setting sun showed me the right direction to take. I therefore determined to push on as long as the least glimmer of light enabled me to find my way.

I had not gone far, however, when I heard a rustling noise in a copse close to which I was passing, and presently out of it stalked a huge gaunt wolf, and planted himself before me in a threatening attitude, some twenty paces in advance, as if he had resolved to dispute my onward progress. My first impulse was naturally to fire, but I recollected that if I did, I might not possibly kill him, as I had only small shot, and that though I did kill him, his flesh would be far from pleasant food. I knew that if I showed the slightest symptoms of fear he might fly at me, so I faced him boldly, as I had faced many of his brethren before, and tried to look somewhat braver than I felt. I waved my long pole towards him, and advanced a pace or two, on which he retreated, still keeping his piercing eye fixed savagely on me. Again I advanced, and began shouting as loud as I could, hoping thus to frighten him away, but instead of this he set up the most terrific howls, which I could not help interpreting as invitations to his comrades to assemble from far and near, in order to make a meal on my carcase. The more he howled the louder I shouted, and the odd idea occurring to me that if I shouted out real names the wolf would be more alarmed, I called by name on all the Raggets, and Short, and Noggin to come to my assistance, and looked round, pretending that I expected them to appear. The wolf, I thought, winked his wicked eye, as much as to say, “That’s all gammon; don’t suppose you can do an old soldier like me;” but I cannot say positively, as it was growing dark. Still he would not move, and I had no wish to get nearer his fangs. I continued shouting, and he went on howling, and a sweet concert we must have made, for I had bawled till I was hoarse. I have an idea that my shouts kept his friends away. Perhaps it prevented them from hearing what he was saying.

At length, much to my relief, I saw him turn his head, first on one side and then on the other, and then about he went, as if he had given up all hopes of his expected supper, and away he skulked into the wood. On seeing this my courage rose to the highest pitch, and after him I went, shaking my pole and shouting and shrieking and hallooing at the very top of my voice to expedite his movements; and it is my belief that he was so frightened that he did not stop again to look round till he had got many a mile from where he met me; though I own that, when we first set eyes on each other, I was much the more frightened of the two.

The shades of evening were now approaching, and I was anxious to find a place in which I could spend the night in tolerable safety. Scarcely, however, had the wolf disappeared, than an old lynx, followed by a young one, trotted up close to me. I got my rifle ready, but rather than fire I began shouting and shrieking as before, and they continued their course without molesting me. My great wish was now to find water. A draught of the pure liquid would have appeared like the richest nectar. Hurrying on, I saw a green spot with some rushes growing near.

“There must be water,” I exclaimed, rushing on with eager haste, like the pilgrim in the desert, towards the longed-for oasis, even fancying that I saw the shining surface through the trees. I reached the spot; I looked about; there were the rushes sure enough, and there had been the water, but it was dried-up. Oh, how thirsty I felt! I thought I might find some moisture at the roots of the rushes. I pulled them up and sucked eagerly at them, but they afforded no moisture to my parched lips. I had no resource, therefore, but to go liquidless to bed. It was rapidly getting dark, so I had no time to lose. I saw a large stone at a little distance, and thinking that it would afford me some protection if I slept beside it, I began to pull up some rushes with which to form my bed. Having collected as many as I could carry, I took them to the spot and threw them on the ground. I went back for more, and having scattered them about and piled up a few for a pillow, was about to throw myself on this quickly-formed couch when I saw, just under the stone, what I at first took for a stick, but which then beginning to move, exhibited itself to me as a monstrous rattlesnake, with its body coiled up and its head erect, its fierce eyes glittering, and its forked tongue moving rapidly to and fro as if eager to bite me. I had disturbed it from its slumbers, and it was naturally excessively angry. I did not stop to let it bite me, but sprang back several feet before I recovered my usual coolness. I felt sadly conscious that I was not like myself, and that my nervous system was very much upset. Regaining my self-possession pretty quickly, however, I once more advanced, and settled the creature with a blow of my stick.

The strokes I gave the ground soon roused up several other rattlesnakes, and I found that a whole brood were collected under the stone. As they are slow-moving creatures, I was able to kill every one of them before they could escape. They would have been somewhat unpleasant companions to me during my nocturnal slumbers. Scarcely had I despatched my rattle-tailed enemies than, turning over with my foot some smaller stones near the big one, out wriggled a number of other snakes, black, brown, and yellow, twisting and turning amid the grass, many making directly towards me. To be surrounded, even in daylight, by such creatures would have been especially unpleasant, but in the dusk, when I could scarcely see them, the sensations I experienced were scarcely bearable. I felt inclined to shriek out at the top of my voice, but I restrained myself, and began slashing away right and left with my stick. Some I killed, but the others being more nimble than the rattlesnakes, escaped. Still I could not venture to proceed in the dark, nor could I stay on my legs all night; but I had no fancy to sleep near where I had killed the snakes. I looked about, therefore, for another suitable spot, and having selected it, I lashed about in every direction with my stick, so that any lurking serpent must of necessity be killed or put to flight. Then I collected more rushes, and taking a suck at a piece of dry duck for my supper, threw myself at my length on them and tried to go to sleep. It was no easy matter to do this, as I could not help remembering that I was surrounded by venomous creatures and wild beasts of all sorts, who might find me out during my slumbers and rouse me up in a very unpleasant way.

At last, however, I closed my eyes, and so tightly did they remain sealed that the sun had arisen before I awoke. I started up and looked around me. Neither venomous serpents nor wild beasts were near, but the bodies of the snakes I had killed lying about showed me the reality of what had occurred. I started to my feet, and a few shakes completed my toilet. I had hoped to awake before daylight, that I might have time to collect the dew from the branches of the trees and from the long grass, that I might at least moisten my lips. I felt as if all the liquid would be dried-up before it got down my throat. But, alas! when I looked round, so hot was the sun, and so dry the atmosphere, that scarcely a drop could I find, even in the shade, sufficient to wet my tongue. I however plucked some cool grass and chewed it, and then continued on my journey. I was now able to proceed with more certainty than on the previous day.

As I walked on, my glance was turned on every side for the sort of vegetation which might indicate the vicinity of water. Every height I came near I ascended, that I might enjoy a wider range of vision. I was all this time suffering dreadfully from my feet. Sometimes I passed over a wide extent of ground covered with small sharp stones, which speedily wore out all the bandages which I had fastened round my feet. That was bad enough; but soon afterwards I came to a tract overgrown with stunted prickly pears, or cacti as they are called. It was very much as if the ground were planted thickly with short swords, daggers, dirks, and penknives. Walk as carefully as I could, my feet and legs were constantly striking against them, and from my shins to the soles of my feet I was covered with wounds and blood. My jacket was soon used up, and I then had to begin on the lower part of the legs of my trousers, off which I tore shreds as I required them. At last I sat down on a stone to apply fresh bandages to my feet, and what with the heat, and thirst, and hunger, and weakness, and sickness, and pain, and anxiety, I felt more inclined to cry than I had ever in my life before; but I did not cry. I was too much dried-up for that, I suppose. My next impulse was to throw myself down on the ground and give up the struggle.

However, I did not remain long in that mood. It is the worst mood to encourage. I had always belonged to the “try” school. “No, I will not give in,” I exclaimed suddenly; “I will trust to Providence to carry me out of my difficulties.” Still I was so weak and I felt so helpless that I sat and sat on till I was about to fall into a sort of lethargy, from which I might have had no power to arouse myself. Suddenly, however, my ears caught the well-known and justly-dreaded sound of the rattlesnake’s rattle. I sprang up all alive in a moment, and saw the creature half a dozen paces from me, approaching through the grass. A blow with my long stick, however, soon stopped his rattle, and remembering how much time I had lost, I hurried on. I bethought me as I did so, that I had offered but an ungrateful return to the poor snake for the service he had rendered me, for had it not been for him I might never have stirred from the stone on which I was sitting till I had fallen off into the arms of death.

I now walked on more rapidly than before, and in about an hour saw before me a more thickly-wooded country than I had yet passed. I pressed forward towards it. I should find shade, and perhaps—what I so earnestly wished for—water. The wood was extensive, and looked gloomy enough when I first entered it, though I felt the shade most grateful after the glare of the open prairies. The sun, also, found its way sufficiently through the foliage, only now bursting forth, to enable me to steer my course as before. I have described the silence of the snow mountains. I might now speak of the language of the woods. I sat down to adjust my feet coverings, and when my feet ceased to tread on the grass and dead leaves, I became conscious that I was surrounded by a low rustling noise. At first I thought that the sound was caused by the wind among the dry leaves, but I was soon convinced that it was made by the young buds breaking forth from the cases which had shielded them during the cold of early spring—that I literally heard the trees growing!

I did not rest long, for I was afraid of falling into my former state. On I limped—unable to help uttering every now and then complaining “Oh!” as my foot trod on a thorn or knocked against a stone. I grew faint and more faint— “Water! water! water!” I ejaculated. How dreadful is thirst! “I cannot stand it longer,” I cried out; but I felt it would be suicide to stop as long as I could move, and the next instant a low, murmuring, rushing sound reached my ears. I thought it was fancy, but still I dragged on as fast as I could my weary steps. The noise increased—it was that of a waterfall—I was certain of it. I tried to hurry on my feet, and scarcely felt the pricks and cuts they were receiving. I caught sight of the glittering spray through an opening in the woods. I fancied that I felt the coolness of the air passing over it. On I went. There was the water rushing, gurgling, foaming away; but as I sprang on, forgetting my weakness, I found myself on the top of a rock, over which I very nearly toppled into the sought-for stream, twenty feet or more below me.

I looked about for a path to lead me down to it. I saw, a little way higher up the stream, a part of the bank less steep than the rest. I ran towards it. I slid down; but what was my dismay to find that I could not stop myself, and into the water I plunged, with my rifle and powder-flask at my back! I had now more of the element I had been so eagerly desiring than was pleasant. My feet, however, touched the bottom, and stooping down, I let the water run into my mouth and wash my dried-up face. Oh, how delicious it was! It revived me and restored my strength; and then I began to consider how I was again to get out of the stream. The current was so strong that I dare not let go the bank, lest I should be carried off my feet. I could not hope to climb up that down which I had come, and those on each side were still steeper. The matter was soon settled for me, for suddenly I felt myself taken off my feet, and down the stream I drifted. I kept as close to the bank as I could, grasping at the rocks as I passed, and endeavouring to climb up by them out of the water. My anxiety was to ascertain whether or not I was above the waterfall. If above it, I might be carried down, and fall into the very danger I had before escaped. I tried to make out by the sound, but could not tell, nor could I see the spray which I had before observed. Still I hoped that I was below it. On I went, drifting down the stream just as I have seen a dog carried along a river when he is trying to climb up on a steep bank. Some bushes appeared. I caught at them—several broke in my grasp. I caught eagerly at others. My strength was failing me. At length I seized one which held. Close to it I saw that there was a resting-place for my feet. I was about to draw myself out of the water when, on looking up, what should I see on the top of the bank but a huge bear gazing intently down on me, and licking his jaws as if in contemplation of a pleasant repast.

Chapter Twenty.

I look at the bear, and the bear looks at me—I climb up and he tries to catch me, but I dodge him and escape—Proceed on—Find a hollow fallen tree, and make my bed in the interior—Pleasant sleep unpleasantly disturbed—My friend the grizzly again—I escape up a tree, and Bruin occupies my bed—We try each other’s patience—I watch for an opportunity of escaping, and he watches to catch me.

The bear looked very fierce; but I felt desperately desperate, and determined not to be compelled by him to continue my voyage. So, grasping the branch, I gradually drew myself up by it nearly out of the water. I got one knee on the bank; the bear gave a growl; then I got the other knee on terra firma; the bear growled again. I was not to be intimidated. I had never let go my pole. I sprang to my feet and stood looking up at the monster. He growled more fiercely than ever, as if to warn me that I was intruding on his domains.

“Growl away, old Bruin,” I exclaimed, “I do not fear you. Stop me from getting to the top of the bank you shall not.”

I flourished my stick as I spoke. He took the movement as a challenge, and began to descend. The top was not nearly so steep as the place on which I stood. The bear got down tolerably well, growling as he advanced, and picking his way. My rifle was loaded, but I had every reason to doubt that it would go off, after the ducking it had got, though the muzzle had not got under water. I flourished my pole, therefore, at the bear, and shouted at the top of my voice, but it did not stop him. Just above me was a ledge. I climbed up to it, and there waited the approach of the bear. The ground above was very steep and slippery. On he came, faster and faster. My shouts had enraged him, and he was eager to have a grab at me. I ran up a little way higher, and then turned as if I would spring back into the water. He was afraid he should lose me, and forgetting his previous caution, he sprang on to catch me.

As he did so I leaped nimbly on one side, and he toppled over, head foremost, souse into the water. I saw him struggling away to regain the bank; I did not stop to watch him, however, but sprang upwards with all the agility I could exert, and did not stop till I had reached the summit. Never have I gone through so many adventures for the sake of a mouthful of water; I had not even, as it were, had enough, so I determined to keep down the stream for the rest of the day.

My clothes very quickly dried, which is not surprising, considering that I had on only the remnants of my jacket, a shirt, and the upper part of my trousers. The legs were bound round my feet. The water, had, however, so much revived me that I began to feel a greater sensation of hunger than I had before experienced. I had but one piece of my dried duck left. I nibbled a bit as I walked on, keeping the remainder for supper. On what I was to breakfast was a question which, if my powder failed me, might be difficult to solve. Sometimes I lost sight of the water, but quickly regained it, and ever and anon returned, where the bank was practicable, to take a refreshing sip. As may be supposed, I took care never to get out of the hearing of its pleasant sound. I did not see the waterfall, and therefore concluded that I must have fallen into the stream a short way below it.

Night was now again approaching. I looked about in every direction for a spot in which I might pass it. At last I came upon a huge pine tree, which had been struck by lightning and lay prostrate on the ground. The centre part of the trunk was hollowed out something like a dug-out canoe, and on examining it I bethought me that it would make a peculiarly comfortable abode for the night. I therefore set to work to clear out all the rubbish inside which might conceal any creatures, and I then collected some large sheets of birch-bark which lay stripped off some neighbouring trees. This I placed over the top to form a roof, and a very comfortable sort of abode I considered that I had made. It was a safe one also, I thought, for no snake was likely to climb into it, nor was it probable that any wild animal would find me out. I now ate my last piece of meat, and then went down to the river and took a hearty draught of water, and felt far more invigorated than I had been for a long time.

This done, I returned to my hollow tree, crept in, drew the sheets of birch-bark over me, and went comfortably to sleep. Oh, how I did enjoy that sleep! I felt so much more secure than I had ever been at night since I commenced my wanderings. I awoke in the middle of the night, but it was to turn myself round and to think, how comfortable I was. I had, however, some causes for anxiety. How should I protect myself if attacked either by savages or wild beasts? how should I procure food, and how should I defend my feet when all my bandages were worn-out, should I not succeed in finding my friends? The most pressing matter was how to procure food.

Suddenly I recollected that I had once put a couple of fish-hooks in a pocket-book which I carried with me. I could not sleep till I had pulled it out and ascertained that they were there. A rod I should have no difficulty in forming; but how to make a line was the puzzle. At last I remembered that my jacket was sewn together with very coarse strong thread, and I thought that I could manufacture a line out of it. Having come to this satisfactory conclusion, I again went to sleep.

I had but a short time closed my eyes, when once more I was awoke by a noise, as if something was scratching on the outside of the tree in which I lay. What could it be? The scratching continued, and then there was a snuffing sound, as if a snout was smelling about in the neighbourhood. The noises were suspicious and somewhat alarming. I did not like to move to ascertain what caused them, but I could not help dreading that they were made by some wandering bear who had smelt me out, and was now trying to get a nearer inspection of me. The scratching and the snuffing continued, and then I was certain that the creature, whatever it was, was climbing up on the trunk. It had done so, but it tumbled off again. Soon, however, it came close up to me. I could contain myself no longer. I wished to ascertain the worst. I gently slid off the piece of bark above my head and sat upright. I speedily, though, popped down again. My worst suspicions were confirmed. It was a bear, and very likely the same bear from whom I had escaped the day before. The moment he saw me he poked his snout over my narrow bed-place, but I was too far down for him to get at me, notwithstanding all the efforts he made to effect that object. Still it was not pleasant to have such a watcher over my couch, as I could not help dreading that he might possibly get his claws in and pull me out, and that at all events the moment I sat upright he would give me an embrace, but anything but a friendly one. The moon came out and shone on his bearish eyes, and I saw him licking his jaws in anticipation of his expected repast. The very way he did this convinced me that he was my friend of yesterday.

I had outwitted him once, and I determined to try and outwit him again. I saw that near me was a tree with short branches, reaching close down to the ground. I thought that if I could climb up it, I might get out of the reach of my persecutor. Mustering all my strength, I suddenly started up, shrieking out at the top of my voice, and flourishing my stick, which I brought down with all my force on the bear’s head. Bruin so little expected the assault that, without attempting to attack me, he turned round and trotted off to the distance of forty yards or so, when he stopped and looked very intently at me. I seized the moment of my emancipation to climb up the tree near me.

The bear, the instant he saw me take to flight, uttering a deep growl, sprang eagerly back to the foot of the tree; but I was beyond his reach. What, therefore, was my dismay to see him put his huge arms and legs round the trunk and begin to ascend. Up he came, and as he advanced, I ascended higher and higher. Every now and then he looked up at me, and performed the to me unpleasant ceremony of licking his jaws. He was a cautious brute, for, as he got higher, he felt the boughs and shook them, to ascertain if he could trust his weight on them. I at last was obliged to retreat along a wide extending bough, from which I could just reach my enemy’s head as he came near me. I shouted and banged away with all my might, which so much annoyed him that he gave up the chase. The moment I saw him hesitate I redoubled my blows, and at last, infinitely to my satisfaction, not liking the treatment he was receiving, he began slowly to descend the way he had come up. I shouted and poked at him, but nothing would hurry him.

At last he reached the bottom, but instead of going away, he sat himself down to watch me. Then we were just like the fox and the crow in the fable. I the crow, and he the fox, only he wanted to get me instead of the cheese. I sat on my bough flourishing my stick at him, and at last he grew tired of watching me; but he did not go away—not he. My astonishment was not small, to see him crawl into the bed-place I had left, and quietly roll himself up and go to sleep. He must have slept, however, with one eye open, for whenever I commenced descending from my bough, he popped up his head as much as to say, “You had better not, or I’ll be after you,” and then down he laid again. As I could not have made much progress in the uncertain light of the moon, I climbed into a forked branch of the tree, and tying my arm to a bough that I might not tumble off, I tried to get a little more sleep. It was not very sound, for the recollection that the bear might possibly take it into his head to pay me a visit kept me wakeful. I felt certain that the rascal must have known that my powder was wet, or he would not have been so impudent. Once or twice I thought that I would try and make my rifle go off, and I withdrew the charge of small shot, and put a bullet in instead. At last I took aim and pulled the trigger, but no report followed.

I was thankful that I had not had to depend on my weapon for my life. Bruin just lifted up his head when he heard the snap, but seeing that I was safe, lay down again, and began either to snore, or to pretend to snore, for the cunning rogue was up to any trick, I was certain of that, to deceive me. For half an hour or more after this I lay quiet, and I had great hopes that Bruin had really gone to sleep. The country to the west along the banks of the stream appeared, as far as I could see by the moonlight, pretty clear. I thought that I might make good some distance before the bear awoke.

Down I crept very cautiously, for fear of making the slightest noise, from my lofty perch. I had got to one of the lower forks of the tree, and was considering whether I could not drop without much noise to the ground, from a branch which projected below me, when a low growl proceeded from my recent bed-place, and the ogre lifted up his head with one eye still shut, but with the other turned towards me in the most malicious manner—at least, so I thought. I cannot quite vouch for this last fact; but that was my impression at the time. I was in a most uncomfortable position, so that I had to move one way or the other. I began by moving downwards, and he then rose more, and gave another growl. I then climbed up again, and as I ascended higher and higher, he gradually lay back till his head was concealed inside the hollow of the tree. Still, when I leaned forward, I could see his snout sticking up, and could just catch the twinkle of his wicked eye turned towards me—I mean the eye which, awake or asleep, as it seemed to me, he always kept open.

Under the circumstances, it is not surprising that I did not sleep very soundly, still I did go to sleep, with my arms twined tightly round two neighbouring boughs. I longed for daylight, which might enable me to take some active measures one way or the other. At last, as I looked out beyond the tops of the neighbouring trees, I could see a pale pink and yellow hue suffusing the eastern sky, and the light crept forward, as it were, on one side, while the forest on the other remained shrouded in darkness. Not as in our own land, however, did the birds welcome the coming sun with a full chorus of song. They were not altogether silent; but even in that spring time of the year they only exhibited their pleasure by a faint untuneful twittering and chirping. Bruin was, I found, an early riser. I saw first one leg come out of his bed-place, then another, as he stretched them forth; then up went his arms, and I heard a loud yawn. It was rather more like a grunt. Then he began to growl, and to make all sorts of other strange noises, and finally he lifted up his head and gradually sat upright on his haunches. He winked at me when he saw that I was safe up the tree, and I fancied that he nodded his head, as much as to say, “Stay a bit, I’ll soon be up to you.” Then he turned one leg out of the bed-place and then another, and then he walked up to the tree, and sat himself down under it, and began to growl.

Chapter Twenty One.

I exhaust Bruin’s patience—Manufacture some fishing-lines, and descend from my perch in the tree—Catch a big fish to my great joy, with no little trouble, and cook it—Many a slip between the spit and the lip—My fish is admirably dressed but disappears, though not down my throat—I set to work again and catch more fish—Continue my journey; am almost starved—My ammunition exhausted—See some horses—Fall in with some Indians—They prove to be friends—Accompany me on my journey, and conduct me to the camp of the Raggets—We reach California, where I terminate the adventures which I now give to the public.

I do not mind confessing that I felt anything but happy perched up at the top of a tree in that wild American forest, with a hungry and cunning bear growling away for his breakfast below me. I too was beginning to feel faint for want of food. The bear seemed to know that, and to have hopes of starving me into submission. On that point, however, I determined to disappoint him. Sooner than go down and be eaten I resolved to die up in the tree, and then he would get nothing but my dry bones for his pains. I tried his patience I saw, for he growled and growled louder and more fiercely, and then began to lick his paws, as a baby does its fingers to amuse itself when hungry. Two or three times he began to climb up the tree; but the way in which I flourished the pole in his face, and his recollection that he could not reach me at the end of the branch to which I retired, made him speedily again descend. The sun was now up and warm, and it struck me that if I could dry some of my powder I might turn the tables on him, and eat him instead of his eating me. I therefore cleared out a hollow in a branch, into which I poured a charge of powder, and then cleaned my rifle and picked out the touch-hole.

I was determined not to be idle, and so, remembering my fish-hooks, I set to work to manufacture a line. The threads were short, but I knotted them neatly. I tried the strength of each one separately, and those which broke I strengthened with line, which I twisted up. I thus sat knotting and spinning, with as much coolness as I could command, till I had finished my line, and thought my powder was dry. I then put up my line, carefully loaded my rifle, and muttered, “Now, Master Bruin, look out for yourself.” Whether he divined what I was about, or had grown tired of waiting for his breakfast and was going elsewhere in search of it, I cannot say, but before I could find a satisfactory rest for my piece, so as to point it down at him, he turned round and began trotting briskly away. I instantly fired, in the hopes of obtaining some bear steaks for my breakfast. The rifle went off, nearly knocking me over from my bough, and the ball hit him, but not in a vital part, for on he went, growling furiously, till he was lost to sight in the depths of the forest, and I must say that I heartily hoped I might never see his ugly face again. I suspect that I considerably damped his appetite for breakfast. As mine was sharper than ever, and I could not make it off bear, I descended from my perch that I might try and catch some fish. I quickly cut a fishing-rod, and a piece of light bark to serve as a float, and my movements being hastened by hunger, in a few minutes, having caught some creatures on the bank to serve as bait, I was bending over the stream as assiduously as old Izaak Walton himself.

What was my delight in a few minutes to feel a bite! I was an expert fisherman, but so great was my agitation that I could scarcely give the necessary jerk to hook my fish. It is very different fishing for pleasure and fishing for the pot or spit when starving. Away went the float bobbing down the stream. It must be done. I jerked up my rod. How breathless I felt! The fish was hooked, of that I was sure, as also that he was a good-sized fellow. Down the stream swam the fish, and along the bank I followed him. I knew that my tackle was not over strong, and I was anxious to secure a good place for landing him.

At last I reached a flat rock. “Now I will have him,” I said to myself, and I drew his nose up the stream. I got sight of him through the clear water. He was a trout, three or four pounds weight at least. What a hearty breakfast I would make of him! I felt very nervous, because as there was very little bend in my rod, if he gave a sudden jerk he would too probably snap the line or the hook, and be out of my sight for ever. The water was somewhat deep below me, or I should have pushed into the stream and clutched him in my arms, much in the same way as the bear would have clutched me, if he could, and with the same object. Slowly and cautiously I drew him nearer and nearer the shore. He came along pretty quietly. He was pretty well exhausted with his previous swim.

Had I possessed a landing-net I could have had him ashore in a moment; but I trembled when I thought of the little pliability there was at the end of my stick to counteract any sudden jerk he might give. There he was, scarcely six feet from me, and yet I could not reach him. I drew him still closer, kneeling down as I did so, and then lowering my rod I made a dart at him. He was quicker than I was, and with a whisk of his tail off he darted, with the hook still in his mouth, dragging the rod after him. I made a dash at the rod, but missed it, and away it floated down the stream. After it I went though, watching it as it bobbed up and down, and dreading lest it should catch fast among some stones, and the fish break away. The stream was here narrow, deep, and rapid. Lower down it was broader, and I hoped might be shallow. I ran on, therefore, and found it as I had hoped. Down came the rod towards me. “Was the fish on to it, though?” I seized hold of the butt-end and lifted it up. Yes, there he was. He could scarcely escape me now. Slowly I drew him up toward me, and slipping my fingers down the line, eagerly seized him by the gills. I had him fast, and was not likely to let him go. I carried him on shore, and throwing him on the ground, speedily began to collect sticks to make a fire. Those near at hand would not burn, so I went further away from the stream to collect some more.

While thus engaged, I saw a lynx steal out of the forest and go in the direction of my proposed fire. I had collected as many sticks as I could carry, and was returning as fast as I could, when I saw the lynx go close up to where I had left my fish. It stooped down, and then trotted on. I rushed on, as fast as my legs could carry me, till I reached the spot. My fish was gone. I shrieked and shouted after the lynx, whirling my stick at him, but it was to no purpose. He had found a good breakfast, and was not going to give it up in a hurry. I shouted and shrieked, and ran and ran, till at length I knocked my foot against the sharp end of a broken branch which brought me crying out with pain to the ground. The lynx, holding the fish in his jaws, turned a look of derision at me, as he disappeared in the forest. Did I lie there and howl like a wounded dog? No; I should be ashamed to acknowledge it, had I done so. Instead of that, as soon as the pain would allow me, I got up on my feet, hobbled back to where I had left my rod, searched for some fresh bait, and set to work to catch another fish.

Not a minute had passed before I got a bite. I quickly hooked my fish, and hauled up one of about half a pound weight. As that would not be sufficient for my breakfast, I thought it would be wise to restrain my appetite till I had caught some more, as possibly when the sun rose higher they might not bite so readily. Not half a minute passed before I caught a second, and in five minutes, with very little difficulty, I had caught as many fish as would equal the weight of the one I had lost. This time I took care to keep them about me till I had lighted my fire, and stuck them on sticks roasting round it. I kept, too, vigilant watch lest my old enemy, Bruin, or the watchful lynx should return to rob me of my repast.

One of the fish was soon sufficiently warmed to enable me to eat it, and one after the other disappeared, giving me a satisfaction which the most highly seasoned feast has never been able to afford. I washed the fish down with a copious draught of water, and then felt myself ready for anything. This part of the river was evidently well supplied with fish, so before leaving it I again took my rod in hand, and in half an hour caught enough fish to last me for a couple of days. I had lost my hat in the river, so I now made myself a curious conical-shaped head-covering with some rushes and long grass, and what with my bare legs, my feet swathed in bandages, and my sleeveless jacket, I must have had a very Robinson Crusoe appearance. As there was no one to see me, this was of no consequence.

I now shouldered my pole and fishing-rod, and with my rifle slung at my back, continued my course.

I kept down the stream for some way; but as I had not passed the tracks which my friends must have left, I felt convinced that they were to the north of the line on which I had been travelling. I therefore crossed the stream by a ford, at which I arrived in the afternoon, and with much regret left its pure waters to wander into what might prove an arid desert. I had, unfortunately, nothing in which I could carry water, so that I had to depend on the supply which I might find in my path. I pushed on as fast as I could. It was almost night, however, before I reached a pool of water. It was stagnant, and so bad tasted that I could only moisten my lips with it, after I had cooked and eaten one of my fish. A number of birch trees were growing near. I quickly built a shanty with their bark, and with the same material formed myself a mattress and an ample covering for my body.

After my long vigil on the previous night I speedily fell asleep, but even in my slumbers I heard the occasional serenades of bears and wolves, who seemed to be the principal inhabitants of that wild region. I awoke more than once, and was convinced that the noise was a reality, and not the fancy of my brain; but I felt that unless they had come and routed me out, as the bear had on the previous night, nothing would have induced me to stir. Off I went to sleep; but much to my satisfaction day returned without any of them having found me out.

I need not record the adventures of each day. I suffered so much from my feet that my progress was of necessity slow. My fish were gone, I had found no other friendly stream; but I hoped to come across one before long. I had dried the remnant of my powder. I had enough for one full charge and a little over. I loaded my rifle, still wishing, if possible, to keep it for my defence. This was early one morning. I had had no breakfast. As the day advanced I grew very hungry. A small animal, like a hare or rabbit, came near me. I seized a stone at my foot and hit the creature on the leg, and broke it. Away it went limping, still at a rapid pace. I made chase as fast as my sore feet would let me. I was gaining on the creature, but was afraid that, after all, it might get into some hole and escape me. This made me exert myself still more, when I caught sight of a burrow ahead, for which I suspected it was making. I sprang on, hunger giving an impetus to my feet, and not a yard from the spot I threw myself forward and caught it, as it was about to spring into the hole.

The poor creature turned an imploring look at me; but like a savage, as I felt, I speedily squeezed the life out of it, and in another ten minutes I had it skinned and roasting away before a fire of sticks, which I had in the meantime collected. I felt, as I ate the creature, what reason I had to trust in the care of Providence, for each time, when most in want, I had been amply supplied with food, and I doubt not that, had I possessed some botanical knowledge, I should have found a still larger store of provisions in the productions of the earth. The creature was rather lean, so that the best half of him only served me for a meal, and I finished the remainder at night.

The next day I was less fortunate. Towards the evening, as I was proceeding along an elevated ridge, I saw in the valley below me a black spot, as if a fire had been there. I hurried down to the place; I was not mistaken. There were the charred embers of sticks, and round it were scattered the half-picked bones of grouse, partridges, and ducks, as if a numerous party had camped there. I looked about, but could find nothing to indicate that they were my friends, hunger made me do what I should not otherwise have fancied. I collected all the bones, and with a pile of sticks, left by my predecessors on the spot, I made a fire, at which I speedily cooked them. As there was plenty of birch-bark about, I then built a wigwam and formed a comfortable couch within it, in which I might pass the night.

These bones were all the food I got that day. Several deer had on the previous day come skipping around me, fearless of the approach of man. The next day again hunger assailed me. I had been wishing that some more deer would come, when a herd came racing by, and when they saw me they all stopped staring at me, as if to ask why I had come there.

The pangs of hunger just then made me very uncomfortable. Here was an opportunity of supplying myself with food for a week to come. A fat buck stood in the centre; I fired. The whole herd were in full flight, but the buck was wounded, I saw by the drops of blood which marked his track; I hurried after him. What was my delight to see him stop, then stagger and fall! I ran on. He rose and sprang forward, but it was a last effort, and the next moment he rolled over on the ground. I could have shouted for joy. I had now got food in abundance, and what was of great consequence to my ultimate preservation, the means of covering my feet. I finished the poor animal with a blow of my hatchet, and then set to work to skin him and cut him up.

I had one drawback to my satisfaction. There was no wood or water near. I therefore cut off as much of the hide as would serve me for moccasins and leggings, loaded myself with all the flesh I could carry, and struck away towards the west. I had been unable to follow up the tracks which led from my last sleeping-place, and this convinced me that the camp had been formed by Indians. Whether they would prove friends or foes, should I fall in with them, was a question. At all events, I felt rather an inclination to avoid than to find them out.

At length I came to a wood, through which ran a stream of pure water. Sticks were quickly collected, a fire was lit, and some of my deer was roasting away. While it was cooking, I ran down to the stream to take a draught of water and to wash my feet, and then hurried back to enjoy my repast. I did enjoy it; and as there were still two hours more of daylight, and I felt my strength increased, I hurried onward.

Scarcely had I got again into the open country than I came on some recent tracks of horses. Could my friends be ahead? There were no wheel tracks, though. A beaten track appeared. It must lead somewhere. I had not gone half a mile when I fancied that I heard the neighing of a horse. My heart thumped away in my breast. I listened with breathless attention. Again a horse neighed loudly. I could not be mistaken, and hurrying on I saw across a rapid stream, which passed at the base of the hill on which I found myself, a whole herd of those noble animals frisking about in a wide rich meadow spread out before me. I hurried down the hill, and by the aid of my pole, though not without difficulty, hurried across the stream. One of the horses as soon as I landed, came trotting up to me; but seeing that I was a stranger, and rather an odd-looking one too, off he went again. I thought how satisfactory it would be if I could catch one of them to make it carry me the rest of the journey. I remembered, however, that the animals must belong to some one. Perhaps, however, the owner might lend one to me. Crossing the meadow, I saw before me a wreath of smoke gracefully curling up among the trees. It must proceed from some human habitation. Was it from the hut of a white man or from the temporary encampment of Indians? If the latter, would they prove friends or foes? Knowing the necessity for precaution, I hid myself behind every bush and tree, till I got into the wood, and then I advanced with equal care, looking out ahead before I left my shelter, and stooping down in Indian fashion, trailing my rifle and stick after me as I made my onward way.

I soon came to an open glade, in one corner of which appeared a skin-covered wigwam, before the entrance to which sat two squaws busily engaged in some culinary occupation. If found looking about I might naturally have been suspected of treacherous intentions, so slinging my rifle, and grasping my pole and fishing-rod in one hand, I advanced, holding out the other. The old woman looked up, and uttered a few grunts, but seemed in no way alarmed. What they took me for I do not know. I must have seemed to them rather a strange character. I had advanced a few paces, when two men sprang out of the hut. This was a trying moment. Greatly to my satisfaction, they stretched out their hands in a friendly way as I hobbled on towards them. Though they had painted faces, and were dressed in skins, I saw by the kind expression on their countenances that they commiserated my condition. Blood was even then streaming from my feet. At once they lifted me up in their arms and carried me into the hut, where they placed me on a couch of skins, and the old woman brought water from the river which flowed close by, and washed my feet, and bound them up with salves. The pain from which I had so long been suffering quickly disappeared.

They then brought me a piece of salmon, which I thought delicious, and some soup, which, under other circumstances, I might have thought suspicious. This, with some roots which they roasted, made up a repast more refreshing than I had eaten for a long time.

I could not speak a word of their language, nor did they understand English, but I tried by signs to make them comprehend that I had parted from my companions, and that I wished to get to them. At last they appeared to fancy that they comprehended me, for they nodded and smiled, and uttered the same sounds of satisfaction over and over again. They signified, however, by their gestures, that I must sleep in the hut that night, but that on the following morning, as soon as the sun rose, we would set off on our journey.

I offered them the deer’s flesh which I had slung about me, and which they seemed to value. Just before dark, however, they brought me in another salmon, which I preferred to the somewhat high flavoured meat. I cannot describe how I enjoyed that night’s rest. I had perfect confidence in my hosts, and I had no longer the dread of being visited by a wandering bear or prowling wolf. I felt like a new being when, next morning, the good-natured Indian roused me from my slumbers. The rushing sound of waters invited me to take a bath, and going down to the river, I stretched my limbs with a pleasant swim, and then returned to enjoy a hearty breakfast on salmon, roots, and some decoction which served the purpose of tea. My hosts, too, had provided some new moccasins in which to shield my feet.

It was a completely patriarchal establishment. There was an old father and four sons, with an old mother, and another old woman and the wives of the younger men, and eight or ten children. The skin-covered huts of the younger couples were close at hand, under the trees. The old man and his eldest son now brought up three horses, they mounted me on one, and they leaped on the others. A deerskin served as a saddle, and rough thongs of leather as a bridle.

I wished all the family a hearty good-bye, resolved in future to think better of Indians than I had done, and off we set. How delightful it was to move along over the prairie at the rate of eight or ten miles an hour, instead of creeping along with suffering feet, as I had been so long doing. I travelled on two whole days on a westerly course with my Indian friends. I could not hold much conversation with my guides, except by signs, but we soon appeared to understand each other perfectly well.

I made out that we were approaching the camp of my old companions, and as I drew nearer my eagerness increased to be once more among them. After a time I saw wreaths of white smoke curling up from a valley below us. They must proceed from a considerable encampment. The Indians and I rode on in silence, till I heard voices, which I judged came from the spot where I had seen the smoke ascending. Presently a boy, whom I recognised as one of the emigrant children, ran back, shouting out, “Injins—Injins!” His cries brought out the Raggets, and a number of my friends with rifles in their hands, ready to do battle in case of necessity. They saw that we were peaceably disposed; but they did not recognise me till I was in the middle of them, and had addressed them by name.

I was cordially welcomed. In truth, most of them had given me up for lost. They showed that they placed some value on me by loading my Indian friends with presents.

I am sorry to say that I must bring my adventures in the Far West to a conclusion. We struck our tents next morning, and continued our journey. After a variety of adventures we reached California, and at once proceeded to the gold-diggings. Most of the party separated and worked for themselves. The Raggets kept together, and were the only family who succeeded in securing an independence. For myself I will say nothing, but that I was thankful to find myself back in old England, if not a richer, I hope at all events a wiser man, than when I left its deservedly well-loved shores.

The End.

W.H.G. Kingston

"Digby Heathcote"

Chapter One.

The Hero’s Early Days—Bloxholme, its Squire, His Family and Dependents.

“I’ll not stand it, that I won’t, Master Digby. To think that you, a young gentleman who has plenty to eat and drink of everything that’s nice, and more than enough, too, should come and put your fingers through the paper into my jam pots, which I’ve just been and nicely tied down, and all for mischief’s sake, it’s not to be borne, let me tell you. You’ve been and eaten up a whole pot of raspberry jam, and better than half a one of greengage. I wonder you are not sick with it. If you ever do it again, I’ll leave your honoured father’s service sooner than submit to such behaviour, that I will—remember, Master Digby.”

These exclamations were uttered by Mrs Carter, the housekeeper at Bloxholme Hall, the residence of Mr Heathcote, the representative of one of the oldest families in the county.

The culprit thus addressed, who had been caught in flagrante delicto, stood before her with very sticky fingers, his countenance, however, wearing anything but an expression of penitence.

“I like jam, and you don’t give me enough in my puddings,” was the only excuse he deigned to offer for his conduct.

“You’ll go without it altogether, Master Digby, let me tell you,” retorted Mrs Carter. She was the only person in the establishment who ventured to thwart the young gentleman, though he did not love the old lady the worse for that.

Digby was Mr Heathcote’s eldest son and heir. He had just attained the mature age of nine years, and had hitherto in many respects been considerably spoilt. Mr Heathcote had not succeeded to his property till rather late in life, and he had not till then married. A son had long been wished-for, and when one was given, the grateful hearts of the parents felt that they could not prize him too much. Too thankful they might not have been, but they petted and indulged him more than was for his good. He had also three elder sisters. They, in their fondness, did their best to spoil him; indeed, as Mrs Carter used to observe to Alesbury, the butler, she was afraid Master Digby would soon become as much of a pickle as any she had in her store-room. He was a sturdy little fellow, with fat, rosy cheeks, and a figure which already gave promise of considerable muscular powers. Alesbury was wont to remark that it was quite a pity Master Digby had not been born a younger instead of an elder son, he seemed so well able to fight his way in the world. He had a fair complexion—already a little tanned, by the by—light brown curling hair with a tinge of gold in it, he had good-sized honest eyes, and looked as he was—from head to foot a thorough English boy. He had been spoilt hitherto, certainly, but not altogether so. He had been taught by both his parents to worship and fear God, and to hate and abhor a lie. He had only once been known to tell an untruth, and then Mr Heathcote did what very nearly broke his heart to do; he flogged him severely, and shut him up, and would not speak to him for the remainder of the day. Digby did not care much about the pain of the flogging, but he felt the disgrace keenly, and it impressed on his mind the enormity of the crime of which he had been guilty. I believe that he never after that event uttered a falsehood. His very varied tricks and numerous eccentric pranks were therefore constantly being brought to light, when less honest boys might have managed to escape detection for those they had committed; but few could find it in their hearts to punish the young heir of Bloxholme when he ingenuously confessed his fault, and expressed himself, as he really felt at the time, sorry for what he had done.

“Oh, Master Digby! Master Digby! what would your mamma say if she saw you now?” continued Mrs Carter.

“I like jam,” repeated Master Digby; an assertion of the truth of which he had given strong evidence.

“Are you not ashamed of yourself?” added Mrs Carter, not taking notice of his reply.

“The jam isn’t yours, Mrs Carter,” exclaimed Digby, as if a bright idea had struck him.

“It is given into my charge by my mistress, Master Digby, and I am answerable for every pot of it,” answered the housekeeper, in a serious tone, in which sorrow and rebuke were blended.

Digby was silent for a moment, and then seemed to see the matter in a new light.

“I’m sorry for taking the jam, Mrs Carter; I’ll tell mamma what I’ve done, and then she won’t be angry with you, I know,” he replied, looking very penitent.

“There’s a darling, now,” exclaimed Mrs Carter, catching him up in her arms, and giving him a kiss; whereby, in consequence of his struggles to get free, for he had a great dislike to such marks of affection, her black silk dress was very considerably daubed with the jam yet adhering to the young gentleman’s fingers. “Oh, Master Digby, Master Digby, what have you done!” cried the old lady, when she discovered the injury which her demonstration of affection had brought upon her dress. “Oh, it never will look nice again.”

“I am so sorry, Mrs Carter, indeed I am,” said the boy, eyeing the dark marks his fingers had left. “The first money I get I will buy you a new gown, that I will; I won’t take your jam any more, that I won’t.”

After this promise, Mrs Carter knew that her jam was safe, and she willingly bore the injury done her dress for such a result. She would have given Digby another hug, but she took the precaution of washing his hands before attempting such a proceeding.

“There now, Master Digby, I dare say the dress won’t be much the worse, after all,” she remarked, as soon as she had dried his hands. “You’re a dear, good child, that you are.”

Digby knew what was coming, and watching his opportunity, he bolted out of the room. Snatching up his cap, away he ran, shouting, through the gardens and woods which surrounded the old hall, in very exuberance of spirits, without any definite idea as to where he was going or what he should do with himself. Similar to this had hitherto been most of Digby’s misdemeanours and scrapes, and thus, as he had not learned to estimate the evil consequences of his naughtinesses, he was not deterred, when the temptation came in his way, of committing fresh ones.

One of Digby’s sisters was but a year older than himself, and very naturally was his constant companion. Kate, that was her name, was a very quick, intelligent girl, the cleverest of the family, but her talents were like wild plants, which bear flowers very beautiful to look at, but if allowed to grow without training, apt, from their very exuberance, to do mischief. Kate could write poetry, and very funny poetry it was too. Digby admired it amazingly. At all events it was rhyme, and the lines were of the same length and not inharmonious. Nobody could read it without laughing at the quaint ideas and, curious expressions. The handwriting was curious—I wish that I could give an idea of it. The letters were very round and irregular, capitals and small letters were oddly mingled, and the lines wandered up and down the pages. The orthography, too, was not of the most orthodox description. Her little inaccuracies in that respect, however, Digby himself was not likely to discover. Kate could draw, too, and indulged largely in caricaturing the eccentricities of any of her friends and acquaintance. If her poetry was funny, the designs she produced with her pencil were still more so. They never failed to produce roars of laughter from Digby, who, if not witty or talented himself, was fully able to appreciate her wit and talent.

Both her poetical effusions and her caricatures had hitherto been devoted exclusively to Digby’s amusement, and no other member of their family was aware of her powers in that direction. This arose from the little maiden’s modesty and timidity. She knew that Digby would certainly appreciate to the full her productions; but she doubted too much whether others would do so to allow her to show them. Besides, the exquisite delight which the two enjoyed in looking over together, in secret, her drawings and verses would have been much decreased had other eyes been allowed to see them, and to discover faults perhaps to which they themselves were willingly blind. Not only could Kate write poetry and draw, but she could sing too; and that everybody knew, and wonderfully wild and warbling were her notes, when she did not fancy that any one was listening to her, as she ran bounding along the green lawn, like a young fawn, or made her way among the shrubberies to any of her favourite haunts. Kate was not pretty; her figure was small and thin, and her features were rather sharp, but her eyes were bright, and full of intelligence, and she had a sweet smile, which lightened up her countenance when anything pleased her, which was very frequently. Digby, however, would have been very much surprised had any one pronounced her to be any otherwise than very pretty. His usual description of her was, “Oh, she is jolly, that sister of mine—Kate! I’ll bet there isn’t another girl like her in the world! Up to anything—bird’s-nesting, cricketing, or fishing. Why, she can saddle her own pony, and doesn’t mind where she goes when I am with her. She’s as plucky as any fellow, and I hope to see her leap a five-barred gate some day—that I do.”

Kate admired Digby in return, though not perhaps in the same degree, but she was quite as fond of him as he was of her, probably even fonder. I think sisters generally love their brothers more than they get loved in return, and most decidedly are ready to make more sacrifices for them, to give up more to them, to endure more from them, more shame to the boys. Yes, unselfish indeed is a good sister’s love, a thing to be cherished, a thing to be grateful for.

I said Kate was not pretty. As she ran along with her garden bonnet thrown back, hanging by the string to her neck, and her frock not in the most tidy condition, she might have been mistaken for one of the little gipsies from the encampment which was frequently made on the neighbouring common. When, however, Kate spoke, a person of discernment who might have mistaken her for a gipsy would at once have been undeceived. Her accent and manners were particularly ladylike; and if she met a stranger, she sobered in a moment, and became perfectly quiet and sedate. A blush would suffuse her cheeks, and her mouth would pucker up in a curious way as she attempted to check the laughter which was springing to her lips. After the stranger had disappeared, she would walk on a few paces seemingly in a meditative mood, or still under the influence of the unwonted restraint she had put on herself, but either a squirrel would cross her path and mount a neighbouring tree, a blackbird would fly chattering through the bushes, or a butterfly would go fluttering before her, and off she would go in chase, and was soon again the buoyant-spirited hoydenish little creature she generally appeared. Kate Heathcote was certainly not a model girl, nor was Digby a model boy. Both had very considerable faults. There was good stuff in them, but it required more cultivation than it was then receiving to bring forth good fruit. There was also bad in them, as there is in everybody, which will inevitably bring forth bad fruit unless it is counteracted. In their case it produced no little amount of highly indecorous conduct—so that although people who knew them could not help liking them, their example is in no way to be imitated.

Digby and Kate were very fond of Bloxholme. They thought no other place they had ever heard of in the world to be compared to it. Indeed, it was a very attractive spot. The Hall was a fine old red-brick edifice, built in the time of Queen Elizabeth, with richly ornamented windows, and fine gables, and curious ins and outs of all sorts; and there were wide-extending wings of a later date, with the dining-room and a conservatory on one side, and bachelors’ bedrooms and domestic offices on the other. The garden, filled in the summer with a profusion of flowers, came right up to the drawing-room windows on one side, and a broad gravelly drive swept round in front of the house with an avenue of tall elms, in which generation after generation of rooks had built their nests, reared their young, and returned, cawing in concert, evening after evening, for centuries past. The park stretched away for a quarter of a mile in front of the house. It was a fine meadow, mottled in early spring with yellow cowslips and other flowers which betokened a rich land. Fine clumps of trees were scattered over it, arranged to give a picturesque effect to the scene. Beyond them were seen the silvery line of a rapid clear stream, and a range of blue hills in the far distance. The view from the garden side of the Hall was still more attractive. Both to the right and left were thick banks of tall trees, some advancing, others receding, so as to prevent a too great uniformity of appearance. Between them, and sloping away till lost in the meadows beyond, was a wide expanse of soft velvety lawn. Pleasant was the sound in the early summer mornings, when the dew was on the grass, of the gardeners sharpening their scythes to keep it smooth and shorn. Here and there scattered over it were clumps of rhododendrons and other large flowering shrubs, and nearer the house were beds full of gay-coloured and sweet-scented flowers. There were also some clumps of elegant evergreens, and a few vases of marble or Maltese stone, beautifully carved, which looked well either in summer or winter. Digby thought no lawns were so green, no gravel walks so yellow as those of Bloxholme. The view, too, from the lower windows, as from the lawn itself, was very beautiful, and perfectly English. There were green slopes and corn-fields, and hazel and beech woods, and rows of tall elms, and clumps of fir-trees, and patches of wild land gleaming with the bloom of the golden-coloured gorse; and then beyond all was to be seen, dancing in the sunbeams, the wide expanse of the blue ocean, with a silvery river finding its way down on the right to the little town of Osberton, which stood on its shores. Numberless are the scenes of similar beauty which are to be found throughout England. To the left of the lawn, well-kept gravel walks twisted and twined away through shrubberies of evergreens, passing several open spaces filled with flower beds and trellised arbours, and rock-work and grottoes, and other similar conceits, made with very good taste though, till they reached two wide sheets of water, which might well be called lakes, connected by a serpentine channel crossed at each end by a rustic bridge. The ponds were surrounded by trees, the shadows of which were seen reflected in the clear waters. There were picturesque little islands dotted about here and there, not far from the shore, to which one of the largest was joined by a bridge. It had a summer-house on it, a very favourite resort of Digby and Kate. Perhaps they prized the ponds for being well stocked with fish which consented now and then to be caught, even more than for their beauty. The upper and largest pond was full of pike, and perch, and eels. In the others were carp, and roach, and dace, and the finest and fattest tench to be found in the county. There were several smaller ponds full of water lilies and other aquatic plants, which, when in bloom, as they floated borne up by their broad leaves on the calm water, looked very beautiful. These ponds had been carefully stocked with nearly all the species of fish to be found in English waters; and in the rapid stream which ran out of the lowest pond and found its way to the sea, a good basket full of mottled trout was to be caught by the expert angler. In most places it was so thickly shaded by hazel and alder, and other bushes which love moisture, that the bungler was very certain to lose his hook and line, and to catch no fish.

There was another spot, a still more favourite resort of Kate’s and Digby’s. It was a high mound—partly natural and partly artificial—near the upper lake. The base of the mound on one side was washed by a stream and tributary of the lake, and on the other was a grassy meadow. The mound itself was thickly covered with trees to the very top, where a summer-house, or sort of temple, was placed. From the windows a beautiful view was obtained over the lakes and woods, and gardens and fields of Bloxholme; and on one side of the village of Otterspoole and its church-spire, and trout-stream and hanging woods, and on the other of the valleys and hills and downs which intervened between the grounds and the sea. Glimpses of the blue ocean were obtained from every height, and much did it enhance the beauty of the scenery. The path which led to the top of the mound was very intricate and steep—indeed it formed a complete labyrinth, which, though it made it far more attractive to Kate and her brother, prevented it from being so much the resort of the elders of the family.

I have described these spots as Digby’s favourite resorts. I suspect, however, that had it not been for Kate, he would not have often found his way there. He liked them because she did, and he went there for the sake of her society. Hearty were the laughs the two enjoyed there. There she read to him her poetical effusions—there she showed him her drawings, and there they concocted, I am sorry to say, many a scheme of mischief.

The Hall itself was a thoroughly comfortable, warm, well-furnished mansion, with handsome drawing-rooms, and dining-room and library; and bedrooms which could accommodate Mr Heathcote’s largish family, and a good many guests besides. He himself seemed fit in every respect to be the owner of such a place. He was a fine looking person—a thorough English country gentleman. He did not appear talented, and he was not; but he had the character of being a thoroughly upright, honest man, anxious to do his duty in that state of life to which God had called him. He was a good landlord, and watched over all the poor around, whether or not living on his estate. He was a county magistrate, and was never missed in his place on the bench when the Court sat. He was strict, especially with poachers and smugglers. There was very little maudlin sentiment in his composition. If a person did wrong he considered that he ought to be punished, not only to teach him not to act in the same way again, but to teach others also. Still, no kinder or more indulgent master, to all employed in his service, was to be found in the county. “If we do not inflict the legal punishment on the man, how is he, or how are others, to know what is right or what is wrong,” he used to remark to his brother magistrates. From his invariable strictness he was looked upon as a severe magistrate, and many a poacher had to rue the night in which he was caught trespassing on the preserves of any of the neighbouring estates, till it was found to be a very unpaying amusement, and poaching was almost put down. Smugglers, also, either landsmen or seamen, who were captured breaking the revenue laws, were treated in the same manner. Every man in the district knew, that if caught aiding in running an illicit cargo of goods, the county gaol would be his abode for some months afterwards. So the smugglers found it very difficult to procure men to help them land their tubs of spirits or bales of silks. Smuggling was not entirely put down, but it received a severe check from Mr Heathcote’s system of proceeding. The gipsies, and indeed all ill-doers, held him in great awe. At the same time he might have been seen visiting the cottages of the men who had been sent to prison, ascertaining the real wants of their families, and supplying them liberally. It was not in his way to talk much to them or to give them good advice. He would remark, perhaps, “Well, when your Bill comes out, tell him that if he does it again, he’ll have to go in again. Remember that.” As the county gaol was far from a pleasant abode, the warning had generally the effect intended. Mr Heathcote was a Tory, somewhat of the old school, and an unwavering supporter of the Church of England. Indeed, he was very unwavering in all his ways of proceeding. He regularly attended all poor-law boards and road-trust meetings; indeed, a large portion of his time was occupied in public matters. He was also an enthusiastic sportsman. The first of September found him, gun in hand, intent on the destruction of partridges. At every meet of the hounds in the neighbourhood he might be seen in red coat and top-boots, few in the field better mounted, while he rode about with cheery voice greeting his numerous acquaintance. He no longer attended races, however. When at college he had done so, very much to his own let and hindrance. He had betted, lost money, and incurred debts which hung over him like an incubus for years afterwards. He had barely managed to take his degree, even at a college where no great amount of knowledge was demanded for obtaining that honour. When he came into his estate he was unable to take that place in the county which his ancestors had so long held. If he had had an extravagant wife he would never have obtained it, but happily for him Mrs Heathcote was a sensible, light-minded, straightforward person. She saw what was wanted. Retrenchment was wanted, or rather, a refraining from expenditure. A plan was laid down and persevered in, and in a few years Mr Heathcote found his estate unencumbered. He was not, however, a rich man; his house was rather large for his property, and as people judge rather by the size of the mansion than by the number or quality of the acres which surround it, he was supposed to be more wealthy than he really was, and was consequently expected to live in a more expensive way than he found to be wise. His first children having been daughters, fancying that he had nothing to do with their education, he not being a reading man, he was much oftener to be found out of the house than in it. He had learned, therefore, to consider that his public duties had the greatest call on his time and attention. When Digby was born, he at first looked upon him as a baby, and he had got so into the habit of regarding him in that light, that it did not occur to him afterwards that his boy’s mind, as well as his stature, was enlarging, and that even greater care was required to strengthen and cultivate the former than the latter. Happily, Mrs Heathcote did not altogether overlook this, and she did her best to instruct him and to teach him what was right. In this she did not altogether fail. But she had the education of her daughters to attend to, and Digby was left more to his own devices than was altogether good for him. She might, of course, have had a governess, but she felt herself well able to instruct her daughters, and had an idea that no person could do so better than their mother. Motives of economy had in the first place induced her to make the attempt, which she afterwards persevered in from the pleasure it afforded her. She was a thoroughly English, ladylike person, with no littleness about her. Tittle-tattle, scandal, or indeed talking of people except to praise them, she thoroughly detested. Her two eldest daughters did justice to her instructions.

Eleanor and Mary Heathcote were good-feeling, right-minded, ladylike girls. I shall not have much to say about them, except in connexion with Digby. One was seventeen, the other fifteen. They made attempts to assist in his education, but they found him very unmanageable. There was a large town some miles off, from which masters came, and Mrs Heathcote had begun to talk of obtaining a governess to attend to Kate and Digby, and the younger children as they grew older. A very superior person had all along superintended the nursery, but Digby had already broken through all the restraints she could put upon him, except when in her immediate presence, and then he was obedient enough, both from habit and affection.

Digby’s next brother was Augustus—Gusty he was generally called; he was three years younger—a fat chubby little fellow. Digby was very fond of him, and did his best to spoil him as much as he himself was spoiled. He generally would do anything for him, or bear anything from him, but sometimes Digby lost his temper, and he would then turn round and give him a cuff, or carry off some of his property; but he was always sorry before long for having hurt the child, and would restore what he had deprived him of, with interest.

Mrs Heathcote’s health had always been delicate, and latterly it had been more so than usual, and in consequence, Kate had been left to do very much what she liked, except when she and Digby were called in by Eleanor to do their lessons. She got over hers very quickly, and helped Digby to do his, so that he also had an abundance of time to follow his own fancies and devices. Three or four days in the week a master came over to initiate him in the mysteries of the Latin accidence, as well as writing and arithmetic—sciences which Mr Heathcote supposed the lady members of his family were less able to impart than could one of the sterner sex. Digby, it must be owned, did not take kindly to any of them, and showed but little respect or affection for his instructor. When Mr Heathcote made inquiries as to his son’s progress, Mr Crammer invariably replied that Mr Digby was getting on nicely, and he was content, and did not think it necessary to trouble his head further on the matter.

I said a river was to be seen from Bloxholme. It flowed away for a distance of six or seven miles, till it reached the sea, on the shores of which, at its mouth, a little old sea-port town was situated, called Osberton. The Rector, Mr Nugent, was brother to Mrs Heathcote. He had a small income and a large family, and so he took pupils. He was a refined, pleasing-mannered man, very earnest and zealous, but rather strict and precise (not about religion, for in that no man can be too strict), but with regard to the behaviour of his pupils, in small as well as in important matters. As, however, he entered into their sports, and showed a deep interest in their welfare, he perfectly won their love and affection. Osberton was an old place altogether. An old castle, with a few old guns which had not gone off for ages, guarded, or rather pretended to guard, the entrance to the river. In reality, it was no greater defence to the river than would be a stuffed dog in a court-yard. The little boat harbour and the quays were old, and the inhabitants were old-fashioned into the bargain. Now and then Digby had been sent to stay with his uncle, but the atmosphere of the place did not at that time suit his notions, and he always did his best to get home again.

In the neighbourhood of Bloxholme was Melford Priory, the residence of the Honourable Stephen Langley. It had been granted to Mr Langley’s ancestors by Henry the Eighth, on the abolition of the monasteries in England. His family had, however, resided in the neighbourhood for centuries before that time. The estate belonged to Lord Calderton, his elder brother, who was a diplomatist, and consequently seldom came to the place. He allowed Mr Langley to live at Melford on the supposition that he devoted himself to looking after the property. Mr Langley had several children—the youngest, Julian, was about a year older than Digby. They had occasionally met—Digby thought him a very fast fellow, and admired him exceedingly. He described to Kate how he could ride the biggest horse in the stable, and break in the most intractable dog, and bring down a bird flying at a vast distance, and thrash any bumpkin twice his size. Mr Heathcote had a very great—an almost hereditary—respect for Lord Calderton’s family. Many of them had been very excellent people, and the present lord bore a high character. It did not, therefore, occur to him that any of them could be otherwise than good. Perhaps had he made inquiries, and ascertained how Julian was being brought up, he would not have wished his son to become his associate. The truth is, that Mr Langley was not a good man, and poor Julian was left to grooms and other servants, who did their best to ruin him, physically and morally. He listened eagerly to their conversation, imbibed their notions, and gained a taste for beer and spirits, with which they, in their ignorance of the injury they were inflicting, supplied him.

I think that we have now got a very good idea of Bloxholme, its inhabitants, and its neighbourhood. I must again warn my readers that none of the characters I have described were model people. Mr Heathcote himself certainly was not, nor was altogether Mrs Heathcote, nor was her brother, Mr Nugent; and the troubles and difficulties Digby brought upon himself, and the pain and suffering he endured, will show that he is intended for a warning rather than an example.

I must not, however, forget my old friend John Pratt—a very worthy, honest fellow. He was a sort of under steward on the property. He looked after the cows, and pigs, and poultry, and sheep, and young colts. He assisted in the kitchen garden, but did not profess to know much about flowers. He acted also as a gamekeeper, but he was especially great in fishing matters, and everything connected with the ponds and the rookery. He always decided when the young rooks were to be shot, and when the ponds were to drained or drawn. He superintended the taking of all wasp’s nests. He had charge of the ferrets, the hawks, and dogs; and as to vermin, the stoats, and the weasels, and polecats, and even the rats, it was supposed had positively an instinctive dread of him. He was a tall, thin, wiry man, with a bald forehead, and grey hair, and a keen intelligent countenance. Digby was very fond of him, and he in return doted on the young master, and would have gone through fire and water to serve him. He had already contrived to instruct Digby in many of the secrets of his science, and as he used to say, “It was a pleasure to teach Master Digby, he took to it so kindly, and was afraid of nothing. He’d grapple with a weasel, or a snake, or a pike, and not cry out for help, when most other young ’uns would a been running screaming away from them. To see him once tackle-to with one of the big swans, and only a little stick in his hand, it was for all the world like St. George a-fighting the dragon, just as you see on a gold sovereign.”

Digby, however, had, in the encounter mentioned, very nearly got his arm broken, and would in other ways have suffered probably severely had not John come to the rescue. It proved, however, the fearlessness of his disposition, which had so won John Pratt’s admiration. John Pratt himself feared no mortal foes; but the poorer classes in that part of the country were excessively superstitious, and he partook to the full of the general feeling.

Whereas, happily, throughout England generally, the grosser styles of superstition have been in a great degree eradicated by the exertions of the ministers of the Gospel and by the spread of education, in some parts, and this was one of them, all the absurd notions in which our ancestors indulged in the dark ages have been handed down to the present generation. Ghosts, hobgoblins, witches and their secret powers, charms, amulets, spirits of every sort, were believed in with undoubting faith. Education had not spread into the district, and, unfortunately, the clergymen who had successively ministered in that and the neighbouring parishes had done little or nothing to eradicate the pernicious and anti-Christian notions which were prevalent among the people. They had been what were called very good sort of men. They had preached very fair average sermons on a Sunday, and if people chose to come to church to hear them they were welcome to do so. If any of their parishioners were sick and sent for them, they went to them, with their Bibles in their pockets, from which, perhaps, they read a chapter or two, and, with a few ordinary words of consolation or advice, they hurried away as fast as they could. They hunted, and shot, and dined with Mr Langley and Mr Heathcote, and all the gentlemen round; and drank their wine, and told good stories, and amused themselves and those with whom they associated to the utmost of their power. They passed for worthy jolly good fellows, and no more was demanded of them. It never seemed to occur to them that they would have to answer some day or other respecting the souls of their fellow-creatures committed to their pastoral care. They wondered why there was so much ignorance and superstition in their parishes; why people did not come to church; why dissent was rife; why dissenting chapels were built; why the country people were so immoral; why there was so much drunkenness, folly, and wickedness.

John Pratt, as I was saying, notwithstanding all his good qualities, was a firm believer in witches, ghosts, and hobgoblins, and an arrant coward with regard to the spiritual world.

As Digby ran through the grounds he found him by the side of the lake, repairing one of the fishing punts. As he sat with mallet and blunt chisel in hand, driving the oakum into her seams, he was neither whistling nor smiling, as was his wont. So absorbed was he, indeed, in his own thoughts, that he did not observe the young master’s approach.

“What’s the matter, John?” said Digby; “you don’t seem happy to-day.”

John started, and looked up, “Oh, Master Digby, is that you? I didn’t see you, that I didn’t,” he exclaimed. “Happy, did you say, Master Digby? No, I ain’t happy by no means. I’m going to be bewitched; and that’s enough to make a man anything but happy, I’m thinking.”

“What does that mean, John?” asked Digby; “I don’t understand.”

“Why, Master Digby, you knows Dame Marlow—she as lives with her old man down in the gravel-pits at Mile-End—she’s a witch, and a wicked old body, if ever there was one in this world. Well, t’other day, as I was sauntering like down the green lane, who should I see breaking through the fence at the corner of the copse but the old Dame herself. She’d a bird in her hand, and as I ran up to her I found ’twas a hen pheasant. When she seed me she tried to hide it away under her red cloak, and, in her hurry, very nearly toppled down the bank on her nose, into the road. ‘Oh, Dame Marlow, Dame Marlow, what have you been about?’ I cried out. ‘You’ve been a-stealing master’s pheasants, that you have; you wicked old woman, that you are.’ Still I didn’t like to lay hands on her, do you see, for I know’d well what she was, and what she can do. On she went, hobbling away with her crutch as fast as I could walk, almost. At last she stopped, and turning round her face—oh how wicked and vengeful it looked, how her red ferret eyes glared at me—says she to me, ‘Who calls? Ay, is that you, John Pratt? Ay; and you’re seeking your own harm. You want to bring down a curse on your own head; you want to malign and injure a poor old body with a decrepit husband, who can’t help himself, do you? Speak, man—what is it you want?’ ‘I want master’s pheasant which you’ve been trapping, dame,’ says I; ‘and I must have it, too,’ says I, growing bold. ‘Ay, I see you want to be cursed,’ says she; ‘you want to have the marrow dry up in your bones, and the skin wither up on your flesh, and the hair fall off your head, and your eyes grow dim, and your teeth drop out, and your legs not to bear your body, and your hands to tremble,’—‘Stop, stop, dame,’ says I, ‘don’t curse me now; I’m only doing my duty. I want the pheasant back; I’d sooner give you its value than quarrel with you.’ ‘It’s too late,’ says she, looking more wicked than ever, and not trusting me, I suppose; ‘you’re bewitched already, and you’ll find it out before long, that you will, let me tell you.’ Saying this, on she hobbled, as before. I followed, thinking that I ought and must have the pheasant; but she turned upon me such a wicked look, and again hissed out, ‘You’re bewitched, John Pratt; you’re bewitched, man,’ that I couldn’t stand it, and had to run away as fast as my legs could carry me, while she set up a shout of laughter which is even now ringing in my ears.”

“Very horrid, indeed, John,” said Digby, who did not exactly know whether or not to believe in Dame Marlow’s powers. “But do you really think she can do what she says?”

“No doubt about it, Master Digby,” answered the old man, with grave earnestness; “you should just hear what all the folks in the country round do say of her. There’s no end of the cows, and sheep, and pigs, she’s bewitched in her time. Many’s the one she’s sent to their graves before their glass was run out, just because they’d offended her. Oh, she’s a terrible woman, depend on that, Master Digby.”

Much more nonsense of a similar character did poor John talk. I need not repeat it. Digby was almost persuaded to believe all that the old man told him.

This conversation was interrupted by a light, hearty fit of laughter. So eager had they become that they had not perceived that Kate had approached them, and had been an attentive and amused listener to much that had been said on the subject.

“All that you have been saying is arrant nonsense, John,” she exclaimed, unable longer to restrain herself; “and you, Digby, are a little goose to believe him. Why, Dame Marlow has no more real power over the elements or over her fellow-creatures than you or I, or her own black cat has. We’ll soon concoct a plan to make her undo her own curse, and to punish her, at all events. An idea just now came into my head when I heard you two wise people talking. Come along, Digby, to our island, and we’ll work it out. If it comes to anything, as I think it will, we’ll get John to help us; and we’ll make Dame Marlow repent that she ever pretended to be a witch, or threatened to injure any of the poor people who are silly enough to believe in her.”

From the hearty shouts of laughter which John soon heard coming across the water from the island, there could be little doubt that Kate’s idea was considered by her and Digby as a very bright one, and that, under the influence of their united wits, it was undergoing a rapid development.

John Pratt was amazed. He had great admiration of Master Digby’s physical courage. He felt a sensation approaching to awe as he contemplated the fearlessness with which Miss Kate proposed to encounter one who possessed such unlimited powers over even the spirits of darkness. “There’s the true old blood in their veins, that there is,” remarked John to himself, as he went on caulking the punt.

Chapter Two.

How Digby and Kate Carried out Their Plot—An Evil Counsellor—Youthful Tricks and Their Consequences.

As soon as Digby and Kate could make their escape from the schoolroom the next morning, they repaired to an attic, where all sorts of lumber was piled up, and refuse articles of every description were collected till some destination was assigned for them. Here they soon found what they came to look for. There was some rope, and the lining of a black gown, and some black silk, and a few bits of red cloth. The things were done up tightly in bundles, and, with delighted eagerness, they hurried off with them to the summer-house on the top of the mound. Soon after they got there, John Pratt appeared, with a bundle of hay.

“All right, John,” exclaimed Digby, “that will stuff him well. And have you got the other things I asked you for?”

“Yes, Master Digby, but there’s something I don’t half likes about the matter. It will look too horrid, I zuzpect.”

“Never fear, John; it will punish the old woman properly, and be great fun,” cried Kate, eagerly. “Give me the things; we shall soon be ready; and do you go down and keep ward and watch to give us timely notice of any one’s approach.”

Thus exhorted, John produced from his capacious pockets a couple of deer’s antlers and two deer’s hoofs, with the greater part of the skin of the legs attached to them. Kate eyed them with a merry glance. Digby did not half like to touch them, it seemed. The young lady was evidently the leading spirit on the occasion.

“That will do, John,” she said, with a nod. “Nothing could be better.”

John turned slowly, and went down the mound. His mind was evidently not quite satisfied with the work in which he was engaged. Still, he could not bring himself to refuse any of the requests made him by Miss Kate and Master Digby.

As soon as he had gone, Kate, who had been cutting up the black stuff, produced some large needles, and twine, and thread. Digby held the materials, and tied the knots as she directed him. It is surprising how rapidly her little fingers performed the work. She first made a ball, into which she fixed the two antlers.

“There is a capital head,” she remarked. “We will work in the eyes and mouth and nose directly.”

Then she made an oblong cushion, to serve as a body, and fastened the head to it. She next formed a pair of long arms, and made some pieces of skin do duty for the hands and fingers, while the two hoofs were secured to the end of the legs. With the red cloth, part of an old hunting-coat she made a mouth, and a long tongue sticking out of it; and then she made white eyes, with red eyeballs, and she fastened on a long hooked nose, rapidly formed with paper and the black stuff. Some shreds of the latter did duty as hair, and a twist of it, with a bit of red cloth at the end, as a tail. In a very short time the young lady had put together a very ugly little imp, which did more credit to her ingenuity and imagination than perhaps it did to her good taste. Digby, however, was delighted, and clapped his hands, and danced the figure about round and round the room, with fits of uproarious laughter. It was scarcely, however, completed in all its details when the sound of a bell reached their ears.

“Oh, we must run in, Digby, or they will be sending to look for us,” exclaimed Kate. “Here, we will put young Master Blackamoor away under the table. Nobody will be strolling this way, I hope; and, as soon as our afternoon lessons are over, we’ll come back and finish him, and get John Pratt to carry him to Mile-End for us.”

Telling John Pratt to meet them again at three o’clock, they hurried back to the Hall. Kate tried to look as grave as possible all dinner-time, but whenever hers and Digby’s eyes met, from their ill-repressed twinkle their mother saw that there was some amusing secret between them.

There were some guests taking luncheon at the hall. Among them was Mr Bowdler, the newly-appointed vicar of the parish. He watched the countenances of his young friends, and he saw that there was some joke between them. What it was he could not tell, and did not choose to ask. After luncheon he took his departure, and strolled through the grounds on his way home.

They got over their lessons very quickly—indeed, Kate was never long about hers—and off they hurried again to the mound.

“Where are you going to, children?” asked Mrs Heathcote, as they were running out.

“To the mound, to meet John Pratt,” answered Digby. “I’ll take care of Kate, that she doesn’t get into mischief. We are going to have a piece of fun, that’s all.”

This answer, from its very frankness, satisfied Mrs Heathcote, and away they went to carry out their scheme. As they approached the mound misgivings arose in their minds lest any body should have been there during their absence; but when they reached it, they found their ugly little imp in the position in which they had left him under the table, and their minds were satisfied on the subject. They now gave him the last few finishing touches, fastened on his tail, and secured a rope at his back. When they had done this Digby insisted on having another dance with him, and then John Pratt appeared with a large game basket. Into this, neck and crop, they stuffed the figure and the rope, and John carrying it, away they went laughing and chattering through the grounds in the direction of Mile-End.

“Now, John, you are to go into Dame Marlow’s cottage, and remember you are to sit down and ask her to take the curse off you,” said Kate. “She will say that she will not, and then you are to beg and entreat her, and to tell her that if she is so wicked that some one will be coming to carry her off one of these days, and then that she’ll have good reason to be sorry for what she has done. Leave the rest to us; only, if you do see anything come down the chimney, you are to run screaming away as if you were in a dreadful fright.”

“Yez, Miss Kate, I’ll do as you zays. But zuppose anything real was to appear, what should I do then?” said John, evidently repenting that he had entered into the young people’s scheme.

Kate thought a moment; Digby looked very grave; John’s fears were infecting him.

“I do not think any harm can possibly come, John,” said Kate, after some time. “You know we only want to frighten and to punish the old woman who stole the pheasants, and tried to frighten you. There cannot be any harm in that, surely.”

“I doan’t know, I doan’t know, Miss,” answered John, rubbing his head very hard, as he walked on faster than before, the children having to keep almost at a run by his side.

It was curious to see that little girl, with her bright, though just then misdirected, intelligence managing that gaunt, venerable-looking, but ignorant old man.

John’s education had been sadly neglected in his youth. When they got near the gravel-pits at Mile-End the party made a circuit to approach Dame Marlow’s cottage at the rear. It was a curious edifice, built down on a low ledge of the gravel-pit, one side of which formed the back wall, while the roof rested on the edge. The chimney was consequently very accessible; and Digby and Kate could without difficulty reach to the top, and look down it. John, having deposited the basket containing the imp went round to the front of the cottage, to be ready to perform his part of the drama. He had to descend to the bottom of the pit, which, with the exception of a narrow causeway, which led to the professed witch’s abode, was full of water. He crossed the causeway, and then winding up a zig-zag path, stood before the door of the cottage. Digby and Kate got their figure ready to let down the chimney. Though there was a fire on the hearth, it did not send forth sufficient smoke to prevent them from looking down and hearing what was going forward within the cottage. John knocked.

“Come in, whoever you bees,” exclaimed the old woman, in a harsh croaking voice. “Bad or good, old or young, little or big, rich or poor, if you’ve anything to zay to Dame Marlow she bees ready to hear you.”

“I bees come, dame, to ask you to take the curse off me,” said John, entering and sitting down. “Your zervant, Mr Marlow.”

A cough and a grunt was the only answer the old man deigned to give.

“Is that the way the wind blows? I thought az how you wouldn’t wish to make an enemy of me, John. There’s zome things that can be done, and zome that can’t. Now, when I’ze once bewitched a man it’s no easy matter for me, or anyone else, to take the curse off on him: so, do you zee, John Pratt, what I’ve cast at thee must stick by thee, man.”

The wicked old woman thought that she had got John in her power, and had no inclination to let him off easily.

Poor John begged and prayed that the dreaded curse might be taken off him; but the more earnest he seemed the more inflexible she became, and only laughed derisively at his fears. When he appealed to the old man, a grunt or a chuckle was the only answer he received.

“Then listen to me, both on you,” cried John, mustering courage, and recollecting his lesson. “You bees a wicked old couple, and zome on these days there will be a coming zome one who’ll make you sorry you ever cursed me, or any one else.”

Scarcely had he spoken when a noise in the chimney was heard, the pot on the fire was upset, out blew a thick puff of smoke, and, amid a shower of soot, a hideous little black imp appeared, jumping about; while frightful shrieks, which seemed to be uttered by him, rent the air.

John, with loud cries, jumped up, oversetting the table, and ran into the open air. The old man, attempting to follow, tripped up and fell sprawling on the ground; while the dame herself, catching hold of John’s coat tails, hobbled after him, exclaiming that she was a wicked old sinner, that she had no power to curse him or anybody else, and that she would never utter another curse as long as she lived. However, the shrieks and hisses from the chimney continued, and at last, overcome with terror, she fell down in a swoon.

Digby and Kate having ascertained that their device had taken the full effect they anticipated, hauled up their figure, and packing it away in the basket, in which operation they considerably blackened their hands and dresses, sat down till John should join them. Getting tired of doing nothing, they cautiously approached the edge of the gravel-pit, when, looking over, they saw the wretched old couple still on the ground. They were very much alarmed when they found that they did not move, thinking perhaps they had really frightened them to death.

“Oh dear, oh dear, I wish that we hadn’t done it,” exclaimed Kate, looking very miserable. “And I to have led you to help me. It was very naughty of me, I know. I know—I know it was.”

“Oh no, Kate, it wasn’t all your fault; I’m sure I thought it was very good fun,” answered Digby. “Perhaps, after all, they are not dead. I’ll go and have another look.” Digby approached near, stooping down, and when he looked over he saw the dame lifting up her head and gazing cautiously around. She did this more from instinct or habit than because she fancied any one might be near. Digby thought that she must have seen him. He crept back to Kate, satisfied, at all events, that she was not dead; and John Pratt soon afterwards joining them, he shouldered the basket, and they set off as fast as they could for the Hall. What to do with the imp, which had played so prominent a part in the drama, was a puzzle, till John undertook to carry it home, and burn it.

When they got back to the Hall the state of their dresses and their hands, which were more than usually dirty, caused some grave suspicions in the mind of Mrs Barker, the head nurse, who had to prepare them to come in to dessert, after dinner; and she was not long in ascertaining from Digby what had really occurred. She thought it very wrong in John Pratt to have assisted in such a proceeding; but he was a favourite, and she was afraid that if she made much of the matter she should bring him into trouble; she therefore merely gave Kate and Digby a lecture, and they fancied that they had escaped without any further ill result from their frolic. It happened, however, that that very evening a neighbour of Dame Marlow’s came running to the vicarage to say that the dame and her old man were both very ill, that they had something on their consciences, and that they wished to see the vicar and to disburden them.

Mr Bowdler was ever at the call of any of his poor parishioners who sent for him. Although he had but just finished his frugal dinner, and taken his books and sat down to enjoy himself after his own fashion, in communing in thought with great and good men. He rose from his seat, and said he would go immediately.

It was a fine moonlight night, and so he mounted his horse and trotted off to Mile-End. He found the old couple not nearly so ill as he expected, but still suffering very much from fear. I need not repeat in their own words what they said.

The dame confessed that she had done many wicked things, and that she had tried to impress people with a belief in her supernatural powers, though she knew that she was a weak old woman, without any power at all. At length, however, while she was endeavouring to frighten an honest man out of his senses, the spirit of evil had himself appeared down the chimney, and very nearly frightened her and her husband out of theirs. What she had sent to Mr Bowdler for was, it appeared, not so much to say how sorry she had been, but to entreat him to exorcise the evil spirit, so that he might not venture to come back again.

Mr Bowdler looked grave. He might have said that prayer, and penitence, and watchfulness, were the only preventives against the approach of the evil one. However, in the present instance, he did not like to say this. The fact was that he had become completely enlightened from what he had just heard as to the true state of the case. After taking luncheon at the Hall, he had strolled, as he had been requested to do, through the grounds. The day being very fine, and not having been before at the Mound, he hunted about till he found his way through the labyrinth, and then he climbed up to the summer-house to enjoy the view which, he had been told, could be seen from it. Just as he was leaving the building, the little imp under the table had caught his eye. He pulled out the monster, and could scarcely help indulging in a smile as he examined it. He doubted, however, whether he ought to leave it there, or carry it off; but guessing from the workmanship that young hands had formed it, and recollecting Kate and Digby’s glances at luncheon, he had little difficulty in guessing that it was the produce of their ingenuity. Had he been less of a stranger, he would, I have no doubt, have taken it away, or stopped and remonstrated with them on the impropriety of making such a figure; but he was a judicious man, and he feared that he might injure his future usefulness in the family by appearing officious. He was a man who only placed confidence in good principles. He believed that preaching against one sin, or one fault, and leaving sin in general, evil dispositions unassailed, produced no permanent effect. However, he resolved to keep his eye on his young friends, and to speak to them when he could find a favourable opportunity. He now at once discovered how the figure had been employed, though he could scarcely persuade himself that Kate and Digby alone could have carried out by themselves the drama which had evidently been enacted. He did not mention his suspicions to the old couple, but he strongly urged them to repent of their evil ways, and to resolve in future to lead better lives. He assured them that neither he nor any other mortal man had the power of exorcising evil spirits; and they were silly old people to fancy so. As to what they had seen, he did not choose to pronounce an opinion; but he told them that they ought to have stopped and examined it, and that then they would probably not have been so much frightened. He was not very well satisfied, however, with the result of his visit.

“This is a pretty prank for these young people to play,” said he to himself, as he rode home. “It is high time that Master Digby should be sent to school, and that Miss Kate should have a governess to look after her. If something is not done they will be getting into some worse scrape before long. I must try and speak to Mr Heathcote on the matter. He appears to think that they are still babies, and never seems to dream of the rapid development of their genius for mischief.”

Not long after this, Julian Langley, who had not yet been sent to school, was invited to spend a few weeks at the Hall. From what I have said it may be supposed that he was not likely to do Digby any good. Kate, from the first, could not abide him; and even John Pratt looked at him with no little suspicion. Julian was tall for his age, with a slight figure, fair, with light hair, and an inexpressive rather than a bad countenance. I believe that his was one of those characters which may be moulded without difficulty either for good or for ill, according to the hands into which they fall. Nothing would have made Julian Langley a very great man, or a very important member of society; but he might have become, by proper care and culture, useful in his generation, and religious and happy. Alas, poor fellow, how different was his lot. He could discourse very learnedly about horses and dogs, and all sporting matters; and of course Digby thought him a very fine fellow. It was not long before he led Digby into a variety of scrapes.

The first Sunday after his arrival all the family went to church. The Bloxholme pew had very high sides and curtains, and was directly in front of the pulpit, the preacher being the only person who could look directly down into it. Outside it, also facing the pulpit, there had, from time immemorial, been seats for a number of poor and old people. One of the occupants was an old man, who wore a scratch-wig; he was very deaf, also, and as he could not hear a word the vicar said, he invariably fell asleep during the sermon, and, as was often the case, if he had any cold, snored loudly.

Stephen Snookes was certainly not a nice old man, and Digby and Kate had no affection for him. People complained of his snoring; and the vicar had more than once spoken to him about the impropriety of his conduct in going to sleep during the sermon. Stephen promised to try and amend; but the next Sunday invariably committed the same fault.

Julian and Digby had sat quiet during the beginning of the sermon; but when old Snookes began to snore, they got up on their seats and looked over down upon the head of the delinquent. As it happened, they had heard, the evening before, a very sad, but very beautifully written tale, read in which the unhappy hero, in the days of his boyhood, hooks off an old man’s wig in church. Undeterred by the sad fate which ultimately befel the hero, Julian Langley was seized with a strong inclination to imitate his example. Digby also jumped at the suggestion made to him by his companion on their way home from church.

As soon as luncheon was over they hurried to Digby’s room, where they supplied themselves with a fish-hook and a line. Their eagerness to accompany the Miss Heathcotes to church in the afternoon might have created just suspicions in the minds of some of the elders of the family, but it did not; and off they set in high good humour.

Sermon time came. Old Snookes fell asleep, his loud snoring gave notice of the circumstance. Julian and Digby stood up, and the hook descended, its barbs becoming entangled in the curls of the scratch-wig. The line was then drawn tight, and the end secured to the brass rod at the top of the pew. What was the horror of Mr Bowdler, when raising his voice, to see old Snookes suddenly bob his head, when, in the sight of a large part of the congregation, off flew his wig, it seemed, and up he stood, bare-headed. Putting his hands to his bald pate, he exclaimed, “I bees bewitched, I knows I bees! Oh, where is my wig? where is my wig?”

Even Mr Bowdler, who had observed the cause which had produced this effect, had some difficulty in keeping his countenance, while I am sorry to say his congregation did very little to keep theirs. He of course felt much vexed with the conduct of the boys. The wig was drawn up rapidly to the edge of the pew, and then it fell down again to the ground, from which the old man picked it up, and, in his hurry, clapped it on again hind part before.

Mr Bowdler felt that any good effects his sermon might have produced were too likely to be obliterated, and he resolved more than ever to advise Mr Heathcote to send Digby off to school.

Neither Digby nor Kate were aware that some time before this their parents had come to the resolution of obtaining a governess who might assist Mary in her studies, and take entire charge of them and Gusty. Their mother’s health had lately become much worse, and she was utterly unfit for the task she had imposed on herself. Only the day before the arrival of the lady they were told of the arrangements that had been made. Neither of them had formed any favourable notions of governesses in general, and Julian had assured them that those he had heard of would beat and pinch them and make them sit in the stocks, and keep them in at their lessons all day, and deprive them of their dinners. Long, indeed, was the catalogue of the enormities governesses were supposed as a class to commit.

“I should like to see anyone trying on those tricks with me,” exclaimed Digby, looking very fierce, “I would soon show them what I was made of!”

“Horrid old creature, I’ll not attend to her,” said Kate, pouting. “I’ll pretend to be as dull and stupid as a sick pig. She’ll find it very difficult to knock anything into my head, let me assure her.”

“Don’t you think that we could play her some tricks, just to make her sorry she came here?” suggested Julian. “I’ll show you how to make an apple-pie bed, and we can put salt into her tumbler at dinner, and we can pretend the cat is in the room and make a terrible fuss all dinner-time, so that she will fancy we do not hear a word she says to us. There’s no end of things I can put you up to, if you will be guided by me.”

Of the truth of this assertion of Master Julian’s there could be no doubt, but how far they were to be guided well was a very different question. That did not, perhaps, occur to his auditors at the time. Kate’s innate delicacy revolted from the idea of preparing an apple-pie bed for their new governess, especially if, as she fancied, she was an old lady, and might arrive fatigued after a long journey; but Digby thought it would be very good fun, and undertook to assist Julian in carrying out his proposal. While the two boys were discussing the matter, Kate was absorbed in meditation.

“I know one thing I should like to do,” she exclaimed. “I have often thought about it. It would give her a tremendous fright, and perhaps she would pack up her things and go off again at once.”

“What is it?” exclaimed the boys in a breath, for they knew that Kate’s ideas were generally very bright; “tell us all about it.”

“Then listen,” said Kate. “In the long gallery at the top of the house there are several pictures of old gentlemen and ladies, our ancestors I believe, in full bottomed wigs and hoops, and long coats and breeches, and swords and fans—and—that is to say, the gentlemen have some, and the ladies the other articles I mention,” she added, for she saw that the boys were laughing.

“Well, go on,” they exclaimed eagerly.

“Some of the portraits have been taken down and placed leaning against the walls. Now though when they were hung up they appeared as large as life, now they are on the ground the figures do not seem to so much taller than any of us. The fancy took me as I was looking at them to cut out the eyes, and to put mine in their stead; and I couldn’t help laughing at the idea of how frightened any one would be to see the eyes rolling about, and to hear at the same time a groan or a sigh, as if the portrait had all of a sudden become animated. After the idea had once seized me, I could not rest satisfied till I had put it in part into execution. There would have been no fun merely to put my eyes through two holes, so after I had cut out the eyes of an old gentleman, our great-great-great-grandfather, I believe, with a steel cuirass on his breast, and a heavy sword in his hand, I got a looking-glass, and just at dusk last evening, I carried it up and placed it on a chair before a portrait of the old knight. Then I got behind the canvas, and put my eyes at the holes and rolled them about till I caught sight of them in the glass. I very nearly shrieked with horror—the eyes looked so natural and bright, I quite forgot they were my own. I couldn’t endure it any longer, but had to run out of the gallery without looking up at any of the portraits, for I could not help fancying that I should see them all rolling their eyes round at me.”

“How dreadful,” said Digby, shuddering. “I wonder you could stand it, Kate.”

“Oh, I had to go up again to bring away the looking-glass, and as the old gentlemen and ladies all looked very quiet and demure, I soon got over my fright.”

“What, then, do you want us to do?” asked Julian. “Depend on it we’re up to anything.”

“I will tell you,” replied Kate. “There are two big pictures I have fixed on, I will cut out the eyes, and the nose, and the mouth of each of them, I can easily fasten them in again with gum. You shall go up as soon as it is dusk, and put your faces at the holes. I will then invite the new governess, Miss Apsley, I hear is her name, to come up and inspect our ancestors, and then you can sigh and groan, and then she is certain to take fright; and I’ll run away, and she will follow, and you must then set up loud shrieks of horrid laughter; and my idea is, that she will insist on going away, thinking the house is haunted, and never wish to come near it or us again.”

“Oh, glorious, grand, magnificent!” exclaimed the boys.

The terms were not very appropriate it must be owned. Little did the elders of the family dream of the mischief the children were committing among their ancestors in the picture gallery.

The morning came on which Miss Apsley was to arrive. John Pratt had fixed that same morning for draining one of the ponds. This was an operation at which very naturally the boys were anxious to be present. There were eels innumerable, and tench and perch in the pond, that was certain, and it was believed that there were also some giant pike, which refused to be caught by any of the baits thrown to them. They had no lessons to do that morning, so at an early hour they set off in high glee at the fun they expected. Even Gusty was allowed to accompany them, and Kate was to follow shortly. It was neither of the large ponds which was to be drained, but still it was one of considerable size. Even people of greater age might have been highly interested at the prospect of seeing the long-hidden depths of the pond exposed to view. John Pratt was in all his glory, and his attendants stood obedient to his commands. The sluices were forced up after a good deal of hammering, and out rushed the water in a dense rapid current, rushing down with a loud roar through the serpentine canal into the lowest lake, whence it found its way to the river. A net had been drawn across to catch any of the larger fish who might be drawn in by the current, but generally speaking the noise and unusual commotion made them seek what they fancied would be safety in the lower depths of the pond. The water was not allowed to run off very fast lest it should commit some mischief, so the operation was a long one. At length, however, the interest increased as shoals began to appear, and here and there an astonished tench or an eel was seen struggling away through the mud to get into the clearer liquid. The boys shouted and shrieked as they saw them.

“Oh there’s another big fellow,” cried Digby; “we must have him.”

“What a whopper,” exclaimed Julian; “I’ll bet he weighs a dozen pounds at least.”

“There goes another, there’s another—there’s another—oh! what a huge eel!” were the exclamations heard on every side.

John Pratt stood calm and collected. He knew that the moment of action had not yet arrived. Landing-nets were in readiness, and so was a flat punt with eel-forks, or prongs; indeed, he had omitted nothing that would enable him to capture any of the finny tribe on which he might set his eyes. At length the wished-for moment arrived. Nearly the whole bottom of the pond was laid bare, with the exception of a hole sufficiently deep to float the punt, and a narrow channel leading to it. The exposed parts of the mud were waving in every direction with the floundering struggling fish, while innumerable eels of all sizes were wriggling about and seeking for shelter. Just then Kate came down, almost breathless, to the pond. The boys had leaped into the punt with John Pratt, and were shoving off. Their jackets, and shoes, and hats, indeed, everything but their shirts and trousers, had been thrown aside, in imitation of John and the men who were assisting. They pushed back, yielding to her petitions to take her in. The punt was very narrow, John Pratt was tall, they were all very eager. The fish swarmed around them; some they took up with the landing-nets, the big eels John forked with his prong, the tench and perch they caught with their hands; the other men were wading about with landing-nets, putting the fish into buckets, to transfer them alive to another pond while this was being cleansed. The water still kept running off, and more and more fish appeared. The boys and Kate shrieked again and again with delight. Their eagerness increased. John was aiming his prong at a large eel, the young party all leaned over on the same side, not seeing that the other edge of the punt was on the mud. The bottom was slippery with the slime of the tench and eels, John’s foot slid away—in an instant over went the punt, and let them all out into the water and mud. At first Kate was frightened and shrieked, and Digby was alarmed on account of her and little Gusty, but he only laughed, and they soon found that there was very little water there, and that the bottom was hard, and so they thought it very good fun, and refused to get into the punt again. Away they went, floundering about in chase of the fish, covered from head to feet with mud, but thinking it very good fun. Digby’s fear was lest some big pike should catch hold of Gusty. He himself had a desperate tussle with a big fellow, which would have got away, or, perhaps, bit him, had not John Pratt come to his assistance. Certainly very curious figures were the four children, and no one would have supposed that they were the descendants of long lines of well-born, proud ancestors.

Scarcely had Kate left the house, when the expectant governess, Miss Apsley, arrived. After she had taken luncheon, as she was not tired with her journey, Mrs Heathcote invited her to take a stroll through the grounds to the ponds.

“We shall find the children there, and you will be able to observe them without being remarked,” said Mrs Heathcote. “I hope that you will think well of them, for they are, I believe, as well-behaved, tractable children as any in the county. Digby is a dear good boy, and Kate is a clever little thing, though slightly hoydenish I own, but every one may see at a glance that she is a perfect little lady as Digby is a gentleman. You will find no difficulty in managing them.”

Mrs Heathcote spoke with the pardonable pride of a mother. She was much pleased with the new governess, and wished to impress her with a favourable opinion of her children.

Miss Apsley, who was a very sensible, ladylike, right-minded person, thought that she should like Mrs Heathcote, and was congratulating herself on having such nice well-behaved little children placed under her charge. Engaged in pleasant conversation the two ladies drew near the ponds. Shouts and shrieks reached their ears, and expressions anything but refined, which Mrs Heathcote fancied must be uttered by some groom boys, or young gipsies, were heard. When they got in sight of the pond they both stood aghast. There were the children, on whom their mother had just been passing so warm an eulogium, covered from head to foot with black mud, shouting and bawling as they ran after the fish—the refined little ladylike Kate being in no better condition than her brothers, while Julian Langley, having in his eagerness thrown off all restraint, was shouting and swearing, and using expressions which would disgrace the lips of any but the most ignorant heathens.

Poor Mrs Heathcote was horrified. For some time so eager were the children that they did not perceive her. Kate was the first to see her mother and the strange lady, as she was chasing a big eel close up to where they were standing.

“Oh, mamma, the punt upset and we tumbled in and got all muddy, and so I thought that it was a pity to come out, and it is such fun,” she exclaimed, making a grab at the eel, and not thinking it at all necessary to appear ashamed of herself.

She probably was not aware of the very odd figure she, appeared. Miss Apsley smiled, but said nothing.

Poor little Gusty next came up, with his pockets full of the smaller fish he had managed to catch hold of. Digby was too much engaged to see anything but the fish he was chasing. Away he went, as indifferent to the dirt as any mud-larker on the banks of the Thames, floundering away after the fish, and throwing them as he caught them into the pails and baskets prepared for their reception.

“They seem to enjoy the amusement,” observed Miss Apsley at length; “I hope they will not catch cold.”

Mrs Heathcote was pleased that she did not speak in a satirical tone. She thought, however, that it was high time that the amusement should come to an end, so she desired Kate and Gusty to come out of the pond, and directed John Pratt, who at length caught sight of his mistress, to tell the other boys that she wanted them. John could not help feeling that the young people who had been entrusted to his charge were not in a very presentable condition, so he thought that he ought to make the best apology in his power.

“They bees very like young frogs, I does own, Mrs Heathcote, marm,” said he; “but they does take to it so kindly loike, I couldn’t find it in my heart to prevent them.”

I feel that I cannot do justice to worthy John’s peculiar provincial phraseology. Mrs Heathcote smiled. She did not think that John had paid her children any very great compliment. At last Digby and Julian came forth from the mud, without a single white spot about them—hands and face, and hair and clothes, all covered with mud. They were not at all pleased at being told to go into the house to be cleansed, for they were not nearly tired of their sport, but Mrs Heathcote was afraid of Digby’s catching cold, and was firm, though they pleaded hard to be allowed to remain.

“There mamma, there, see that huge pike,” exclaimed Digby, about to dart back again; “he’s one of the giant fellows we have been looking for all along, and thought he must have got out somewhere. I wonder you don’t feel inclined to jump in after him. There, they’ve caught him; he must be thirty pounds weight.”

Mrs Heathcote fairly laughed at the idea of her rushing into the mud in chase of a pike, but still Digby had to accompany her home. Whatever might have been his other delinquencies, he never had disobeyed her expressed wishes, for he loved her dearly. He and Julian, however, as they followed a little way behind, looked at the strange lady and thought that she had, in some way or other, something to do with their being called in. She was so ladylike and young, and nice-looking, and so different from what they had fancied the new governess was to be, that they never suspected that she was the awful and dreaded Miss Apsley.

Great was the dismay of Mrs Barker when the mud-besprinkled, or rather mud-covered children, made their appearance. Mrs Carter was summoned to give her assistance, and much soap and many tubs of hot-water were used before they were at all in their usual presentable condition. They scolded them much more severely than their mother had done. Poor little Gusty cried, and could not help fancying that he had been very naughty. When also Digby and Kate found that the lady with their mother was the new governess, and that it was owing to her arrival that they had been compelled to come in thus early, their hearts, in spite of her kind manner and nice looks, hardened towards her, and, instigated by Julian, they resolved to put into execution the plan which Kate had concocted. Mr Heathcote dined out that day, so the parlour dinner was soon over. Mrs Heathcote was fatigued, so lay down on the sofa and fell asleep. The boys had disappeared. The summer evening was drawing to a close. Now or never was the time. Kate had scarcely seen Miss Apsley.

“Will you come and look over the old house,” she said, at length, in a voice which trembled somewhat.

It was late, and getting dusk, but Miss Apsley was glad of an opportunity of having some conversation with her rather silent pupil, and consented readily.

Kate really was very much agitated, and repented of her undertaking before even she reached the picture gallery. She hurried through the other rooms; she felt that she was acting a treacherous part; she tried to talk, but her tongue clung to the roof of her mouth; still there was so much determination, or obstinacy some would have called it, in her composition, that she would not turn aside from her resolution. Miss Apsley guessed that there was something or other on her young friend’s mind, but made no remark. The gallery was reached. It was a long, wide, and high passage in the centre of the house, lighted at both ends and partially from the top. The portraits reached to the very roof, and looked very grim and dark—very few of them deserved much commendation as works of art. The gallery Kate thought looked more gloomy than ever; she could scarcely bring herself to utter a word.

“Come to the other end, marm,” at last she said in a faltering voice.

She could scarcely help running away and screaming even before she got to the portraits whose faces she had so ill-treated. She got up to them; she dared not look at them; she was certain that the eyes were rolling horribly. Miss Apsley walked calmly on. Kate thought that she saw the governess look first on one side, then on the other, but she was not certain. They reached the end of the gallery; there was a fine view from the window; the rich glow of that fine summer evening still lingered in the sky. Miss Apsley seemed to enjoy it very much, as she stood contemplating it for some time, till hill, and wood, and fields became so blended as to be scarcely distinguishable.

“We will now return to the drawing-room, Kate, if you please,” she said quietly.

Kate followed her. Again they reached the two portraits on the floor; there was a groan on one side, and what was meant for a sigh on the other. Kate was really frightened, and rushed off shrieking.

“Stop, stop, Kate, my dear, there is nothing to be alarmed about,” said Miss Apsley, in a calm voice. “Come back and see.”

As she spoke she caught hold of the nose of one of the portraits, which squeaked out “Oh, oh, oh!” Kate’s fancy was tickled, and she burst into a fit of laughter; her admiration, also, was much excited for her new governess. Digby came forth from behind the other portrait; Julian, whose nose had been caught literally in his own trap, drew it back as he did his tongue, which he had protruded as far as he could, and also came out looking very sheepish, without a word to say for himself.

Digby, however, in a manly way, at once said—“I beg pardon, Miss Apsley, I thought that we were going to play you a good trick, which would have frightened you very much; but I am glad it did not, and I am sure we are very sorry, and I hope you will forgive us.”

Miss Apsley’s calmness had won Digby’s admiration even in a greater degree than it had Kate’s.

“Yes, indeed I will,” she replied, pleased at his frankness. “It was silly and wrong in you, and the consequences might, in some instances, have been serious. I am bound to tell you this that I may warn you against playing such tricks in future; but as far as I am individually concerned I most heartily forgive you, and will entirely overlook the matter.”

Julian could not understand these sentiments, and thought Digby a very silly fellow to make what he called an unnecessary apology. They all went downstairs together, and then Kate took the governess to her room, and confessed that she had herself concocted the scheme which had so signally failed, and told her, indeed, all I have already described about the matter. With eager haste she undid, too, the apple-pie bed which Digby and Julian had made, and assuring her how different a person she was to what she expected, promised that she would never again attempt to play her another trick, and that she would be answerable that Digby would not either.

“Why did you come out and show yourself, Digby?” said Julian, when they were alone together. “I don’t understand your way of doing things; if you had groaned, as it was arranged, when that Miss Apsley and Kate first appeared, we should have put her to flight, and I should not have had my nose pulled—she knows how to pinch hard let me tell you.”

Digby confessed that she really was so nice a person that he did not like to frighten her, and that had he not undertaken to groan, he could not have brought himself to do so at all.

Julian only sneered at this, and said no more on the subject.

It was most unfortunate for Digby that he had at that time so evil a counsellor as Julian to turn him aside from the right course, in which Miss Apsley was so anxious and so well able to direct him. Often and often have boys been warned to avoid bad companions. Let me assure my readers, that they are the emissaries of the evil one, and that their vocation is to destroy, both in body and soul, all who come under their influence.

Chapter Three.

More Mischief—Julian’s Bad Advice—Digby’s First Tutor—How Time was Spent at Osberton—Toby Tubb and his Yarns.

There was a large gathering at Bloxholme Hall, both from far and near, of most of the principal families in the county. The house was full of those acquaintances of Mr and Mrs Heathcote who lived too far off to return the same night, but numbers came who were to drive home again the same evening.

There was an archery meeting in the morning, and then a dinner and a dance afterwards. Julian and Digby voted it very slow work. It was, probably, so to them. Kate liked the archery, and especially the dancing, for gentlemen asked her to dance, and chatted with her, and she skipped about like a little fairy, as merrily as possible. The boys had not gone in to the dinner, but they had helped themselves plentifully to the good things on which they could lay hands, and Julian especially had got hold of some wine. In consequence of this, he had become very pot-valorous.

“I’ll tell you what, Digby,” said he, “we must do something, or I shall go to sleep. This dancing is all nonsense. Come into the garden. I dare say I shall knock out an idea; it’s seldom I fail, when I try.”

That was true; but they were very bad ideas Master Julian knocked out.

Before long they found their way into the court-yard, where the carriages of the company were left standing by themselves. The horses were in the stables, pleasantly munching their corn. The coachmen and grooms were in the servants’ hall, as agreeably occupied in eating their suppers.

Julian went in and out among the carriages, and whatever rugs, or gloves, or wrappers, or halters he could find, he transferred from one carriage to the other.

“I say, Digby, it will be a capital joke,” he exclaimed. “When the fat old coachmen come out, they’ll all set to quarrelling. One will think that the other has stolen his things; and they will never dream that we did it.”

Digby thought the joke a good one, and helped to take the articles out of some carriages and to put them into others, till it was evidently almost impossible for any one, in the dark, to regain their lost property. When this was done, and the joke, as they called it, enjoyed, the boys sat down to consider what else they could do.

“I have a notion of something,” said Julian. “It is dangerous, because, if we were found out, we should get into a terrible scrape; but I should like to try it.”

“What is it?” asked Digby, eagerly. “As for the scrape, I don’t mind that; I rather like the risk.”

“Well, young ’un, that’s according to fancy,” said Julian. “I like to take care of myself, but still I like fun. My notion is, that if we were to take the linch-pins out of the carriages we should see a scene not often beheld. As soon as they begin to move, the wheels will go spinning off in every direction, and the people will be spilt right and left into the road. Wouldn’t it be fun?”

Digby did not think so. He could scarcely fancy that Julian was in earnest. “Why, some of the coachmen might be killed,” he exclaimed; “and the people inside would certainly be hurt.”

“Oh, nonsense,” answered Julian. “You are qualmish. I’ll do it. You just stand by and see. Look, they are out in a minute. Just untwist the wire. Here’s somebody’s chaise; I suspect it is the parson’s. There, he’ll get a spill. Now, then, this old family coach; it belongs to those old frumps the Fullers. Lord, what fun, to see them all sprawling out into the road.”

Thus Julian went on, Digby felt very much inclined to stop him, and to entreat him to replace the linch-pins; but Julian rattled away, and was so amusing, that his first feeling of the wrong to which he was a party wore off. It never occurred to him that, if he could not stop Julian, his wisest course would have been to tell the coachmen to look to their linch-pins. Fortunately, many of the carriages had been built in London, and were supplied with patent boxes, so that they escaped the contemplated mischief.

While the boys were thus engaged they heard some footsteps, and they guessed that the coachmen were returning from their suppers to look after their horses. They therefore beat a precipitate retreat through the gate which led into the garden, and quickly made their way into the ball-room.

Mr Bowdler was walking about the room, speaking a kindly word whenever he had an opportunity, both to young and old, of those among whom he had come to live, and whom he was anxious to instruct, and endeavouring, as he felt it most important to do, to win the confidence of all, when he saw the two boys return. Their hair was disordered, their shoes were far from clean, and there were thin lines of dust or mud on their jackets. Julian looked flushed, and Digby had a sheepish abashed manner, very different from that which usually distinguished him. He was very certain that they had been about something they should not, but the question as to what they had been doing he did not think fit to ask. It was already getting later than the hour which he liked to be away from home, so, wishing Mr and Mrs Heathcote good-night, in that pleasant cordial manner which had already gained him their good-will, he walked out to get ready his own carriage. The glass door of the house which led into the garden was open, and so was that which led from the garden into the court-yard. Near his own carriage he saw something shining on the ground. He stooped down, and picked up a clasp knife which he himself had given to Digby a few days before. A groom came and brought out his horse and harnessed it to his carriage. When, however, the man led it out to be clear of the other carriages, in crossing a shallow open drain, first one wheel came off, and then, to his surprise, another followed. As the carriage was moving very slowly, and no one was in it, there was little harm done.

Mr Bowdler said nothing. “That was a cruel trick of those thoughtless boys,” he uttered to himself. “They could scarcely have wished to injure me, but I fear they are the guilty ones.”

He and the groom hunted about till they found the linch-pins and the wires which kept them in, and, having examined the other wheels, he got in and drove off.

The groom, of course, wondered how it could have happened, but it did not occur to him to accuse the young gentlemen.

Soon after this, Mrs Fuller’s coach was ordered. The fat coachman put the horses to, and drove slowly up to the front door. She and four daughters, and two young sons, came down the steps, the first got in, and the latter got up outside, while Digby and Julian stood in the hall looking on. Digby nearly bit off the thumb of his glove in his eagerness, and hesitation and regret, as he watched for the catastrophe he expected. Julian, fancying that they were secure from detection, stood more in front, highly amused at the thoughts of seeing the fat coachman tumble off into the dust.

Just as they were starting, a carriage was heard coming rapidly along the road. The fat coachman thought that he ought to move out of the way, so he whipped on his horses and away they trotted. A stone had been cast on to the carriage-way—the old family coach bumped over it—off flew a wheel—over went the carriage, the coachman and the two lads were thrown off with no little violence, right and left, greatly to Julian’s delight, and the ladies screamed.

Fortunately the windows had not been drawn up, and no one was cut, but being stout people and closely packed, they were very much jammed together. The poor coachman was the most hurt, and the young men had their coats spoilt. They were on their legs in a moment, and while one helped up the coachman the other ran to the horses’ heads. The next thing was to get out the ladies, who, trembling and alarmed, reentered the hall. Grooms, and servants, and gentlemen, assembled from all quarters.

“Look at the other wheels,” said a voice.

It was that of Mr Bowdler. His mind had misgiven him that the trick which he had discovered might have been played to other carriages, and he had driven back. He returned to the coach-yard and warned the coachmen of what he suspected. He found them in a state of great commotion, all crying out for the things they had lost, one accusing the other of having appropriated them. Their anger was still further increased when, in accordance with Mr Bowdler’s advice, they discovered the linch-pins had been abstracted from several of the carriages, and that the necks of some of them had narrowly escaped being broken. They were loud in their threats of vengeance on the heads of the unknown ragamuffins who had committed the atrocious act.

“It’s they gipsies,” said one; “they’ve done it to rob the ladies as we drove along.”

“It’s some on old Dame Marlow’s tricks. I don’t think az how any one could a come in here to play zick a prank,” observed another, a believer in the Dame’s powers.

Some, however, ventured to suggest that as there were young gentlemen at the Hall, and young gentlemen did play very bad tricks at times, they might have done it. Opinion was setting very much in this direction, when John Pratt appeared, and was highly indignant that any such reflection should be cast on his young master.

Mr Bowdler having assured himself that no more harm was likely to occur, drove away again.

“I am not justified in allowing the boys to go on in this way,” he said to himself. “I must inform Mr Heathcote of what has occurred, and get them sent to where they will be properly looked after; I should like to get them separated; one will learn no good from the other.”

Meantime the disturbance in the coach-yard increased, and John Pratt had at last to summon his master from the ball-room to quell it. Mr Heathcote’s voice was now heard inquiring what was the matter, when a dozen people tried to give their own versions of the state of affairs.

“Very well, my friends,” said Mr Heathcote, after listening to them patiently, “keep the peace among yourselves for the present, and if the culprits can be discovered, I will take care, I promise you, that they shall be properly punished. And John Pratt, get more lanterns, and have all the things in the carriages collected, and distributed to the proper owners as they are claimed.”

Having said this, the master of the house returned to his guests. Julian and Digby, when they heard what Mr Heathcote had said, were in a great fright. Digby knew very well that what his father said he would do—that he assuredly would do. He had no hope of escaping detection, and was certain that he should be punished. Of course, he remembered that he had not actually taken the linch-pins out of the carriages, but he had stood by, if not aiding and abetting, at all events not making any strenuous effort to prevent the deed. He, therefore, never for a moment dreamed of sheltering himself under the plea that he had not touched the linch-pins. It scarcely occurred to him that Julian might have exonerated him in a great degree by generously declaring that he himself had proposed the trick and had carried it out. Had he been in Julian’s place, that is what he would have done; but he did not ask Julian to act thus for him, and he made up his mind to abide the consequences. He felt that any excuse he could offer for himself would throw more blame on Julian, and it did occur to him that even then his word might be doubted.

In the meantime Mrs Fuller’s carriage was put to rights, the coachman mounted on his box, the ladies were handed in, and the young gentlemen got up once more on the rumble, all of them very angry and annoyed, as well they might be, and some not a little bruised. Mr Heathcote assured them of his vexation at what had occurred, and promised them, as he had the coachmen, that he would get the culprits properly punished.

The party at length separated, and Digby, more unhappy and discontented with himself than he had been for a long time, went to bed and cried with very vexation till he fell asleep. It was a pity that his repentance was not of a more permanent nature.

The next morning he arose refreshed, and though he felt an unusual weight at his heart, yet he looked at things in a brighter light. Julian looked immaterial (as Kate called his expression of countenance) when he came down to breakfast, and had evidently made up his mind to brazen out the affair, should suspicion fall on him. The event of the evening naturally, however, became the subject of conversation, and Digby felt conscious that he was blushing, while he dared not meet the eye of any one present. He eat away perseveringly at his breakfast, and bolted so hot a cup of tea, that he scalded his mouth, and was about to make his escape, when his father’s eye fell on him. Digby knew it, though he did not dare to look up, and Mr Heathcote felt very nearly certain that the culprit was his own son. Had he doubted it much, he would have asked him, in joke, if he could tell how the affair happened; but he was silent, and felt sad and annoyed. He was sorry to suppose that Digby had been guilty of so foolish and really wicked an act, and his pride too, of which he had a good deal, was hurt at the thought of having, in accordance with his word, publicly to punish him.

All doubts were at an end when, in a short time, Mr Bowdler appeared, mentioned what he had ascertained, and firmly recommended the course he thought ought to be pursued.

“You are right,” answered Mr Heathcote, “but he is such a child—it seems to me but the other day that he was a baby. Let me see, how old is he? Ah, to be sure, I went to school at an earlier age. Old or young, I am bound to punish him, however. Yet stay, we have no right to condemn him unheard.”

Mr Heathcote rang the bell, and ordered the servant to send in Master Digby to him. He felt very like that Roman father we read about, who condemned his own son to death.

“Digby,” said Mr Heathcote, when his son and heir stood before him, “did you take the linch-pins out of the carriages last night?”

Digby thought a moment.

“No, I did not,” he answered firmly.

“Do you know anything about the matter,” said Mr Heathcote, somewhat astonished but firmly believing the assertion. Oh what a blessed thing is that perfect confidence in the honour and truthfulness of those connected with us.

“Do you say that I must answer that question, papa?” said Digby.

“I do not wish to force you to say anything,” remarked Mr Heathcote, “but I do wish to ascertain how the circumstance occurred.”

Digby thought for some time, while his father sat looking at him.

“I should like to know how you intend to punish the person who committed the mischief,” he said at last.

“If you had done it, I should probably have flogged you, and have sent you off to school, as soon as I could find a suitable one. That would have been a lenient punishment for you. A poor boy would be flogged and sent to the house of correction.”

“Then you must send me to school, papa, though I should be glad if you would omit the flogging,” replied Digby, frankly. “I will not say who played the trick; but, as I see somebody ought to be punished, I’m ready to suffer, as I think I ought.”

Mr Bowdler was very much interested in hearing this conversation, and certainly thought very much better of Digby than he had before been inclined to do. “There is a great deal in that boy which may bring forth good fruit, if it is properly developed,” he said to himself. It made him very anxious that Digby should go to some school where the moral as well as intellectual qualities of the boys were attended to.

Mr Heathcote did not wish to press the matter further on his son. He was convinced that he was innocent of the act committed, and he had no doubt of the real delinquent. Still he was very unwilling to have to punish Julian, and he wished to pass the matter over, unless the boy was positively accused before him of the crime. Digby was told that he might go back to the schoolroom and prepare for Mr Crammer.

Mr Bowdler had heard Mr Nugent, Mrs Heathcote’s brother, very highly spoken of, and he recommended that Digby should be placed under him till a good school could be found.

Mr Heathcote liked the notion. He could not bear the idea of having Digby far separated from him. Not that he saw much of the boy, but he liked to feel and know that he was near him. He fancied that he was getting on very well with Mr Crammer, and, now that so excellent a governess had come to instruct him, he thought that his education would be well provided for. He promised Mr Bowdler, therefore, that he would ride over to Osberton and get his brother-in-law to take charge of Digby.

Mr Bowdler, on his part, undertook to make inquiries for a good school for the boy.

“I will send young Julian home,” said Mr Heathcote. “I see no particular harm in him. He seems a quiet, inoffensive lad; but, as you think it advisable, it will be a good excuse for separating the two.”

“Yes, a very good excuse,” said Mr Bowdler.

Julian had been with Digby when the footman summoned him into his father’s presence. He waited anxiously for his return.

“You’ve not peached, I hope, Digby?” said he.

“No, indeed,” answered Digby, rather proudly. “I wasn’t going to tell a story, either. Your name wasn’t mentioned, so you need not be afraid.”

“That’s jolly,” exclaimed Julian, brightening up. “I was afraid that you would be letting the cat out of the bag.”

“I don’t know exactly what that means,” answered Digby; “I said that if some one was to be punished I was ready to suffer, and so I’m to be sent off to school, and that’s not very pleasant, let me tell you. Not that I mind the idea of school. It may be a very good sort of place; but I don’t like to have to leave so many pleasant things behind me. What will my poor dear old dog Tomboy do without me? And there’s my pretty pony Juniper, which papa only bought last spring for me, and which I’ve taught to know me and follow me about the field like a dog. How many pleasant rides I expected to have on him; and he will have forgotten all about me when I come back. Then I was to have gone out shooting with John Pratt in September; and I’m pretty certain papa would have got me a small gun, for I know he would like to see me a good shot; he’s a first-rate one himself. John says he’ll back me up to kill a brace of partridges within a week after I get my gun; but all that’s come to an end. Then we were to have had such capital fishing. John has been getting my tackle ready for me, and has made me a prime rod, much better than can be bought in the shops. Trap and ball, and hoops, and cricket, and marbles—not that I ever can endure marbles—and rounders, and prisoner’s base, and all those sort of games, can be had at school even better than at home, with the fellows one may pick up; so that won’t make any difference. But, as far as I can make out, they don’t let one go out birds’-nesting, or ferreting, or cross-bow shooting, or badger hunting, or any of those sort of things which John Pratt is up to. Schools must be very slow places, that’s my opinion. I don’t suppose we might even blow up a wasps’ nest, if we were to find one. If John Pratt might go and live near, and take me out every day, and have some fun or other, I shouldn’t mind it. Then, you see, I don’t like leaving Kate and little Gusty. What Kate will do without me I do not know at all. I hope Miss Apsley will treat her kindly; if he don’t I’ll—” and Digby looked very fierce, but said nothing more.

“If you don’t like school, all you’ve to do is to run away,” said Julian, ever ready to offer evil counsel. “That’s what I would do, I know; or, if you don’t like the idea of going there, run away before. Send to me, and I’ll help you; I’m always ready to help a friend in need.”

“Thank you,” said Digby; “oh, I know you would be, but I promised my father that I would go willingly if he wished to send me; so go I must.”

Julian might have urged that promises were like piecrust, as the vulgar saying runs, made to be broken: but he already knew enough of Digby to be aware that such an opinion would have no response in his bosom, so he only said, “Well, when you get there, and change your mind, only let me know, and I will help you if I ran.”

Julian, two days after this, to his astonishment found that his things were packed, and his father’s carriage coming to the door, he was told that after he had had some luncheon he was to go home. Mr and Mrs Heathcote, however, wished him good-bye very kindly, and so did the Miss Heathcotes, and of course Digby did, so he began to hope that nothing had been discovered. No one, however, said that they hoped soon to see him again. He went away smiling in very good humour with himself, and tolerably so with the rest of the world. The next day Digby was sent off to Mr Nugent’s; this he did not at all like; he would rather have gone to school at once. He recollected how very slow he had always thought the life there—the hours were so regular and early, and he had no field-sports of any kind to indulge in. Kate, however, promised to keep up a constant correspondence with him, and to tell him all that went forward at home. He undertook to write long letters to her in return, at which she smiled, for hitherto he decidedly had not exhibited any proficiency either in orthography or calligraphy, indeed it required a considerable amount of patience and ingenuity to decipher his epistles. Digby loved his father and mother well, though I have not said so; he had an affectionate parting from them. John Pratt drove him over to Osberton. His uncle received him in a very kind way; he did not allude in the slightest way to any of his late misdemeanors. There were four or five other boys there as pupils, considerably older than he was. They seemed very quiet, well-behaved lads, and perfectly happy and contented with their lot. Mr Nugent, though strict in insisting on his directions being obeyed, evidently ruled by love rather than by fear. Mrs Nugent was also a very amiable, kind person, who took a warm interest in the lads committed to her husband’s charge. Digby had before seen very little of his aunt. Before he had been there many days he felt that he liked her very much. Really the time was much more pleasantly spent than he expected. Mr Nugent was never idle for a moment; when out of doors he was always moving about visiting his parishioners; in the house, he was superintending the studies of his pupils, or writing or reading himself. In an evening he would always read some interesting book to them—he never failed to select one with which they were anxious to go on; he encouraged those who could draw, or net, or make models of wood, or pasteboard, to go on at the same time with their manual occupations. Digby could do nothing of the sort. His notion of drawing was very limited indeed; however, his aunt undertook to teach him. By learning how to hold his pencil properly, and to move his hand freely, he was surprised to find what rapid progress he made; he first had very simple sketches to copy—houses and barns, the greater number of the lines in which were perpendicular or horizontal. She would not let him have any other sketches till he had learned to draw what he called the up and down, and the along lines properly.

“You must do that again, Digby,” she used to say in her laughing, kind tone. “I make my houses stand upright, and I cannot allow you to let them tumble down. Till you have learned to build up a barn or a cottage you must not attempt to erect a church or a castle. See, you will be able, if you persevere, to do drawings like these.”

And she showed him some very attractive coloured sketches, well calculated to excite his ambition to equal them. The books, too, his uncle read, or which he allowed one of the other boys to read, were frequently very amusing, though instructive fictions—accounts of the adventures and travels of lads, just such as boys like; sometimes history was read, and always once in the week some very interesting book on religious subjects. It is a great mistake to suppose that such subjects cannot be made interesting, independent of their vast, their unspeakable importance. Altogether Digby found the evenings pass much more pleasantly than he had when he spent them in the idle, do-nothing way to which he had been accustomed at home. What numbers and numbers of valuable hours are thrown away—not even spent in amusement, but literally in doing nothing, and in being discontented, and sleepy, and stupid, which might and ought to be employed in so profitable and interesting a manner. Mr Nugent frequently spoke to his pupils on the subject of the proper employment of their time, and although many had come to him as accustomed to idle and waste it, as was Digby, they very soon, from experiencing the pleasure and advantages it afforded them, began to wish to spend it profitably. He used to remark—“Never suppose that you are doing no harm when you are idle. Remember, in the first place, that ‘Satan finds some evil still for idle hands to do;’ so you are voluntarily exposing yourself to his temptations. In that alone you are wrong; but also understand that time is given us to be employed aright; that is tilt tenure, so to speak, on which we hold our existence; our intellects, our talents, our strength, our faculties of mind and body, were bestowed on us for that object. Boys and young people, and even grown men and women, fancy they were sent into the world only to amuse themselves. If they have wealth at their disposal they think that they are at liberty to spend their time in as pleasant a way as possible, and as for reckoning up each day what good thing they have done in the world, and saying how have I employed the talent entrusted by my Maker to my charge, such an idea never comes into their heads; but, my boys, I want it to come into your heads and hearts, and to fix it there firmly. If you have wealth at your disposal, consider, and reflect, and pray, that you may be guided how to employ it aright; if you are compelled to labour for your existence, work away with a willing heart and hand, always remembering that you are labouring in the sight of God, and that he approves of those who are doing their best to perform their duty in that state of life into which he has called them.” Digby listened to these remarks; they were quite new to him, and he did not entirely understand them; but they made an impression, and got stowed away somewhere in the crannies of his mind and heart, and in after years found their way to the surface to some effect. Digby got on much better with his lessons than he had done with Mr Crammer. All that gentleman seemed to aim at was to make him say a lesson; he learnt to say his Latin grammar glibly enough, and to answer set questions in geography and history; and as to his comprehension of what he was repeating, no inquiries were made. The consequences may be supposed, and poor Digby, with fair natural abilities, possessed the very smallest modicum of the information which the books he had read were capable of affording. Mr Nugent, on the contrary, cared little how a pupil said his lessons from a book; his object was to put information into his head, and not only to make it stay there, but to show him how to employ it profitably when required. He used to explain that dictionaries, and grammars, and delectuses, and graduses, and pens, and ink, and paper, and the art of reading, were only so many mechanical contrivances for acquiring knowledge. The first thing to be done is to learn to use them to the best advantage.

(Note: a Gradus is a textbook used to train people learning Latin in the art of writing Latin verse, especially hexameters and pentameters.)

“Now, Marshall and Digby, take those two Latin dictionaries, and find me out the meaning of the words Luna circum terram movetur.”

Marshall placed his dictionary well before him, rapidly turning over the leaves with the thumb of one hand, while he held them fast with the other: as his quick eye caught sight of them, he wrote them down on a piece of paper by his side.

Digby fumbled away awkwardly, going backwards and forwards, showing clearly that he did not know how to handle a dictionary. “What were the words you said, Uncle?” he asked at last.

Marshall had looked out and written all his down and poor Digby had actually forgotten them before he had been able to find one of them out.

“The moon moves, or is moved, round the earth,” said Marshall, quietly.

“Now you see, Digby, the advantage of being able to turn over the leaves of a dictionary rapidly,” said Mr Nugent. “Of two people with equal talents, the one who possesses that simple mechanical power to the greatest perfection will beat the other, in as far as he will gain the information for which he is seeking in so much less time. A rapid, clear writer, and a person with a quick observant eye, has a great advantage over those who do not possess those qualifications.”

Digby very well understood these observations, and set to work to practise turning over the leaves of his dictionary and in looking out words, till, with no little triumph, he proved that he could find out a word almost as quickly as Marshall.

It was not, however, all work and no play at Mr Nugent’s. He was near a river as well as near the sea, and, though he did not wish to give the boys a taste for a naval life, yet he was anxious that they should be instructed in rowing and sailing a boat, and in swimming. Digby had prided himself in being a proficient for his age in all manly sports, but he found that he was very inferior to his fellow-pupils with regard to those connected with the water. It was satisfactory, however, to find from Marshall, who became his chief friend, that when they first came they were no better than he was. They were mostly as ignorant, and accustomed to be idle, and knew nothing of aquatic amusements. Mr Nugent, who was very fond of boating, though he had little time to spend in it, occasionally went out with them; but on other occasions they were committed to the charge of an old seaman, Tobias Tubb by name. Of course he was always called Toby Tubb, or still more familiarly spoken of as Toby. Toby had served in all sorts of craft, from a line-of-battle ship to a collier, and, report said, at one time in a smuggling lugger; but he had good reasons for not wishing that circumstance to be alluded to. He was loquacious enough, however, with regard to all the other events of his life, which he pumped up from time to time from the depths of his memory, and sent them flowing forth in a rich stream for the benefit of his hearers. He was a great favourite with the boys, who delighted to listen to his yarns; and he took an interest in his young charges, and was equally pleased to describe the events of his nautical career. His boat was a fine wholesome craft, eighteen feet long, with good beam. She had a spritsail, jib, foresail, and mizen. Never did he appear so happy as when he had them all on board for an afternoon’s sail. Tubb was a very appropriate name for him. He was somewhat stout and short, with a round, ruddy, good-natured countenance, a bald forehead, and white hair on either side of it. He was all roundness. His head was round, and his face was round, and his eyes, and his nose, and his mouth were round. His nose was like a very funny little round button; but it looked so good-natured, and cocked up so quaintly, that the boys declared that they would not have it changed on any account for the first Roman nose in existence. No more, probably, would Toby, who had been very well contented with it for full sixty years, it having, as he said, served him many a good turn during that period. “No, no; we should never be ashamed of old friends who have been faithful and true, and wish to exchange them for finer folk,” he used to remark, when, as was sometimes the case, his fellow-boatmen humorously twitted him about his lose.

The first day that Digby went out in the John Dory, as Toby called his boat, he discovered his ignorance of nautical affairs. He had day after day been on the ponds at Bloxholme, but then John Pratt had rowed him about, and he had never thought of learning to row himself.

The river was wide at the mouth, and, as there were deep sheltered bays, it was a good place for rowing. When sailing, however, it was necessary to be careful, for gusts often came down suddenly between the cliffs, and had frequently upset boats the people in which had not been ready to let go the sheets in an instant. There was no wind this day.

“Now, young gen’man,” said Toby, looking at Digby, “you’ll just take an oar and pull with the rest?”

“Oh yes,” answered Digby, who was always ready to undertake any manual exercise, “I’ll row.”

Marshall and the other boys got out the oars. Toby eyed Digby, and guessed, by the way he handled his oar the state of the case. However, Digby persevered in silence.

The boat slowly receded from the shore, Toby steering. Digby, who sat about midships, looked at Marshall, and Easton, and Power, who sat further astern, and tried to imitate their movements. He did so very fairly. He thought that he was performing his part wonderfully well.

Toby’s nose curled more than usual as he looked at him.

“Give way, my lads, give way,” he sung out.

The other boys instantly bent to their oars, and made much more rapid strokes than before. Digby had not the slightest notion what “giving way” meant. He only knew, to his cost, that he gave way, for his oar caught in the water, and over he toppled on his back to the bottom of the boat.

“Caught a crab, caught a crab,” sung out the other boys, laughing.

Digby jumped up immediately, full of eagerness, not minding his bruises a bit.

“Have I? Where is he? where is he? Let me see him,” he exclaimed.

This made the rest laugh still more.

“It’s only the sort of crab most young ge’men catches when first they begins to learn to row,” said Toby; “jump up and take your oar, and you’ll soon catch another, I warrant.”

So Digby found, but he was not a boy to be beat by such an occurrence. Each time he jumped up as quickly as he could, and grasping his oar, went on pulling as before.

“What do you mean by ‘Give way?’” he asked, when he discovered that these words invariably produced the unpleasant results.

“I means much the same as the soldier officers does when they says ‘Double quick march.’”

“Oh, I see, we are to make the boat go as fast as we can,” observed Digby.

After that he caught fewer crabs, Toby having also advised him not to dip the blade of his oar so deeply in the water. In a few days he learned how to feather his oar, that is, when lifting the blade out of the water, to turn it, so as to keep it almost horizontal with the surface. This is done that it may not hold wind, and in a rough sea, that it may be less likely to be struck by a wave, or if it is, that it may cut through the top. He also learned to keep time with the rest, a very essential requisite in rowing.

“You’ve done capitally,” said Marshall, after they landed the first day, “many fellows have been here for some time before they have done as well.”

This praise encouraged Digby, and he determined to learn to be a good boatman. He expressed his intentions to Toby. The old man laughed.

“You’ll be good enough in time, I’ve no doubt, master, but it will take you some years before you are fit to be trusted. There’s nothing but experience will make a sailor. You must be out in gales of wind, and have all your sails blown away, and your masts carried over the side, and find yourself on a lee shore on a dark night, with rocks close aboard, and no room to wear, and the wind blowing great guns and small arms, and a strong current running here and there, and setting you on to the coast; and then, if you find means to save the ship, I’ll allow that you’re something of a sailor.”

Digby did not know what all this meant, but he thought the description very dreadful, and certainly he had no notion how he should act. As, however, he had no wish to become a real sailor, that did not trouble him. Easton, however, took in every word that was said. He had set his heart on going to sea, and none of the descriptions of shipwrecks and disasters in which the old man indulged had any terrors for him. They only the more excited his ardour, and he longed to encounter and overcome them.

When Toby Tubb saw that Digby could row fairly, he began to teach him to sail a boat.

“First you have to learn how to steer, Master Digby,” he observed; “look over the stern, you see how the rudder is, now put your hand in the same line above it. Now I press against your hand, the water is pressing just in the same way against the rudder. If you keep your arm stiff, I should make you turn round. Now, the rudder is stiff as long as you don’t let the tiller move, and so the water turns the boat round. Now put the tiller over on the opposite side, then you see the boat also turns the opposite way. You understand, to steer you must be going on, or, what’s the same thing, a current must be running past you. If there is no movement in the water, you may wriggle the tiller about as much as you please, and you can’t turn the boat’s head. Just understand, too, that the water is a thing that presses. It will give way, certainly. It is not like a rock, but still it presses all around you. That’s the reason why a vessel sails stem first, that is to say, she cuts the water with the sharpest part, if the sails are trimmed properly to make her do so. You may trim the sails to make her sail stern first, or if there’s a gale of wind right abeam, she goes partly ahead, but also drives before it with her side, that’s what we call making lee way. Now as to the sails, you see, we have to balance them, or to trim them, as we call it. Once, I’m told, ships were only made to sail right before the wind. Funny voyages they must have been, I’m thinking. What a time they must have been about them, waiting for a fair wind; no wonder they didn’t get round the world in those days. Now, you see, we can sail not only with the wind abeam as close, as four and a half points to the wind in fore and after craft. Still if we want to get where the wind blows from, we could never do it if we couldn’t tack ship, and sail away four and a half points on the other side of the wind. That’s what we call working a traverse. Away a ship sails, zig-zagging along if there isn’t too much wind to blow her back, every tack making good some ground till she reaches the port to which she’s bound. That’s what I calls the philusfy of navigation. But I haven’t yet told you how the sails act on the vessel. You see the wind presses on them, just as the water does on the hull. The better you can get the wind to blow on them at what they calls a right angle, the greater force it has. So in a square-rigged ship, if you can bring the wind a little on the quarter, so that every sail, studden-sails, alow and aloft, can be made to draw, you’ll have the greatest pressure on the sails, and send the ship on the fastest. But we come to balancing, when a ship is on a wind. If all the sail was set forward, it would turn her head round, or if all was set aft it would turn her stern round. So we set some forward, and some aft, and some amidships, and then we trim them together properly, and away she goes in the direction we put her head. Then, you see, if we want to turn her head round we shake the wind out of her after sails, or trice them up, and if we want her stem to go round, we do the same with her head sails, and that, Master Heathcote, is what I calls the theory of sailing. There’s a good deal more for you to learn before you will be fit to be trusted in a boat by yourself, but if you keeps close to those principles, you can’t be far wrong in the long run.”

Such was Digby’s first lesson in seamanship. He did not take in all that was said to him; indeed he was rather young for comprehending the subject, but it made him think and inquire further; and Toby Tubb was perfectly satisfied that his lessons were not thrown away.

“It’s very strange,” soliloquised Toby, “the fathers and mothers of these young ge’men pays lots of money to have ’em taught to ride and dance, and to speak Latin and French, and all sorts of gimcrack nonsense, and not one in a thousand ever thinks of making them learn how to knot, and splice, and reef, and steer, and to take an observation, or work a day’s work, which to my mind is likely to be far more useful to ’em when they comes to take care of themselves in the world. As for me, I don’t know what I should have done without the first, though the shooting the sun and the navigation was above me a good way.”

“There’s nothing like leather.” Toby would have said, there is nothing like hemp, and pitch, and tar, and heart of oak. It is quite as well that different people should have different opinions. Thus the world is prevented from stagnating.

Chapter Four.

Digby Gains a Knowledge of Boating and other Manly Employments—The Wonders of the Sea-Side—A Shipwreck—Digby Proves himself a Hero—How he gained a Friend.

Digby, as he became more practised in the arts, gained a keen relish for boating, not mere pulling, but for sailing—the harder it blew, the better pleased he was. In this he was joined by Easton, who was always delighted when old Toby would take them out on a stormy day. Marshall and the others confessed that they liked fine weather sailing.

“But, suppose the boat was capsized, what would you do?” said Marshall to Digby.

“Hold on to her, I suppose,” was the answer.

“But very likely you would be thrown to a distance, what then?”

“Why I should try and catch what was nearest to me,” replied Digby.

“But suppose there was nothing near you,” remarked his friend.

“Then, I suppose I should—. Let me see, I scarcely know what I should do—I should try to swim,” said Digby, after some hesitation.

“That is just what I wanted to bring you to,” said Marshall. “You have not learned to swim, you know, and you assuredly would not then swim for the first time, so that if no one was near to help you, you would inevitably be drowned. Take my advice—learn to swim forthwith; Toby will teach you. If you were to go to Eton, you would not be allowed to go in the boats till you had learnt. Everybody should know how to swim, both for their own sakes and for the benefit of their fellow-creatures. It is really disgraceful for an English boy not to know how to do what even savages can do so well.”

Marshall went on in this style till Digby felt perfectly ashamed of himself, and resolved to learn as soon as possible if Toby would teach him. He was manly enough, as has been seen, in disposition, but all his knowledge of manly exercises he had acquired from John Pratt, except riding, which his father had taken a pride in teaching him. Swimming was not among John Pratt’s accomplishments, and so Digby had remained ignorant of it. There are many boys like him, brought up at home or at small private schools, who are even worse off. In many instances their education is very carefully attended to, but for fear of accidents they are not allowed to bathe, or climb trees, or to shoot. Numbers have suffered from this mistake when they have had to go out into the world and take care of themselves—they have been drowned, when, had they been able to swim, their lives would have been saved; had they been accustomed to climb, they might have scaped from a burning house, a wrecked ship, or a wild beast, while they have been called upon to use fire-arms before they know how to load a gun.

“Toby,” said Digby, “I want to learn how to swim.”

“Then come along, master,” replied the old man, and they rowed across to a quiet little bay, with a sandy shore, sheltered by rocks, on the side of the river opposite the town. “Pull off your clothes, master,” said Toby, as they were still some little way from the shore.

Digby did as he was bid.

“Now, jump overboard,” added Toby.

Digby stood up, but as he looked into the water and could see no bottom, he shuddered at the thought of plunging in. Toby passed a band round his waist with a rope to it, but Digby scarcely perceived this—he felt himself pushed, and over he went, heels over head, under the water.

“Oh, I’m drowning, I’m drowning,” he cried out when he came to the surface.

“Oh no, you’re not, master, you’re all right,” said the old man. “Strike out for the shore, and try if you can’t swim there.”

Digby did strike out, but wildly, and not in a way that would have kept him afloat.

“That’s the way you’d have done if the boat was capsized, and you’d have drowned yourself and any one who came to help you,” remarked Toby; “but catch hold of this oar. Now strike away with your feet, right astern; not out of the water, though; keep them lower down. That’s the way to go ahead. Steady, though; strike both of them together. Slow, though; slower. We’re in no hurry, there’s plenty of time; you can learn the use of your hands another day. Draw your legs well under you. Now, as I give the word—strike out, draw up; strike out, draw up. That will do famously. If you keep steadily at it you’ll learn to swim in a very few days.”

Digby felt rather tired when he and the boat at length reached the shore. He had some notion that he had towed her there, which he had not, though. He had learned an important part of the art of swimming. When he came out of the water, and had dressed, Toby showed him how to use his hands.

“Now, Master Heathcote, look here. Do as I do.”

Toby put his hands together, with the fingers straight out and close to each other, and the palms slightly hollowed. Then he brought them up to his breast, and darting them forward, separated his hands and pressed them backwards till he brought his elbows down to the hips, close to his body, and again turned his wrists till his hands once more got back to the attitude with which he had started. He made Digby do this over and over again, till he was quite eager to jump into the water and put his knowledge into practice.

“No, no, master,” said Toby, “you’ve had bathing enough to-day. Just do you keep on doing those movements whenever you have a spare moment, and to-morrow we’ll see how well you can do them in the water.”

Digby was certain that not only would he do them perfectly, but that he should be able to swim any distance.

Toby said nothing, but his nose curled up in its quiet funny way.

The next day was very fine, and all the boys came down to bathe, and to see Digby swim, as he boasted he could do perfectly well. They crossed over to the bay, all of them getting ready for a plunge.

“Now, Digby,” cried Marshall, when they got near the shore, “overboard we go.”

“All right,” cried Digby, putting his hands into the scientific attitude, as far as he could recollect it; and, with great courage, he jumped into the water.

Somehow or other, he could not tell why, down he went some way under the surface, and when he came up he had forgotten all about the way to strike out which Toby had taught him. Instead of that, he flung about his arms and kicked his legs out in the wildest manner, and would have gone down again had not Marshall swam up alongside him, and, putting his hand under his chin, told him to keep perfectly quiet till he had collected his senses. He had resolution enough to do this, and was surprised to find himself floating on the surface of the water with so little support.

“Bravo, Master Marshall,” cried Toby. “Now strike out, Master Heathcote, as I showed you.”

The recollection of how to strike came back to Digby, and, to his great delight, he found himself making some progress towards the shore, his friend still holding him up by the chin.

“Let me go, I am sure I can swim alone,” he cried.

Marshall did so, but, after a few strokes, down he went, and again he forgot what he had done so satisfactorily on dry land. His feet, however, touched the bottom, and, hopping on one leg, he went on striking out with his hands, and fancying that he was swimming, till he reached the shore. His companions, of course, laughed at him, but he did not mind that, and, running in again, he made one or two more successful attempts, but he forbore boasting any more of the distance he was going to swim. When once again he had gone out till the water reached his chin, he found the boat close to him.

“Don’t be swimming any more, Master Heathcote, but give me your hand,” said Toby, taking it. “There, now throw yourself on your back, stick your legs out, put your head back as far as it will go, lift up your chest, now don’t move, let your arms hang down. There, I’ll hold you steady; a feather would do it. Now you feel how the water keeps you up. There, you might stay there for an hour, or a dozen hours for that matter, if it wasn’t for the cold, in smooth water. You’ll learn to swim in a very few days now, I see, without your clothes, and then you must learn with your clothes on. If I couldn’t have done that I should not have been here; I should have been drownded long ago.”

Thus discoursing, the old man let Digby float by the side of the boat till he had been long enough in the water, and then he helped him out and made him dress quickly.

The other boys then got in, and consulted together how they should spend the remainder of the afternoon. Power, who was the chief fisherman of the party, voted for going outside and trying to catch some mackerel. No objections were made. Toby consented: he had lines and hooks in the boat.

They pulled down to the mouth of the river, and were very soon in the open sea. There was scarcely any wind, the sea was blue and bright, the coast was picturesque, with rocky headlands, and white sandy bay; and green downs above, and cliffs on which numberless wildfowl had taken up their habitations. As they pulled close under the rocks, numbers of gulls flew out, screaming loudly at the intruders on their domains.

“I have often thought, when I have heard people talking of their ancient families and their ancient homes, how much more ancient are the families and the abodes of those white-coated gentry,” observed Marshall. “Up there, now, perhaps, the ancestors of those birds have lived, from generation to generation, since the flood. They witnessed the first peopling of our tight little island by the painted savages, who were as barbarous as the New Zealanders or the Fejee Islanders of the present century; the landing of Julius Caesar and his warriors, the battles of the Norsemen, the Danes, and the Saxons, and the defeat of the Spanish armada. I wish that they could tell us all the interesting things they have seen.”

Easton liked the idea. Digby did not understand it, for his knowledge of history was very limited.

“I know what they’ve seen,” observed Toby. “They’ve seen many a cargo of smuggled silks, and teas, and brandies run hereabouts, in days gone by.”

“Oh, those smugglers are jolly fellows!” exclaimed Digby. “I should like to see something of their fun. I can’t fancy any finer sport than landing a cargo and having to run the gauntlet among a whole posse of revenue officers.”

“Something like prisoners’ base, you would say,” observed Marshall, “only, I suspect, with a greater chance of being caught and shut up for a longer time than would be pleasant.”

“I’ll tell you what it is, young gentlemen,” said Toby, who had been listening in silence to Digby’s and the other boys’ thoughtless remarks, “smuggling is a very bad business, let me tell you. I’ve seen something of it, and I know what it is. I’ve seen money made by it, I’ll allow, just as I’ve seen money made by other evil practices; but I’ve seen very many fine fellows brought to a bad end by it, and have never known any to prosper long at it. Laws were made for the good of all, and no man has a right to break them for his own advantage or pleasure. Though I’m only a poor boatman I’ve found that out, and it’s my duty to make others understand the truth, as well as I can.”

The boys confessed that they had never before seen the matter in that light. They had thought smugglers, and pirates, and bandits, and highwaymen, and outlaws of all descriptions very fine fellows; and it had never occurred to them that they should be looked upon as base scoundrels, who deserved to be hung, or severely punished in some other way.

“Now let us have out the lines,” exclaimed Power, who was eager to begin fishing. Two of the party paddled the boat on, relieving each other, at the rate of about two miles an hour.

Toby produced four long, thin lines, wound up on wooden reels. The lines were considerably slighter than log-lines. Five hooks were fastened to each, about a yard apart.

“But where is the bait?” asked Digby. “You cannot catch fish without bait.”

“Oh, mackerel are in no ways particular,” answered Toby; “a bit of tin or white rag will attract them; but see, I have some hooks with some capital bait. It is called a white cock’s hackle. The feathers are fastened on to the butt, and project an inch or more beyond the bend, so as to cover the barb. This is certain to catch any fish which see it.”

The lines were thrown overboard, one on each side, and one over each quarter. Toby assisted Digby to manage his.

Digby was quite delighted when he felt a sharp tug at the end of his line.

“Haul in, haul in; you’ve got him,” said Toby.

Digby hauled away, and soon he saw a fish skimming and jumping along on the smooth surface of the blue water, leaving a thin wake behind him, while his bright scales glistened in the sun. Digby shouted with glee,—“I’ve the first, I’ve the first. Huzza!”

He almost tumbled overboard in his eagerness to catch hold of the fine mackerel which came with what he called a hop, skip, and a jump alongside. He lifted the fish in. The poor mackerel, with his dark back and white belly, did not look nearly so bright out of the water as he had done in it. Digby thought it a very elegant-looking fish, and very unlike any he had ever before caught with John Pratt.

“Now we shall catch a plenty,” said Toby, as, to Digby’s dismay, he took the fish, and, cutting it up into strips, baited each of the hooks with it. “These mackerel like nothing better than their own kind.”

Two or three dozen mackerel were quickly caught, of which Digby hauled up several.

“But have we no chance of catching any carp, or tench, or perch?” he asked, seriously. “I should have thought that there must be plenty about here.”

His companions laughed heartily.

“What is the taste of the water alongside?” asked Marshall.

“Salt,” said Digby, tasting it.

“Do you think freshwater fish will live in salt-water?” observed his friend.

“Oh, you fine sportsman! You laugh at us for not knowing so much about dogs, and horses, and shooting, and racing, and hunting as you pretend to do, and yet you are ignorant of far more important, and just as interesting matters.”

“Still, young gentlemen, I’m thinking that every man shines most in his own element, as the mackerel would say, if they could speak, and would rather be left there,” observed Toby, who was a great philosopher in many respects, although no man could be much more prejudiced with regard to his own calling of a sailor than he was. Such is often the ease. When judging of the opinion of others, we should always try to discover whether we are not prejudiced too much in favour of our own.

The boys had a capital evening’s sport, and Digby learned much more about conger-eels, and whiting, and bass, and mullet, and turbot, and plaice, and John Dories, and brill, and other salt-water fish, than he had ever known before. He was daily discovering, by practical experience, that there are many things in creation “of which he had never before dreamed in his philosophy.” In other words, he began to suspect, that though he was a very fine fellow, daring to do anything, and ready to fight any boy of his age, he was in reality a remarkably ignorant young gentleman. This, to a lad of Digby’s disposition, was a very important discovery. He was, I hope, on the high road to improvement. There is a saying, that “Where ignorance is bliss, it is folly to be wise;” but depend on it, the moment the ignorance is suspected, it is much greater folly not to set strenuously to work to correct it.

When the lads got home, they recounted with great glee their adventures, and offered, with much satisfaction, their baskets of fish to Mrs Nugent. They were served up fresh for breakfast and dinner the next day, and for two or three days afterwards, cut open and salted.

Digby heard Mr Nugent speaking of the wonders of the deep.

“What, uncle, are there any things besides fish in the sea?” he asked with, what the other boys thought, an almost incredible amount of simplicity.

One of the few recreations Mr Nugent allowed himself, was a fishing expedition on board a trawler. Not that he cared much for the fish which the trawl caught, but his delight was to examine the numberless specimens of animal marine life which came up at the same time. Digby heard his uncle and Marshall talking about Noctilucae, and Medusae, and Cydippi Actiniae, and Asterias, and Echini, and Terebellae, and Nereides, and Cirripedes, and Solens, and Gastropods, and numberless other creatures with hard names, which he thought that he could never recollect, and about which he was persuaded he could not understand.

“And are all these animals found in the sea near here?” he asked.

“Yes, and thousands more,” answered his uncle; “it would take a lifetime to catch and note the habits of those found on this coast alone. Each person can only hope to add a little to the stock of knowledge which others have obtained, and to ascertain what has been discovered by others. Still, the pursuit of that knowledge is so delightful, as is, indeed, the study of all God’s works, that those occupied in it find themselves amply repaid for all the physical and mental exertion they have to take to attain it.”

“Are the things you speak of like horses, and dogs, and cats, or more like fish?” asked Digby, seriously. “I should think with such curious names they must be very curious looking things.”

Marshall and Power laughed heartily, and even his uncle could not help smiling as he replied:

“Curious and wonderful, indeed, they are, but they are not fish in appearance, and still less like terrestrial quadrupeds. Some have their heads at the end of their feet, and their eyes at the extremities of their arms. Some walk on their heads, and others have their arms growing from the top of their heads. Some, too, can turn themselves inside out, and others of their own accord, break themselves to pieces, and then, what is more wonderful still, like one of the tricks to be seen at a pantomime, the bits send forth arms, and legs, and heads, and tails, and become perfect animals again.”

Digby listened with mute astonishment. He knew that his uncle would not tell him an untruth, and yet he fancied that, somehow or other, he must be laughing at him. The account he had heard, however, made him look forward eagerly to the promised trawling expedition.

The day approached, but Digby was doomed to be disappointed. A heavy gale of wind sprung up in the evening, and blew with great violence during the night.

The next day was Saturday, and was a half-holiday. Just as the boys had finished their lessons, a servant-girl came running in, exclaiming:

“Oh, sir, they say that there is a big ship driving on the shore, and that all the poor souls in her will be lost. Oh, it’s very dreadful! oh dear! oh dear!”

Mr Nugent seized his hat and stick, and the boys prepared to follow him.

“Stay, we will take a brandy-flask, and any rope to be had—a long pole may be useful.”

These articles being quickly found, the boys carrying them, they hurried out to the beach.

Not the eighth of a mile from the shore was a dismasted vessel, rolling and tumbling about in the most fearful manner. The crew were trying to get up jury-masts, or sheers rather, which are formed of two spars, the butt ends resting against the sides of the ship, and the others joined together. The sheers were got up, and then an endeavour was made to hoist a sail on them, to beat the ship off the shore. It was utterly useless. The sail was blown to ribbons, and the sheers blown away. The last resource was to anchor. This was done, and the ship rode head to wind, plunging, however, even more violently than before. Toby Tubb just then joined Mr Nugent and his pupils.

“There’s no use in it. There’s no ground here will hold an anchor ten minutes together.” His prediction proved too true. On drove the hapless ship. She had parted from her anchors, no human power could avert the expected catastrophe. The only hope that any of those on board could be saved, would be that the ship might drive into the sandy cove in which they were standing. If she struck on the dark ledges of rock outside, not a person on board, it was thought, could be saved. The sea was breaking with tremendous violence over them, creating sheets of foam, which were driven towards the shore, almost blinding the lookers-on.

Digby thought he could almost hear the shrieks of the unfortunate people on board. He could see them, clearly, throwing up their arms, as if imploring aid from their fellow-men, who were utterly unable to afford it.

“Could no boat go off to them?” asked Mr Nugent, eagerly.

“No, sir, no boat would live a second in that sea, alongside those rocks,” answered Toby; “what men can do we will do, when the time comes; more is unpossible.”

“I have a rope and some poles, you see,” said Mr Nugent; “they may be useful.”

“So have I, sir, but two ropes may be better than one,” was Toby’s reply. “Now, lads, be ready to do what I tells you; follow me.”

He addressed a party of seamen and fishermen, not all very young though, who were standing near with their hands in their pockets, exhibiting, apparently, very little interest in what was going forward. The ill-fated ship rose on the top of the huge waves which rolled onward towards the shore. Now it appeared that she would be engulphed between them. No further effort was made on board to save her. Such would have been hopeless. Each person was intent on making preparations for his own safety. Digby gazed with horror; he felt inclined to shriek out himself, as he saw the danger of the poor fellows on board. He would gladly have run away and forgotten all about it, but yet he could not tear himself from the spot, or his eyes from the driving ship. A few minutes more, and her fate would be sealed.

“Follow me, lads,” suddenly exclaimed old Toby, and led the way towards a ledge of rocks which jutted out into the sea, and formed one side of the bay of which I have spoken.

In a moment the fishermen had their hands out of their pockets, and were all life and activity. Carrying some long spars and several coils of rope, they hurried after Toby to the end of the reef. Toby was seen to stop. Digby and his companions held their breath—well they might. It seemed as if the ship must strike the very end of that black reef, over which the sea was breaking with violence so fearful that it must have shattered to fragments the stoutest ship that ever floated. On she came; there was a pause it seemed; a cross-sea struck her, and amidst a deluge of foam she was hurled past the point, and driven in towards the bay. Another sea lifted her up, and then down she came on the beach, still far out among the breakers, with a tremendous crash, which seemed to shake the very shore. Now was the moment of greatest peril to those on board—the seas meeting with a resistance they had not hitherto found, dashed furiously over the hull, carrying away the bulwarks, and the boats, and caboose, and everything still remaining on deck. The crew clung to ropes made fast to the stumps of the masts, or to ring-bolts in the decks, but the strength of many of them could not withstand the fury of the seas. One after the other was torn from his hold, and hurled among the boiling breakers. In vain the poor fellows struck out; the receding waves dashed them against the side of the ship, or carried them struggling hopelessly far out to sea, where they were lost to sight among the foam.

While this was going forward, Toby and his companions were trying every means they could think of to get a rope carried to the wreck. Unfortunately they were unprovided with Captain Manby’s apparatus, or any other contrivance for throwing a shot with a line attached to it over a wreck, so that by the line a hawser might be hauled on shore. There were none of those excellent inventions—life-boats—in the neighbourhood, which are now, happily, stationed all along the British coast, and have been the means of saving the lives of numbers of human beings; even the coastguard officer and most of his men had gone that morning to a distance. Toby had, therefore, to trust to his own resources. The crew seemed utterly unable to make any effort to save themselves; indeed they saw that should they let go their hold, any moment they might be washed overboard and drowned. Toby had got a small keg, to which he fastened a line, and seemed to hope that it might be carried out by the receding wave towards the wreck, but though it went some way, another wave came in before it got far enough to be of any use, and sent it rolling back again with a coil of seaweed, mixed with sand and foam, on the beach. Toby next fastened a rope round his own waist, and seemed to contemplate the possibility of swimming off himself to the wreck, but the men round him held him back, persuading him that the risk was too great. He stood, evidently seeing that there was very little chance of success. Now another huge wave came foaming up. The crew turned their heads with a gaze of horror and alarm as they watched its approach. On it came, roaring loudly. All on board grasped with a gripe, in which the force of every sinew and muscle was exerted to the utmost, the masts and ropes to which they were holding. The wave struck the ship, shaking her huge hull to the keel, and driving her still further on the beach. One poor fellow must have had a less secure gripe than the rest, or else its fury must have been concentrated on him. It tore him from his hold, lifted him up, and as it passed over, he was seen struggling in the water. He struck out boldly. Now the roaring hissing sea carried him onward, then back again, now a side wave took him and drove him in the direction of the spot where Toby and his companions were standing. Toby signed to the men to hold the rope, and plunging in amid the foam, struck out towards the struggling seaman. Now they were separated, now they were brought nearer together. Now it seemed as if the stranger would be carried out, as had been the others, by the receding wave. But the brave fellow still struggled on. It was too evident, however, that his efforts were growing weaker and weaker. Toby sung out to him to encourage him to persevere. Toby got close to him, but just then a hissing wave went rolling back, the stranger threw up his arms in despair, and was buried beneath the foam. Toby darted forward and disappeared beneath the water.

“Oh, he is gone, he is drowned, our poor Toby!” exclaimed Digby, giving way to his feelings.

But Toby had only dived, and the next instant appeared grasping the body of the seaman, but was being carried at a fearful rate out to sea. His friends on shore hauled in, however, gently on the rope, and gradually drew him and the seaman towards them. Still, Toby had much to contend with; the sea tumbled about and broke wildly around him, and now the water would make a rush in one direction and then in another, rendering swimming almost impossible. At length the rocks were reached. Several of the fishermen who had fastened ropes to their waists, rushed into the sea to his assistance, and at length he and the nearly drowned man were hauled up on the rocks.

“Bravo! excellent, brave fellow!” exclaimed Mr Nugent, enthusiastically, “thank heaven, too, that the poor man is saved.”

Digby shouted with delight. “Oh, Toby is a grand fellow!” he exclaimed; in which sentiment he was joined by his fellow-pupils.

Meantime, Mr Nugent hurried off to be of assistance, if required, to the rescued man.

The escape of one of their shipmates seemed to give courage to the other people on board. Another man leaped off the wreck with a line, and boldly struck out for the rocks. Toby, notwithstanding his previous exertions, dashed into the sea to meet him, but whether or not he would succeed appeared very doubtful.

Meantime, another sea came rolling over the wreck. Directly afterwards, two human forms were seen struggling in the waves. Sometimes the sea carried them so close to the beach, that it seemed as if they could almost touch the sand with their feet; then out they were carried once more, and it appeared that they would be lost altogether. This was the more sad as Toby and the man, who had jumped off the wreck with the line, had almost succeeded in establishing a communication between it and the shore. One of the people got so close to them that they could see his features. He was evidently a lad, not so old as Marshall.

“I am certain I could get hold of him,” cried Digby, suddenly fastening the rope round his own waist in the way Toby had taught him. “Here, do you hold the rope tight.”

“I ought to go,” said Marshall, throwing off his jacket.

“No, no—no time to be lost—now or never,” cried Digby, rushing into the sea just as the wave, having brought the almost senseless lad close to the beach, was about to carry him off again.

Had he hesitated for a moment he would have been too late. He thought not of his own safety. On he rushed. The receding water took him off his legs. He struck out; he was turned heels over head. Still he dashed on. He was within half an arm’s-length of the drowning lad. “Oh, I must have him,” he thought to himself. He sprung on; he caught him by the collar of his jacket. “Haul away,” he sung out.

Marshall and the rest saw that he had got hold of the boy, though they could not hear him speak.

Nothing but death would have made him relinquish that grasp, he felt.

His companions hauled away, and much force was required, for so strong was the reflux of the wave that all his own strength would not have opposed it.

Almost drowned himself, and scarcely sensible, holding tight on to the boy, he at length was caught hold of by his friends, who ran up with him and his burden out of the reach of the waves.

They undid the lad’s collar and handkerchief. He was breathing, but insensible. He was as well dressed as they were, and was certainly not a poor sailor-boy, as Digby had fancied,—not that that would have made any difference, of course.

Easton ran off to call Mr Nugent, while Marshall, Power, and Norton attended to the stranger and Digby.

Meantime, they were anxiously looking out for the other person they had seen in the water. They could just distinguish him, but he had drifted a long way out, and was making no effort to save himself.

Digby very soon came to his senses, as did the boy he had so gallantly rescued. No sooner did the latter open his eyes than he looked up and exclaimed, “Oh, my father, my father; where is he?” He gazed with a countenance expressive of the greatest fear towards the ocean. Then he started up, and would have rushed back into the water, had not Marshall and Digby prevented him.

In the mean time, some more fishermen and other persons had assembled at the scene of action. One of them was noted for being a first-rate swimmer. He was somewhat of a rival, too, of Toby’s, though they were excellent friends. Fastening a rope round his waist, he plunged in and swam out boldly and strongly amid the foaming breakers towards the drowning man. When the rescued boy saw what he was doing, he was immediately calm, and kneeling down on the sand, with uplifted hands, regardless of the bystanders, was evidently praying. What mattered it to him what others thought; the life of a beloved parent was in the greatest extreme of danger. He saw clearly that no help which he could afford him or could obtain would be of any avail, and thus wisely and with right faith he sought it whence alone it could be given.

The other boys stood around. Marshall joined his prayers to those of the young stranger, that his father might be saved. Digby wished it, and would have done anything to assist the struggling man; but how to pray he knew not. It was a moment of awful suspense; he felt it so himself. How must that kneeling boy have felt it!

The brave fisherman—John Holmes was his name—swam on. He was joined by Toby, and at the same time the cask was floated out. It was let go at the light moment. The person struggling in the water saw it, and endeavoured to reach it. Twice he was washed away far off from it. No exclamation all the time was heard from the lips of his son. He gazed intently on what was going forward. Sometimes he appeared to be about to rise and rush towards the ocean; but he restrained himself, and continued kneeling. A shriek, it was one of joy, escaped him when he saw his father at length grasp hold of the cask.

The two brave fishermen now swam up near him and assisted to hold him on, while all three were hauled through the foaming surf towards the rocks.

Then, and not till then, did the young stranger rise from his knees, and hurry on towards the spot where he believed his father was about to be landed.

Those in the water were, however, still exposed to a very great danger. This was from the pieces of wreck which were dashing about in every direction, and a blow from which might prove fatal.

The boy hurried along over the slippery rocks. He got near enough to see his father’s countenance turned with eyes of affection towards him. The son knew that he was recognised, and that his father was aware of his safety. A piece of timber came dashing by. Had not the fishermen been near him, it would have torn him from his hold. As it was, Holmes received a severe blow which almost disabled him, but he held on, and in another minute all three were in the grasp of the men collected on the rock to assist them.

The first impulse of the father and his son was to throw themselves into each other’s arms, and then the father knelt down and returned thanks to Heaven for his preservation.

While this episode in the fearful history of that shipwreck was going forward, a hawser or stout rope had been carried from the stranded ship to the shore. Several seamen worked their way along it, and readied the rock in safety. Then another came, but a sea rolled by, and, sweeping him from his hold, he was carried far away out of sight.

The tide was rising, and rendering it more dangerous every moment to those remaining on the wreck. This made the seamen hurry on along the hawser. Dangerous was the transit, requiring a strong arm and firm nerves. Another huge sea came rolling in. The already shattered vessel could not withstand its force, and in a moment, as if it had been formed of the most brittle materials, was shivered into a thousand fragments, which came rolling on in tangled masses towards the shore.

Most of the men, and two of the officers, had reached the rocks; but the master and one of his mates, who had refused to leave the ship till all had left her, with two or three of the men, still remained on board at the moment she broke up. They were now seen struggling in the waves among the broken masses of the wreck.

In vain the brave fishermen dashed into the sea to save them. One after the other, struck by pieces of timber, or spars, or floating packages, were seen to go down without further efforts to save themselves. At last, one only remained alive. On him all the interest of those on shore was concentrated.

“Our captain, our captain,” cried some of the rescued crew; “oh, how can we save him? how can we save him?”

He seemed a fine old man, with a noble forehead and grey hair. He reached a spar, and threw his arms over it. Thus supported, he lifted himself out of the water, and looked calmly around, as if considering how he might best reach the shore. The spar was sent rushing on towards the beach. Many of his crew, all indeed who were uninjured, got ropes ready to dash forward to his assistance. He seemed to observe the efforts preparing to aid him. Digby was struck with the wonderful calmness of the old man. Death and destruction on every side, he seemed not for a moment to have lost his presence of mind. He fancied even that he could see him smile, as the fishermen and his own people made a rush towards him. It proved unsuccessful. He looked in no way disconcerted. Another wave came on and carried him forward; now he beckoned them to come to him; on they dashed. It was the work of a moment. They seized him by the collar of his coat, and Digby saw that they had him safely landed on the beach. Digby could not help running forward and saying—

“I am very glad that you are saved, sir.”

“Thank you, my boy,” answered the old master, “if I mistake not, you are one of the lads who saved my young Haviland there. His father will thank you, I know. I saw it all from the wreck. Nobly done, it was!”

Digby felt highly pleased at being thus praised; not that he thought that he had done any great thing after all.

The master having thus expressed himself, called the rescued people round him, and spoke a few words to them, telling them how thankful they ought to be at being saved. When he looked round and missed so many of his late shipmates, he dashed his hand across his eyes as if he felt severely their loss. “God’s will be done,” he said, in a voice trembling with agitation. It was clear that, though his nerves were strong, his heart was tender.

Mr Nugent, who had all along been attending to those who most required his aid, now came forward and invited the gentleman who had been saved and his son, as well as the old master, to his house. The chief magistrate and other authorities of Osberton undertook to look after the crew, while Toby and Holmes were appointed to take charge of the cargo which might be washed on shore.

Mr Haviland and his son, as well as Captain Burton, gladly accepted Mr Nugent’s invitation, greatly to the delight of the boys, who were eager to know where the ship had come from, and how she had been wrecked. Mr Nugent hurried them up to his house, where he had beds immediately made ready for them, into which he insisted on their getting, although the old captain protested that, for his part, he was not a bit the worse for his ducking.

That evening all the family, with the rescued strangers, were seated round Mrs Nugent’s tea-table. Mr Haviland seemed to be a very gentlemanly person, and his son, Arthur, quickly won the regards of all the party by his kind and gentle manners, his intelligence, and the affectionate and dutiful way in which he treated his father. Captain Burton was a fine old seaman; he had been so knocked about in the world, and had met with so many adventures and mishaps, that he seemed to make very light of the mere wreck of his ship, much as he grieved for the loss of so many of his crew.

“We seamen know well what we have to expect one day or other. We may well be thankful when we are able to reach the shore alive in a civilised land,” he remarked; “sad is the fate of the poor fellows who may be cast on a barren coast, or one inhabited by savages, cannibals may be, who may knock them on the head as soon as they set foot on shore. Now I hope in a few days to be at home with my wife and family, and soon to forget all my misfortunes.”

The ship had come, he told them, from South America. Owing to the thick weather, they had not made the land; though he knew that he was running up channel, he was not aware how near the shore he was when he was struck by the gale and dismasted. The ship in that condition, no seamanship was of any avail to preserve her.

The next morning he and his crew took their departure from Osberton, after he had collected all the articles of his private property which had come on shore.

Mr Haviland gladly accepted Mr Nugent’s invitation to remain some days longer, that he might sufficiently recover his strength to enable him to travel to London. Again and again he expressed his gratitude to Digby for having rescued his son from the waves, and Arthur himself endeavoured to show how much he felt, and how unable he was to repay him.

Mr Haviland was able to repay both Toby and Holmes, as well as the other men, in a more substantial mode, for the gallant way in which they had exerted themselves to save him. Remittances from London supplied him amply with funds; and all those who had assisted on the occasion of the wreck declared, that so liberal a gentleman had never before appeared in their town.

Chapter Five.

Sea-Side Sports—Toby Tubb’s Naval Yarn—A Pic-nic, and what occurred at it.

“You must come and stay with us when we settle,” said Arthur Haviland to Digby, the morning on which the former, with his father, was to take his departure from Mr Nugent’s. “I am to go to school, but papa intends to take a house to receive me in the holidays, when we shall expect you, and then I will tell you more about the Brazils, and the wonders of other parts of South America.”

Digby replied that if he could get leave he should be delighted to accept the invitation for a part of the holidays. “I tell you that I should not like to be away the whole time: I could not miss seeing my dear little sister Kate, and Gusty and the rest at home, on any account. I don’t fancy that I should like to be anywhere so much as at home. Oh, it is such a dear, jolly place. You must come to my home, Arthur, some day, and then you’ll see that I am right.” Such were the terms on which Digby and Arthur Haviland parted.

Digby felt very sorry and quite out of spirits when his new friend had gone. He liked Marshall, and Eastern, and Power, indeed all his companions, very much, but there was something so gentle, and amiable, and intelligent about Arthur; in many respects he was so different to himself, that he had been insensibly attracted towards him. He had been the means of saving Arthur’s life, too, and though his friend was so much older than himself, he ought to be his protector and guardian. “I wish that we had been going to the same school,” he said to himself; “Arthur is just the sort of fellow the boys will be apt to bully. How Julian would sneer at him and tease him. Even Power and Easton couldn’t help now and then having a laugh at his notions. How I should like to stand up for him, and fight his battles. I’m not very big, but I would not mind a thrashing for his sake.”

The summer was drawing to a conclusion, but still the weather was very warm. One evening Mr Nugent had been called out to visit a sick person. On his return he invited his pupils to accompany him to the beach.

“I have seldom seen the water so beautifully luminous as it is to-night,” he observed. “Bring two wide-mouthed bottles, my naturalist’s water nets, and a long pole, and we will go and fish for night shiners.”

Digby was puzzled to know what his uncle meant. The nets which Marshall produced were in shape like a landing-net, but smaller and lighter—fine gauze being used instead of the twine net. It was a dark night, and the party stumbled along over the not very well-paved streets of the little town till they reached the water. Great was Digby’s surprise to see the whole ocean covered with glowing flashes; while, as the gently rippling wavelets came rolling in, a line of light was playing over them, and as they reached the shore it broke into still greater brilliancy, leaving, as they retired, thousands of shining sparkles glittering on the smooth beach.

“What is it?” he exclaimed, after gazing for some time in mute astonishment. “What has come over the ocean?”

“A mass of phosphorescent creatures,” answered his uncle. “We will go to the deep pool (this was a quiet little bay close at hand). We shall then be able to fish up a supply for examination.”

On reaching the pool all at first appeared dark, but Mr Nugent and Marshall stooping down, swept the surface with their nets, when wherever they touched the water, it glowed with the most brilliant flashes. Having filled the bottles, they lifted the water up in the nets, when it looked as if they had got in them a lump of the most glittering gold, or a mass of molten lead. A still more beautiful appearance was produced when they threw the water up in the air and it came down in glittering showers, like the dropping stars from a firework.

“Glorious! beautiful!” shouted Digby; “I did not think the sea could produce anything so fine.”

Then they stirred the water about with a long pole, till the whole pool, which had been in tranquillity so dark, became like a caldron of boiling metal. After amusing themselves with the variety of effects to be produced, the party returned homeward.

“What is the use of all that shining stuff, now, I wonder?” said Digby.

“I am glad to hear you ask the question,” replied his uncle. “That shining stuff is called the phosphorescence of the ocean. It is composed of numberless minute animals, each not larger than a pin’s head. Through a microscope we should see that all parts of the animal shine, but at different times. It emits, as it were, sparks, now from one part of its body, now from another. It is a very beautiful object, especially in southern latitudes, and that alone may account for its creation; just as birds with gay plumage, and flowers of varied hues and sweet scents, were formed for the benefit of man. It wonderfully relieves, also, on a dark night, the obscurity of the ocean, and its light is so great during storms that it enables seamen the better to perform the duties of the ship. Of one thing you may be certain, that nothing is created in nature without a very adequate object.”

On reaching home, Mr Nugent got out his microscope, and exhibited to Digby the wonders of the creatures they had caught. Power had also brought home a bucketful of water. It contained, among other creatures, a little melon-shaped animal, which Mr Nugent turned into a glass tumbler. It was smaller than a small hazel nut, of a transparent consistency, and with bands down it like the divisions in a melon. These bands, when the tumbler was shaded, glittered in the most beautiful way, while the creature moved about in the water, now rising to the surface, and now sinking almost to the bottom. When again brought to the light, it was seen putting forth what Digby called its fishing lines. These, when it was on the surface, reached to the bottom, and were evidently employed for the object Digby supposed.

“This beautiful little creature is called a Cydippe or Beroë,” observed Mr Nugent. “Those bands are denominated cilia. See, they are like little paddles. They are the means by which the animal moves. Now look—he has turned his head down, and away he plunges to the bottom; now he rises slowly, like a balloon. I doubt not that there is much enjoyment even in that little mass of jelly. Wonderful are all God’s works. Who can measure the happiness which exists even in an atom.”

Digby became far more interested than, a few weeks before, he would have thought possible. At the same time he did not take in all the remarks his uncle and Marshall made. He would have found it impossible to describe the curious marine animals they showed him. At the same time the impression left on his mind was beneficial, as he in that way learned to comprehend the fact of the existence of the numberless wonders of nature, and to regard them with interest and respect. Although he could not manage to recollect a single one of the hard names he heard, he surely was better off than a person who remains ignorant that even such things exist.

The day after the Noctilucae had exhibited their brightness on the sea in so remarkable a degree, a heavy gale sprung up and blew on the shore for some hours with great violence.

“I hope no other shipwreck happened last night,” said Digby, as they got up in the morning.

“I hope not,” answered Marshall. “We should have heard of it before this. But if you will come down with me to the beach, by and by, we shall find that other floating things have been wrecked, and that the sea has cast them up in great numbers on the shore.”

As soon as lessons were over the boys set out. Digby was now quite eager for anything of the sort. They had not gone far along the beach when Marshall pounced on a dark-looking mass, which he put into his jar.

“What nasty thing is that?” exclaimed Digby, looking at it with disgust.

“Nasty! no; it is a magnificent Holothuria, or sea-cucumber. Toby would call it a sea-pudding. It will look very different when it is in my vivarium, let me tell you. It now looks like a great bag, but the outside of that bag is covered with numbers of suckers, by which it is able to crawl about at a rapid rate; while in the inside are its head and intestines, and all its fishing apparatus.”

“I should like to see it in full action,” said Digby. “But I say, Marshall, what are all those lumps of jelly? Are they good to eat? They look as if they would be, boiled a little, perhaps.”

Marshall laughed heartily. “I doubt if even the Chinese attempt to eat them. If they do, they must eat them raw, for even in the air they very soon dissolve. Those are Medusae, or jelly-fish, or sea-nettles. The first English name they obtain from their appearance, the second on account of the property they possess of stinging; and that you would soon discover if, when you were bathing, one of them got his long arms round you.”

“Arms, surely they have not got arms?” said Digby.

“Indeed they have, and very long arms, too, with which they can catch all sorts of prey. They have mouths and all internal arrangements, and, soft and gelatinous as they appear, they can consume animals of a much higher organisation than themselves. You would not suppose that they could gobble up crabs, yet they can do so without the slightest difficulty. They have also the property of giving forth light. You may see them by thousands floating about near the surface of the water, in shape like small umbrellas, and moving up and down just as if a heart beat beneath. You will find them often in the river when the flood-tide is coming in; and when we go on our trawling expedition we shall see numbers of them.”

Digby, notwithstanding what Marshall had told him, had not quite made up his mind about them; and as he had brought a basket in which to carry curiosities, he put several of them into it.

“Ah, here are some of the things I admire,” exclaimed Digby, picking up a star-fish. “They are curious.”

“Not more so than many others,” answered Marshall. “Yet I agree with you, that they are very curious indeed. You would not suppose that they can crawl along at the bottom of the sea at a considerable rate, and that they are the most voracious of marine animals. They have a big mouth in the centre of the lower side; and those star-like arms supply them with food. They progress by means of suckers, with which the whole of the lower part of their bodies is covered. They are the scavengers of the ocean; and it is wonderful the amount of animal food they can consume, which would otherwise tend to putrefy the ocean itself. Another curious circumstance about them is, that when one or more of their rays are broken off, fresh ones are produced; indeed, I have seen it stated in print that a single ray has produced the mouth and the other rays, and then that the old ray has fallen off, and that a new star-fish, in its perfect proportions, has been thus reformed.”

“I dare say what you tell me is all true,” said Digby; “but it is very hard to believe.”

“I am only telling you what I have heard from others, though I have observed some of the facts myself,” answered Marshall. “See, now; what do you call that?” he added, holding up a very perfect Echinus.

“A sea-egg, of course,” answered Digby. “But I own that it has always puzzled me how any fish can manage to lay an egg covered with spines.”

“It is not an egg at all; it is much more properly called a sea-urchin or a sea-hedgehog. It is allied to the star-fish. By means of these spines it can move about with great ease; they serve also as its protection. The covering is most curious: it is composed of several hundred pentagonal plates. By a process going on continually from the inside, each one of these plates is enlarged by a fresh deposit; and thus, without altering their shape, the animal, as it grows, has its coat of armour growing also.”

“Well, Marshall, I must say that you spin wonderful yarns, as Toby Tubb would say, about all these things. I suppose that they are all true; but they do sometimes make me open my eyes.”

“Depend on it they are all true. Mr Nugent can tell still more wonderful ones,” answered Marshall. “The more we examine the productions of nature the more wonderful things we shall discover. There is no doubt, also, that—”

“I dare say not,” said Digby, yawning. “But do you know, Marshall, that, somehow or other, I would rather sometimes hear old Toby spin one of his yarns than listen to my uncle’s lectures on natural history. They are all very well in their way when one is in the humour for them, but, just now, I am rather inclined for a brisk walk; and, thinking of Toby, I say, I wish that we could get him to tell us how the ship he was on board of attacked I don’t know how many Frenchmen, or some other of our enemies, and took one of them in sight of their own port. He was telling Easton all about it one day. Perhaps he will not feel inclined to tell it again.”

Marshall laughed at the idea of an old sailor not liking to spin a yarn a second time, when the chances were in favour of his having already spun it many hundred times. He took the hint, also, about the lectures on natural history, and said nothing more to Digby on the subject. He well knew that if he was to attempt to cram it down his throat, Digby would be very likely to take a disgust to it, and obstinately set his face against all branches of natural history. He promised, moreover, to try and get Toby to spin the yarn in which Easton had been so much interested.

The next Saturday half-holiday was very lovely, and all Mr Nugent’s pupils agreed to make a boating excursion up the river as far as they could go, and to dine in pic-nic fashion at the end of the voyage.

“We must try and get Toby Tubb to spin his yarn,” observed Digby, as they were starting.

Mrs Nugent had supplied them with some cold provisions; and they took potatoes to cook, and tea and sugar; and they hoped to catch some fish, which would be a great addition to their fare. However, they were fortunately independent of the fish, which sometimes obstinately refuse to be caught.

Power, however, who had great confidence in his own success as a fisherman, wanted the rest to leave a cold veal pie behind, assuring them that he would take care that they had an ample supply of salmon-peel, and bass, and flounders, which he promised to catch and cook for them.

“That is all very well,” said Marshall; “but I vote that we take the pie, and then we can be eating that while Power is dining on the fish which he has not yet caught.”

“Now, do you, Toby, take the helm, and we will row,” said Marshall, seating himself ready to pull the stroke oar.

Digby jumped in next him, for he knew that he was about to fulfil his promise, to get Toby to spin a yarn.

All took their seats, up went the oars. “Give way!” sung out Toby. The oars came with a simultaneous flop into the water, and the young crew bending to them, the boat glided swiftly and steadily over the smooth surface. The scenery for some distance was very beautiful: there were high cliffs, broken and fantastic in shape, with here and there openings through which green fields, and woods, and cottages could be seen, and deep bays and inlets, and, further off, downs, or heather land, on which sheep or cattle were feeding. The sky was blue, the air was fresh and pure; all were enjoying themselves, though they could not perhaps tell why.

“Try old Toby now,” whispered Digby into Marshall’s ear.

Marshall began in a diplomatic way. “Now, Toby,” he said, “while we are pulling and cannot talk much, it seems a pity that you should not be telling us something we should like to hear. You have been in a battle or two, I dare say; perhaps fought with double your numbers, and came off victorious, as I have heard of British seamen doing more than once.”

“I believe you, Master Marshall,” interrupted Toby. “I have been in a battle when we had three to one against us, and still we thrashed them. I’ll tell you how it was. I belonged, in those days, to the Spartan, a smart frigate of thirty-eight guns, and a first-rate dashing officer, Captain Jahleel Brenton, commanded her. We were in the Mediterranean in the year 1810. Many were the things we did which we had a right to talk about. It was about the end of April we were cruising in company with the Success frigate, Captain Mitford, and the sloop Espoir, when, standing in for the Castle of Terrecino, on the Italian coast, we made out a ship, three barques, and several feluccas, at anchor under shelter of the guns of that fort. Our captain, as soon as he saw them, determined to have them; so as he was commodore, do you see, he ordered away the boats of the squadron to cut them out. I was not a little pleased to find myself in one of the Spartan’s boats. The whole expedition was commanded by Lieutenant Baumgart, of the Spartan; and we had with us another brave officer, Lieutenant George Sartorius, of the Sirius.

“We rendezvoused on board the Spartan, and soon after noon pulled in for the castle, covered by the fire of the squadron, which opened a brisk cannonade on the town and batteries. The enemy were not idle, and the shot were flying pretty thick about us, but that did not stop our way.

“‘There’s the ship, my boys, and we must have her, and the barques too, if we can,’ sung out our lieutenant; and on we dashed, with a loud cheer, towards her.

“Round-shot and bullets came rattling about our heads, but they didn’t stop our way more than would a shower of hail. Away we pulled, maybe a bit faster, to get through them the quicker. In a quarter less no time we were alongside the ship, which mounted six guns, scrambling up her sides, knocking everybody who opposed us on the head—not that all stopped for that, seeing that many leaped into their boats as soon as we gained the deck, and pulled away for the shore. The rest, however, made a tough fight of it before they knocked under. To cut the cables and to let fall the topsails and sheet home was the work of a few moments only, and we were under weigh almost before the enemy had turned the guns of the castle on us.

“The other boats, meantime, divided the barques among them, and, attacking them altogether, drove their crews into the water, and, cutting their cables, made sail after us. We lost only one man killed and two wounded in the whole affair, and carried all four vessels off in safety.

“That’s what we call a cutting-out expedition. There’s nothing we used to like better. They were generally pretty sharp slap-dash affairs; no shilly-shallying, and counting what was dangerous and what was not; but it was pull in, jump aboard, and we were out again with the prizes before the enemy had time to find out what we were about. But that wasn’t what I was going to tell you about.

“Soon after this, our squadron was cruising off the Bay of Naples—not all, by the by, the Espoir had been sent away somewhere, and we had only the Spartan, that was our ship, and the Success. Well, we made out, under weigh in the Bay, two ships, a brig and a cutter. Not many moments had gone by before we had crowded all sail in chase. It was a French squadron we saw, but they didn’t like our looks, so they put about and stood towards Naples, we following them almost up to the Mole. That was on the first of May. The next morning at daylight we saw our friends at anchor, but they seemed in no way inclined to come out and fight us.

“‘Perhaps if they see one of us alone they may come out and take a taste of our quality,’ says our captain; so he sent off the Success to wait for us about eight leagues from the island of Capri, thinking that the Frenchmen would then, without doubt, venture out to attack us.

“In the meantime, the French General who had command at Naples, Prince Murat, had formed a plan to capture us. His French squadron consisted of a 42-gun frigate, the Céres; a 28-gun corvette, the Fama; an 8-gun brig, the Sparvière; and a cutter, mounting 10 guns; but besides these there were seven gunboats at least, each with one long 18-pounder and 40 men. General Murat had also embarked four hundred Swiss troops on board the ships, so that they had altogether 95 guns and 1,400 men, while we had only 38 guns and about 260 men. (Note.) We didn’t mind the odds against us, all we thought of was how we could take the enemy. They made sure, however, it seems, with the great odds in their favour, on the other hand, do ye see, of taking us; but we sung, with some right to sing it, too:—

“Hearts of oak are our ships,

Jolly tars are our men;

We always are ready,

Then steady, boys, steady,

We’ll fight, and we’ll conquer again and again.”

“All we were anxious for was the moment to begin. At last, before sunrise, on the third day after we had first made them out, which, do you see, was the 3rd of May, 1810, we got a slant of wind from the South-east, though it was very light, and we, being well to the southward, stood under easy sail into the Bay of Naples.

“Well, we were keeping a bright look-out for the enemy, and just at daybreak we made them out about six miles ahead, standing out from the Mole of Naples, and just between the island of Capri and the mainland. We were on the starboard tack, and they were on the larboard, or what we now call the port tack, remember.”

“What do you mean by the starboard and port tacks?” asked Digby, who was much interested in the details of the account, and wanted to understand it.

“Why, you see, the two lower corners of square sails have ropes to them called tacks and sheets. The tacks haul the corners of the sail down to the fore part of the ship, and the sheets to the after part. If the tack is hauled down on the starboard side, the sheet is of course on the other side, or to leeward, and the ship is then said to be on the starboard tack. So you’ll know if the wind strikes the starboard side, the ship is on the starboard tack, or, if it comes on the other side, she’s on the port or larboard tack.”

“Thank you,” answered Digby; “I know now, I think. But go on; it’s very interesting.”

“I vote that no one interrupts to ask questions,” exclaimed Power. “When the story is done we’ll all fire away as much as we like. Won’t that be best, Toby?”

Toby seemed to be of Power’s opinion, so the motion was agreed to nem con.

“Where was we?” began Toby, having been slightly put out, as even the best story-tellers are when interrupted. “Let’s see. Oh, I know, standing in towards the Bay of Naples, to meet the French squadron. We were on the starboard tack; they were on the opposite one. There’s a picture been done of the fight. It always does my old heart good to look at it; because, do ye see, it’s not like some pictures of battles—it’s true. An officer, an old shipmate, gave it me, and so I had it put in a frame, with a glass over it, and hung up in my cottage.

“There we were, do ye see, the three French ships and we, drawing nearer and nearer to each other on opposite tacks. The Frenchmen followed each other in line, the Céres leading, followed by the Fama and Sparvière, with the wind abeam. Instead, however, of keeping close together, as they ought to have done, they were some distance from each other. The light wind was thus all in our favour, as I’ll make you understand. At last the Céres clewed up her courses, and we did the same, and right glad we were to do it.

“Now, remember, that the Frenchman’s decks were crowded with troops, poor Swiss fellows, who had no wish naturally to hurt us any more than we had to hurt them.

“‘Now, lads, all hands lie down at their quarters. We shall be having a pretty hot shower of musketry among us before many minutes are over, and it will be just as well to let it pass over our heads,’ sung out our captain. All the time, though, he did not lie down, nor did some of the officers; but of course all the people did as they were ordered, except the men at the helm. It was close upon eight o’clock, when we were within pistol-shot of the Céres, that she opened her fire on us. Still we lay quiet. Now, do ye see, all our guns on the main deck were treble shotted.

“Our captain calmly waited, eyeing the enemy till every one of our guns bore on him. ‘Up, boys, and fire away!’ he shouted. Didn’t we just spring to our feet and blaze away like fury. What shrieks and cries rose from the Frenchman’s decks. Our shot mowed down the troops like corn-stalks before the sickle, besides killing numbers of the crew. The soldiers were drawn up all ready for boarding, but our captain was too wise to let them do that. As we were going little more than two knots through the water, we had plenty of time to load again, and to give the second Frenchman, the Fama, the same taste of our quality. Numbers were killed and wounded aboard her, and then, loading once more, we continued our course and fired into the brig. We had still the gunboats to talk to. They were not to be despised, and, as it proved, they were the worst enemies we had. As we approached them we fired our headmost starboard guns at them, and then, going about, let fly our whole larboard broadside, which we had again got ready for their amusement. They returned it with interest, though, and we lost many men from the shot of their long guns, while most of our masts and spars were likewise wounded. As we went about our starboard broadside was not idle, and we kept peppering away at the brigs and the two ships ahead of us. Well, the French commodore ought to have steered for the gunboats, but instead of that he wore round and stood away for Baia, on the north side of the Bay, where there were some batteries. We wore after him. Our captain had taken his stand on the capstan head, that he might have a clear view of everything, and a fine sight it was to see him standing up there undaunted, while the round-shot and musket-balls were flying thick around his head. ‘Ay, he’s the right sort of stuff, that skipper of ours,’ said my messmate, Bill Simmonds. ‘If we don’t take one or more of those Frenchmen I’m very much mistaken.’ After we had got up to the gunboats, and a large cutter there was among them, and hammered away at them, the breeze fell, and left us surrounded with enemies. The Céres lay ahead, with her starboard broadside turned towards us; and we had on our port bow the corvette and brig, while the cutter and gunboats came sweeping up astern, and pounding us pretty severely with their long eighteen-pounders. In spite of our first success, it seemed just then as if matters would go very hard with us. What was our sorrow, too, to see our brave captain knocked off his post badly wounded. He was carried below, for a grape-shot had hit him in the hip. Our first lieutenant, Mr Willes, then took the command. How we did whistle for a wind. Scarcely was our brave captain carried below before a light breeze sprung up: and I can’t tell you how our hearts beat with joy when we found ourselves once more drawing near the French frigate. There we soon were, on her starboard quarter, and on the starboard bow of the corvette, so that our guns were able almost to rake them both at the same time. We had, however, the brig peppering away at us on our larboard quarter, while the cutter and gunboats, some of which were astern and others on the starboard quarter, kept up a hot fire at us all the time. The enemy, it seemed, however, had no wish to continue at such close quarters, for as soon as the frigate’s sails felt the breeze, away she ran as fast as her legs could carry her, till she got under the shelter of the batteries of Baia. We should have followed her, but our rigging and sails had been so knocked about and riddled with shot that for the best of all reasons we didn’t—because we couldn’t. We managed to wear, however, and gave the frigate and corvette a parting benefit, raking them fore and aft with our starboard guns, and knocking away the corvette’s foretopmast. At the same time we poured our whole larboard broadside into the brig. Hearty was the shout raised aboard us, when down came her main-topmast, and, lowering her colours, she sung out for mercy, lest we should give her a second dose of the same character. Dropping a boat to take possession, we stood after the corvette, and should have taken her, but the gunboats came up with their long sweeps, and, in spite of a pretty severe fire we kept up at them, towed her in a very spirited way out of action. As I was saying, we couldn’t then follow, or we’d have had her also, at least. Perhaps we might have had the frigate, too. We hadn’t given up all hopes of another prize, and with a hearty good will we set to work to repair damages. We had altogether been rather more than two hours pretty closely engaged with the enemy. We’d lost by this time ten killed and twenty-two wounded. Both our captain and first lieutenant were very severely hurt. When the French frigate saw that we could not get up to her, she sneaked away from Baia and stood back towards Naples. By the time we were put somewhat to rights the sea-breeze set in, and so our captain ordered the prize to be taken in tow, and away we stood, passing just in front of Naples, before which the rest of the enemy had just dropped their anchors. Whether they thought that we were going to fetch any of them out I don’t know. We heard afterwards that the French General, Prince Murat, who called himself King of Naples, was watching all the time, expecting to see his frigate tow us in; and you may be sure that he was in a pretty great rage when he saw us carry off one of his ships instead, as our prize, before his very nose. I’ve heard since that the French, to excuse themselves, declared that our frigate was a rasé, or cut-down ship, and that we carried fifty heavy guns. You may read of many gallant actions, young gentlemen, but I don’t believe that you’ll ever hear tell of one better-fought battle. It showed the Frenchmen the stuff we were made of, though they’d found that out pretty often before. There’s one thing you may depend on,—every victory gained helps to win another. The enemy can’t help expecting to be beaten, and you feel that you’ve a fair prospect of winning the day. It’s just the same thing, take an old man’s word for it, when you’ve got to fight with bad habits, or vices, or sin of any sort, evil tempers, and evil propensities. Gain one victory. Learn that you can conquer the foe, and the next time you try you’ll find that he gives way more easily than at first; but, if you let him gain the victory, why ’tis you will go to the wall, faster and faster each time, till he knocks you down altogether. But I was telling you how the gallant Spartan captured the Sparvière; and don’t forget to come and see the picture, which ’ll show you all about it.”

The boys thanked Toby for his story, and all promised that they would go and pay him a visit, and see the prints of the battle. I need not repeat all the questions they asked him about it; how he liked having the shot flying about his head, and seeing his shipmates knocked over near him, and all that sort of thing.

“As to the first, young gentlemen,” he answered, “I can’t say as how I ever thought much about it; and as to the second, a man before he goes into battle knows that it may be his lot, and so he makes up his mind to it. When a man makes up his mind to a thing it is much easier to bear it, let me tell you. Besides, very few men, when they once begin to fight, think about anything else but the fighting.”

The conversation to which Toby’s history led lasted the party till they reached the place at which they intended to pic-nic. It had been selected not so much because of its peculiar beauty, as on account of the good fishing which Power expected to get there. He talked of salmon-peel, and basse, and flounders, and plaice, all of which come up salt-water rivers, and often venture into brackish waters. Power at once set off to the spot where he intended to fish: it was on a bank just below a mill-dam. The salt-water flowed in with the flood-tide, and when the ebb made a strong current run out, which always kept open a deep channel. Some shade-giving trees grew about, the turf was soft and green, and, at a little distance, the cliffs turned inland, and formed a ravine, in which stood the mill and the mill pond. Marshall and Easton went off to botanise, and to search in the cliffs for geological specimens and other subjects of natural history; while Digby and two other boys accompanied Power with their rods. Ten minutes passed, and all except Power began to make signs to each other expressive of increasing hunger; but no sign was there of a fish.

“Hurra!” he at last exclaimed; “I have a bite; I knew I should.” His float began to bob, and away it went down the stream. He gave his rod a jerk. “I have him fast enough,” he exclaimed. High he lifted his rod, and up came a fish—but such a fish—a little, ugly, big-headed, flat-snouted monster.

“A miller’s thumb!—a miller’s thumb!” shouted the party, laughing heartily. “What a fine dinner he will make for us,” cried one. “I hope you’ll let us have something else, Power,” said Digby.

“Not unless you will all hold your tongues, and let me try again, for I don’t think any of you will catch anything,” said Power.

Just then Toby arrived, with a stick and line. He held up the poor bull-head with a comical look, and pretended to let it drop down his throat—a proceeding which he would have found very unpleasant as besides its large head its back was armed with a row of sharp spines. “We call this a sea-scorpion, or sea-toad, and some call it a father-lasher, because he is supposed to be so wicked that he would beat even his own father,” said Toby, putting back the fish with a pretence of the greatest care into the basket. “Now, young gentlemen, I’ll see what I can do for the pot; it’s on, and boiling, and only wants something put into it. I’ll make you some pebble-soup if we don’t catch any fish; but the fish will be best, I think.” Toby, on this, went a little lower down the creek, and taking his seat on the bank, let his line drop into the water, throwing in, every now and then, some ground bait. Before long, he pulled out a shining silvery little fish, of most graceful form; another and another followed in rapid succession.

Digby, who had caught nothing, went up to him. “Why, Toby, what are those pretty little fish? I should like to have some of them,” he observed. “How do you catch them?”

“I’ll show you if you’ll sit down and try,” answered Toby. “You’ve caught no fish because you’ve been wandering about from place to place, and not taking advantage of the experience you have got with your first trials. If one depth won’t do, raise or lower your float; if one bait don’t do, try another; and the same with your hook, if you find that you get bites and don’t catch anything. Perseverance is the thing. I generally can tell how a lad is likely to get on in life by the way I see him fish. You’ll excuse my freedom, Master Digby; I like to say what I think will be likely to be useful to you.”

Digby thanked Toby, though he did not quite see the drift of his reasoning. He, however, put on a very small hook, and watched how he caught the smelts; and, in a short time, he had pulled up nearly a dozen. He might have captured more, but turning his head up the stream he saw that Power was hauling some big fish out of the water, and he could not resist the temptation of running off to see what it was.

“Help! help! Here, the landing-net, the landing-net,” shouted Power. “I’ve a conger, a conger; there’s no doubt about it.”

The conger-eel, which occasionally comes up salt-water rivers, is a ferocious fish, with powerful jaws. This was of good size, and struggled so violently, that Digby was afraid of losing hook, and net, and line. The other young fishermen had gone to a little distance, and were busily engaged in hauling in some captives which their skill had taken. Digby, in his eagerness, leaned over so far with the net that, just as he had got the conger into it, he lost his balance, and in he went heels over head. Power nearly followed. The conger got entangled in the net; and Digby’s first impulse, as his head came above water, was to grapple hold of the fish. This he did most effectually, and a tremendous struggle commenced; the conger trying to bite Digby, and Digby determined not to let him go. Power’s feelings were divided between his anxiety for Digby’s safety and his wish not to lose his captive. His shouts called Marshall and Easton, who were not far off. “Haul him out, haul him out!” he cried, lustily. “He’ll make a magnificent dish.”

“Which?” asked Marshall, laughing, “Digby or the fish?”

“Digby, Digby,” answered Power, really thinking that he was in danger.

“No, no,” cried Digby, “I won’t be cooked. Get out the fish first. He’s half mine, though, for I helped to catch him.”

The conger was wriggling about all the time, and Power was making every effort to keep his head away from Digby, whom the fish had apparently a strong wish to bite. Between all parties there was a tremendous amount of laughing, and shouting, and splashing. At last Marshall got hold of Digby’s collar, and out he pulled him, still grasping the net and the fish.

“Don’t let us go till you have got us well up from the water,” exclaimed Digby, panting with his exertions. “If you do, the beast may be getting away, and escape us after all.”

His caution was not unnecessary, for, breaking from the hook, no sooner was Digby’s grasp off him than away he wriggled at a great rate towards the water. It was no easy matter to catch him, for he turned round with his savage head and made desperate bites at the lads, who were in hot pursuit of him.

“Oh, stop him!” shouted Digby, almost crying in his agitation. “Oh, he’ll be off,—he’ll be off!”

Nearer and nearer the water he wriggled; with a hook in his mouth, and the mauling he had got, he was not likely to find much pleasure in his future career; still, life is dear even to fish. He was almost at the edge of the bank, when Marshall seizing his geological hammer, which he had thrown down to help Digby, with it dealt the poor conger such a blow on the tail that in an instant it was paralysed, and though its jaws moved a little, it no longer made an attempt to reach its native element.

It was now voted that dinner-time had arrived, or rather that it was time to begin cooking the fish. Altogether a very good supply had been caught: besides the smelt, Toby brought two grey mullets, a foot in length; these, he said, were rarely caught with the hook, as they suck in their food. They do not often eat living creatures, but grub down at the bottom for offal or weeds. It is a very sagacious fish, and, when enclosed by a net, always makes the greatest efforts to escape by leaping over it, or by seeking for some opening. Only a very perfect net will secure them. In some parts the fishermen form an inner line of straw, or corks, and the mullets leaping over it, and finding themselves still enclosed, do not make a second attempt till there is time to draw them to the shore.

Power had done even more than he had promised, for he had caught a salmon-peel and three or four flounders, besides his conger; while the rest of the party, who had gone to another spot, had caught some basse, and some plaice, and other flat fish. The basse is like a freshwater perch in some respects, but it is not so rounded, nor has it the bright colours of the perch. The plaice and flounders were not very large.

“What funny twisted-head fellows they are,” observed Digby, as he handed them to Toby to clean. “Well, it never did occur to me before I came here what a vast number of curious animals of all sorts live in the sea.”

“I believe, if people would look for them, they’d find as many in the sea as on land,” answered Toby. “Some of them are wonderful curious. Just think of a big whale, and then of a little shrimp; and there are thousands of things smaller than shrimps which live in the sea, and quite as curious.”

What a frying, and broiling, and boiling of fish took place; everybody was busy. Digby wanted, by the by, to remain in his wet clothes, but Toby would not let him, but made him strip, and then hung them up on the black rock, against which the sun was striking with full force. Here they quickly dried, while he sat near the fire, the butt for his companions’ jokes.

“Arrah, now,” exclaimed Power, “would Mr and Mrs Heathcote ever mistake you for their own eldest son and heir of all their virtues and estates, if they were to come by and see you sitting for all the world like a little Irish spalpeen or a gipsy boy, before his camp fire, gutting fish?”

“It’s hard, Power, after I helped you to save the conger, to laugh at me,” said Digby. “He’ll stick in your throat, depend on it.”

Had Digby seen himself in a glass he might have learnt one important lesson, and discovered how very slight a difference there was between him and the characters Power described.

The cooking part of the pic-nic was very amusing, but the eating the provisions was still pleasanter. Jokes and laughter ran high, and old Toby told them some more of his stories, of which I have no record. Altogether, they all agreed that they never had passed a pleasanter or more amusing day. They had saved a very nice dish of fish for Mrs Nugent; and in the cool of the evening they once more embarked, and pulled back to Osberton.

Note. I have no doubt that old Toby’s account is perfectly correct, because it agrees with one just narrated to me by Admiral Saumarez, who was a midshipman on board the Spartan. He was showing me some prints of the action—one of the most spirited on record, and seldom has an account of a sea fight been told me in a more graphic way. Toby’s narrative scarcely comes up to it, I fear.

Chapter Six.

The Reappearance of Digby’s Evil Genius—A Trawling Expedition—How the Guns of the Old Fort went off.

Digby was to all appearance getting on very well with Mr Nugent; a watchful eye was upon him; he had steady companions, older than himself, who were not inclined to lead him into temptation, while old Toby contributed much to keep him out of harm’s way. It may very well be doubted whether this was the best sort of training for a lad of his disposition and the style of life for which he was intended. He would be called upon to mix with the world, to associate with all sorts of people, and to go through the ordeal of a public school and college. One important point was in his favour; his uncle was endeavouring to instil into him good principles, and to make him love, and comprehend, and follow the only light which could guide him on his onward path through life—the Bible. Digby listened oftentimes earnestly, always complaisantly, to what his uncle said to him, and thinking that listening to what was good was of itself a virtuous act, he began to fancy that he had grown into a reformed and very steady character. He might not have found out his mistake, had not a new boy come to his tutor’s; his coming was spoken of some time before he made his appearance. Who he could be was the question. At length a carriage drove up to the door, and out of it stepped Julian Langley.

“Ah, Digby, how de ye do, how de ye do?” exclaimed Julian in an affected way, putting out his hand. “Introduce me to your friends. We are to be companions for some time, I’m told, so we may as well become intimate at once.”

Digby welcomed his old friend, and mentioned his name, but Easton and the other boys could not resist imitating his affected way of talking.

“How de ye do, how de ye do, Langley?” they exclaimed, laughing; while Marshall turned away, somewhat disgusted with the little jackanapes as he called him.

Julian, however, soon made himself at home. He had never held Digby in very high estimation, simply because he found that he could so easily lead him, and he therefore fancied that he should have a good right to look down upon his new companions. His reasoning was not very sound, and they were in no way inclined to be looked down upon. On the contrary, though they were all well disposed to treat him civilly, they showed no disposition to allow him to become very intimate with them. Marshall, indeed, very soon let him know what he thought of him, but it took a great deal to make Master Julian in any way dissatisfied with himself, or any of his belongings, or anything that he had done. It appeared unfortunate for Digby that Julian Langley should have been sent to Mr Nugent’s. Mr Langley finding at last that his son was getting into mischief at home, and hearing that his friend Heathcote had sent his boy to Mr Nugent, wrote to ask if he would take charge of him. Mr Nugent only knew that he was a friend of his brother-in-law, and without making any inquiries as to the character of the boy, at once agreed to receive him under his roof. One afternoon, a few days after Julian’s arrival, Mr Nugent announced that he had engaged a vessel for the following morning, and that he hoped the long talked-of trawling expedition would at length take place. The weather was fine, the sea was smooth, and there appeared every prospect of their enjoying a pleasant day.

“I don’t think that you have been much on the water, Julian,” said Digby. “I wonder how you will like it.”

“Very much, as you all seem to do,” answered Julian, superciliously. “You don’t suppose that I should be afraid of the water?”

“Not afraid of it exactly; but it makes people who are not often on it feel very queer, I know,” observed Digby.

“It might such a fellow as you,” replied Julian, who never lost an opportunity of showing how superior he thought himself to Digby. “I’ll tell you what though, I should take very good care that it doesn’t upset me. I’m above that sort of thing.”

Had Marshall, or Easton, or Power overheard him, how they would have laughed at the nonsense he was talking. All the evening Mr Nugent and Marshal were preparing the jars, and bottles, and boxes for preserving the specimens of marine zoology which they hoped to dredge up. The next morning proved as bright and beautiful as it had promised to be, and a very merry party embarked on board the Mermaid, a cutter of thirty tons, with a crew of six men besides Toby Tubb, who went as master. The fishing ground selected for the day was about four miles off the mouth of the harbour, and they had a fair though a light breeze to take them there.

“It may at first appear strange that one spot of ground should be suitable for trawling and not another,” observed Mr Nugent, as they sailed away from the shore. “There are several reasons for this. One is, that the flat fish which are to be caught feed only among certain weeds, to which their prey is attached, or among which they live; then, again, the trawl cannot be used over rough and rocky ground. Trawlers, therefore, generally drag their nets over smooth and shallow spots, where there is little chance of their being lost. They of course also prefer shallow places, where the net has not so far to descend. Besides the trawl-net, I am going to use a dredge, with which I hope to bring up shells and various specimens of marine zoology, which might be spoilt in the net.”

Mr Nugent’s dredge was a canvas bag, stretched on an oblong iron frame, with iron plates attached to it to serve as scrapers. Drawn along the bottom, as he explained, shells, and crabs, and other slow-moving animals were easily swept into it.

The trawl-net Digby examined with some curiosity. One end was stretched along a stout beam, with small but heavy iron triangles at each end. Just above the beam is a long bag, into which whatever the beam stirs up is forced. Fish, when touched by the beam, dart into the net, thinking that it is the way out, and soon get entangled in its meshes. Ropes are attached to each end of the beam, and they serve also to keep the well part of the net stretched upwards, and at the same time leaning forwards. Toby showed him exactly how it would work when it got to the bottom.

Julian looked on with a supercilious air, as if such matters were entirely beneath his notice.

“You little think, young gentlemen, of the immense number of vessels engaged in this work. There are some firms which own from a hundred and fifty to two hundred vessels, all more than twice the size of this one. Each vessel carries a hundred men, and they fish in fleets, from twenty to two hundred miles off the coast. Some go to the mouth of the Texel, and they remain out six weeks and two months together, fishing every day. Vessels employed as carriers tiring them provisions, and ice in which to pack their fish and carry them away. Little do you think, when you are eating a piece of turbot, how far it has come, and what trouble it has cost to bring it to you in a fresh state.”

By this time they reached the trawling-ground, and the great beam and its net was cast overboard, and the two ropes which were fastened to it were secured, one to the fore part and one to the after part of the vessel. Her peak was lowered, as also was the throat. The tack was triced up, the foresail hauled down, and a small jib only set. Thus, under easy sail, she slowly dragged on her net.

If there is any swell, a vessel feels it, thus partially anchored, much more than when she is under weigh. This Julian discovered to his cost. At first he was very proud of himself, as he walked about, and talked of going into the navy. Now, however, he became very silent, and grew yellower and yellower.

Slowly and gently the little vessel moved to the heaving wave.

“And that same voice which bade the Romans mark him, and write his sayings in their books, cried, ‘Give me some drink, Titanus,’ like a sick girl—” said Marshall, who had been watching poor Julian with a look in which there was very little commiseration.

Julian said nothing, but he showed more and more of the white of his eyes, and his lips curled in a very peculiar and ominous way.

“Wouldn’t you like to come to sea with me?” asked Easton. “It’s a jolly life fellows lead there. Plenty of fat pork and peas pudding.”

Julian shut his eyes, and would not reply, but his efforts to ward off the evidence of the malady from which he was suffering were perfectly fruitless. He had to rush to the side, and I need not describe what followed. He threw himself down on the deck, looking the picture of woe and wretchedness. Had he not already given himself so many airs, and made himself so disagreeable, he would undoubtedly have obtained the commiseration of his companions. As it was, no one except Digby pitied him, and even he could not feel very sorry for his discomforts. However, he went and sat down by him, and began to speak a few kind words, but Julian received his attentions in so uncourteous a way that he was not sorry to get up and watch the proceedings of the fishermen.

The trawl had not been down an hour, when it was resolved to haul it up. All hands were required for this, and everybody helped except Julian, who declared that he was too ill to move.

By slow degrees the ropes were hauled in, and at last the beam appeared, and a considerable portion of the net.

“Why, where are all the fish?” exclaimed Digby, who expected to see them sticking about in the net.

“Wait till we get the purse aboard, and then we’ll see what we have caught,” remarked old Toby, leaning over to secure the mouth of the said purse, or bag. “I see something big walloping about in it, at all events.”

Now came the most exciting moment—to discover the results of the hour’s trawling.

Fishermen do not always catch fish, but Mr Nugent was sure that numberless living things would be brought up in which he would be interested.

“Now see what we’ve got! see what we’ve got!” shouted Marshall, with all the enthusiasm of a naturalist; nor was Mr Nugent much less excited.

Up came the purse, with a mass of living things floundering and wriggling, and twisting about, with one huge monster in the centre. A part of the deck was sunk for the purpose, and into it the whole living mass was turned.

“Well, it isn’t often I’ve seen such a haul as this,” exclaimed Toby; “but take care, young gentlemen, that big fellow don’t catch hold of any of your fingers. He’d have them off in no time. We’ll haul him up out of that, or he’ll be knocking all Mr Nugent’s curiosities to pieces with his tail.”

“What is it, what is it?” was the question asked by all. Even Mr Nugent could not tell.

The monster at which they were gazing was fully six feet long, almost flat, of a dark brown colour, and a rough shark-like skin, with a huge broad head, and very widely-extended side fins.

Toby replied, “Some calls him an angel, and others a monk-fish, or a flat shark; but to my mind he’s very little of the angel about him, and if he’s a monk he’s a very ugly monk, you’ll all allow. He is very strong. If you were to stand on him, master Digby, he would lift you up.”

Digby did stand on him, and the huge fish gave a heave, and a snap with his jaws which made him jump off at a great rate.

“What, did you think the monk was going to leap overboard with you?” exclaimed Power, laughing.

“Indeed I did,” answered Digby, “I’m sure he felt as if he would.”

Meantime Mr Nugent was examining the rest of the contents of the purse, while the trawl, having been once more let down, was towing astern.

Two large skates were hauled out, and Digby came aft to look at them. They were perfectly flat, and had long thin tails, with spines on them, their pectoral or side fins being very wide. “It would puzzle any one to cut their heads off,” he observed.

“Why, Digby?” asked his uncle.

“Because they have not the slightest approach to a neck,” he answered. “If I had to describe one, I should say that it was more like a toy-shop kite than any other thing in shape. But I see there’s something else below all the seaweed and crabs, and other things. Stay, I’ll get it out.”

Mr Nugent was examining some of the living things he had picked out.

Digby stooped down to get hold of what he saw, but very quickly drew back his hand. “Some one has hit me on the arm,” he exclaimed, “or I have been stung, or something or other has happened. I cannot make out what, but it’s very disagreeable, that I know.”

“Let me see,” said Mr Nugent, taking the boat-hook and clearing away the weeds and mud. “Ah, we are indeed fortunate. We have caught a fine specimen of a somewhat rare fish. It is the torpedo, or electric ray. See, the body forms an almost circular disc; the tail, too, is much shorter than that possessed by the other skate we have got. You may well say that it has no neck. It gave you, Digby, the shock you complained of. We will examine its galvanic apparatus. We shall find it on either side, consisting of a number of tubes, having much the appearance of a honeycomb. Its peculiar property is given to it that it may benumb its prey, and, perhaps, digest it more easily. Animals killed by lightning more quickly decompose than those destroyed in other ways, and they do not grow stiff. This electric skate can emit the very same substance as lightning, and though a very small quantity entered into your body, it caused you some pain. When in the water, possessed of all its vigour, it may be supposed that it can very easily destroy the smaller fry on which it feeds.”

“I am very glad that the brute hadn’t its full vigour, for it has hurt me considerably as it is,” answered Digby.

Besides the skates, the net had brought up half a dozen good soles and a large supply of crabs of various sizes and descriptions, star-fish, jelly-fish, shrimps, and other crustacea, all of which were examined by Mr Nugent, and the best specimens transferred to his jars, and pots, and bottles. There were some hermit crabs among them, who had taken possession of various shells, but one or two unfortunate fellows had been caught while in the act of changing their homes, and had no covering for their nakedness. The head and shoulders were like those of a lobster, but the lower extremities were perfectly soft.

Mr Nugent explained how they have to look out for an unoccupied shell, or perhaps eat up the occupant, and then wriggle in their own tails.

The hermit crab grows bigger, but the shell does not, so, when he feels his tail pinched, he has to look out for a larger home. It is amusing to watch him crawling along, examining shell after shell, till he has discovered one to his satisfaction. Then, when he has ascertained that it is unoccupied, he whisks his tail out of one and as rapidly pops it into the new one.

Mr Nugent pointed out that one claw was much larger than the other, and he showed how, when the hermit wishes to withdraw itself into its shell, he can perfectly coil himself away by doubling up the little claw and closing the larger one over it.

Digby was really much interested in the number of star-fish, and shells, and sea-weeds, and many other things, about which his uncle did not think it wise to enter on long explanations to him.

With the next haul of the trawl they were not nearly so successful, giving them an idea of the precarious nature of the fisherman’s calling; while in the third there was scarcely a fish, but Mr Nugent pronounced it more prolific than any of the former ones to him.

It was now time to return home. The net was thoroughly washed, and then triced up in the rigging, while the beam was lashed alongside.

Julian had begun to recover, but he was very unlike himself, and not at all inclined to talk and boast; indeed, Power remarked that he had never seen him so agreeable since he had come to Osberton.

Digby had been examining the crustacea with grave attention, the lobsters, crabs, and shrimps, when, lifting up one, he exclaimed, “It’s very odd; I always thought they were red. How is it, uncle, that these are black?”

A loud laugh from his companions was their reply to the question.

“You are thinking of the lobsters you have seen brought to the table cooked, and ready to be eaten,” observed Mr Nugent. “But go on, Digby, never be ashamed of asking questions, although, now and then, they may bring down a laugh upon you. It would fare but ill with the poor crabs and lobsters if they were not black, or rather of the colour of the rocks and weeds among which they live. Their colour thus enables them to escape detection from the sharp-sighted fish, which are constantly swimming rapidly about in search of them, and, in spite of their coats-of-mail, easily gobble them up. But I was going to show you this little pea-crab, Pinnotheres. He is said to have established a friendship with the inhabitant of a bivalve shell, the Pinna, or Sea-wing. When he wants to go out in search of food, the Pinna opens her shell, and lets him out. He, argus-eyed, watches the approach of their mutual enemy, the Polypus, and instantly rushes back, and by his return giving notice of danger, the shell closes, and both are safe. Otherwise the Polypus might get one of his rays inside the Pinna, and destroy its vitality in a moment, or he might touch the crab, and kill it in the same way. When the pea-crab discovers a supply of food he brings it to his friend, the Pinna, to be divided equally. I will not vouch for the truth of this account; and I am afraid that Master Pinnotheres has some more interested motive in his attachment, and may, in the end, eat up his friend, the Pinna, out of house and home.”

This and many other interesting accounts Mr Nugent gave to his pupils on the return trip. Sometimes he even won the attention of Julian, who condescended to smile at his anecdotes. That young gentleman got a good deal better by the time he reached the shore, but he was not himself all the evening, and went fast asleep while Mr Nugent and his fellow-pupils were examining some of the marine insects they had brought home in their jars, through the microscope.

Several days passed away, and, to all appearance, Julian had gained a lesson from which he had profited, not to think so much of himself. He had found out that others could be brisk and sprightly under circumstances which made him dull and wretched, and that they also knew a great deal more about all sorts of things than he did. To his surprise he found that his tutor, and Marshall, and Power, knew even far more about horses, and dogs, and game of all sorts, than he did. His knowledge was confined to the limited range of his father’s park, and to such information as the grooms and gamekeepers had given him. They knew where the various races came from, their habits in their wild state when they were introduced into England, and they had read about sporting in all parts of the world. He thus found himself instantly put down, as he called it, when he began to talk in an authoritative way on what he had been taught to consider the most important subjects for the attention of a gentleman.

Bad habits and erroneous notions are not without much difficulty eradicated; and so Julian Langley very soon forgot the lesson he had received, and began to think and act very much in his old way. “I say, Digby, the way we have to go on here is horribly slow work,” he observed one day, when he and his old companion were alone. “Don’t you think, now, we could put each other up to some fun or other. I want to do something to astonish the natives down here.”

Digby said he could not think of anything just then, but that he would try. They were strolling along the beach; it was a fine autumn day, but fresh. “I vote we have a run,” said Digby. “It’s cold.”

They ran on till they reached the old castle, of which I have before spoken. Julian never liked running, so he proposed going in and sitting down in a sunny sheltered spot under the walls. There were six or eight cannon of large size mounted on very rotten honeycombed carriages in the fort. They had not been fired within the memory of man, but they every few years received a coat of paint, which prevented them turning into rust; and a superannuated gunner from the Royal Artillery, with much ceremony, cleaned them out of the stones and rubbish which the children in the neighbourhood had thrown into them. Once upon a time they might have proved very serviceable weapons for defending the entrance to the harbour.

“I say, Digby, what do you say to letting off one of those big fellows one of these days? It would make a great row, and astonish people not a little,” exclaimed Julian, after eyeing the guns for some time.

“We should get into a great row if we did, I suspect,” answered Digby. “I don’t think that it would be worth while to try.”

“Oh, nonsense,” said Julian. “I mean that no one should find out who did it; that would be the great fun. We should hear people talking of the explosion, and what it was, and how it could have happened, and all that sort of thing, and we should be laughing in our sleeves all the time. Oh, it would be rare fun. Besides, it is not going to do anybody any harm, you know.”

It did not occur to either of the boys that it might do them a very great deal of harm, and perhaps kill them.

Digby was very soon won over to agree to Julian’s proposal. It suited his taste, and he also thought that it would be rare fun. How to carry out their scheme was the question. Their great difficulty was to procure gunpowder in sufficient quantities to load the gun without leading suspicions on themselves.

When mischief was to be done Julian was very acute, so indeed was Digby. They agreed to buy half a pound at a time at different places; Julian was to go to one place, Digby to another. They were both amply supplied with money; and as Digby did not care very much for cakes, he generally had some to spare. Julian was always ready, by the by, to borrow it of him. Their plans were soon arranged. The event which was to astonish the natives was to be brought about on as early a day as possible. Instead of going home together they separated. Julian went to one shop, Digby to another, to make their first purchase of gunpowder. Fortunately for Digby, the master of the shop was absent, and a shop-boy served him out the powder without asking any questions, merely remarking, “I suppose you young gentlemen want to let off fireworks on the fifth of November? This won’t make many, though.” Had the master asked him, he would have answered probably, “Give me the powder, and I’ll pay you for it;” or he would have held his tongue, and perhaps by his looks betrayed himself.

Julian, meantime, went to the great shop of the place, where groceries, hardware, ironmongery, and even chemical drugs, soaps, and perfumery, were sold; indeed, it would have been difficult to point out what Mr Simson did not sell.

“What do you want all this gunpowder for, young gentleman?” asked Mr Simson.

“To make fireworks, to be sure,” answered Julian, in an angry tone. “I wonder you ask.”

“No offence, sir, but I like to know when young gentlemen get things of a dangerous character that they will do no harm with them. I should never forgive myself if I hadn’t warned you, and you blew yourself up. Remember, a spark falling into that paper of powder would kill any one near, and, perhaps, set the house on fire. You are at Mr Nugent’s, I presume?”

“Yes, I am,” answered Julian, in an angry tone. “Is there anything else you want to know?”

“Oh, I beg pardon, young gentleman; I did not want to offend you,” said the kind-hearted Mr Simson. “You know that I cannot be too cautious about these matters.”

“You can be too officious,” growled Julian, as he left the shop.

Digby and Julian met at Mr Nugent’s door. They had now got a pound of powder between them; but Julian said that was not nearly enough.

The next day they would go again, and each to ask in the other’s name for another half pound.

Julian walked boldly into Mr Simson’s shop as if nothing had happened, and said that one of his fellow-pupils wanted to manufacture some fireworks, and begged to have another small quantity—half a pound would not be too much. He got it; not, however, without creating some suspicion in Mr Simson’s mind that Mr Nugent would not approve of what his pupils were about. This feeling was increased when, a day or two afterwards, Digby appeared, and asked for another half pound. Three half pounds were likewise procured from Mr Jones’s small shop. Mr Jones made some remarks, however, to Julian which, at first, rather frightened him.

“I suppose, sir, you wouldn’t mind Mr Nugent knowing that you have all that powder now, would you?” said the shopkeeper, eyeing him keenly; “well, I didn’t say that I was going to talk about it to him, and I hope that I may have the pleasure of your custom.”

Julian assured Mr Jones that he would patronise him, and, with his usual dignified air, strutted out of the shop.

“I’ll tell you what, Digby,” said he, when the two fellow-pupils next met, “we must not be in too great a hurry to fire the gun. If we do, we shall be found out. Old Simson and that fellow Jones already smell a rat, so we must be cautious; I’ll tell you another thing, too, I’ve been thinking, that it won’t do to fire it by daytime, we should be seen by somebody near the place and suspected. It will have much greater effect if we let it off in the middle of the night. We can easily get out of window and be back again in a few minutes. What say you? there will be great fun in it.”

The spice of danger in the adventure had especial charms for Digby, and without taking anything else into consideration, he willingly consented to all Julian proposed.

It is extraordinary how quiet and out of mischief this notable scheme of the two young gentlemen kept them. They could think of nothing else. Whenever they thought no one was observing them, they went together to the old castle, and ascertained the best means of entering it and escaping again over the ramparts. There was no great difficulty or danger in doing that, even on a dark night.

Three or four weeks passed away—The Holidays were approaching—They could no longer resist their desire to make the attempt.

“Digby,” said Julian, as they were walking out together, “we must do it to-night. It will be dark, but it is perfectly calm and dry. Are you ready to do it?”

Digby answered that he was.

“Then to-night the affair shall come off,” exclaimed Julian. “I’ve got the rope we knotted all ready; I’ll get it out of my box, and stow it away under my bed. I wish the time was come; it will be glorious fun.”

How very demurely the two young gentlemen sat up that evening in the drawing-room, and pretended to be busily reading, though their thoughts were certainly not on their books; indeed, had Mr Nugent asked them what they were reading about, they would have been puzzled to give a satisfactory reply.

At last bed-time came, and the whole family retired to their rooms.

Mr Nugent made a practice of getting up early and never sat up late, except in a case of necessity, when he had some work of importance to finish. The boys, therefore, calculated that he would be asleep soon after eleven. The house was a large one, the elder boys had, therefore, rooms to themselves; but Julian and Digby slept in the same room on the first floor, and their window looked into the garden. All these circumstances were favourable to their design. Finding that there was a bolt on the door, they secured it. They did not undress, but, having put out their light, sat upon the foot of their beds whispering to each other till they thought everybody would be asleep. They then relighted their candle, and Julian, wetting some of their gunpowder, made a compound well known by the name of a Vesuvius; this he did up in a piece of paper. They then poured most of their powder into a pocket-handkerchief. It was a mercy that they did not blow themselves and indeed the house up. They stuffed their pockets full of paper, the rest of the powder, and some old handkerchiefs. Julian had not forgotten to provide a thick stick to serve as a rammer. The next thing they did was to fasten one end of their knotted rope to a bar across their window.

“Now all’s ready. Come along, Digby,” exclaimed Julian.

Digby descended first at the request of his companion, who wanted to ascertain whether the rope was properly secured before he trusted himself on it; finding it was safe, he followed. They looked about them as if they had been young thieves, to ascertain that they were not watched, and then crossing the lawn, they scrambled over a high wall, and ran on as hard as they could go towards the old fort.

It was close upon midnight when they reached the walls. They clambered in, and having selected a gun which pointed down directly on the harbour, they commenced the operation of loading.

“We must put in the handkerchief and all,” whispered Julian.

This was done, taking care to allow the powder to escape sufficiently at the upper side to communicate with the touch-hole. Then they rammed in a quantity of paper.

“Now let’s have some shot,” said Julian, “saw yesterday a pile of large gravel-stones, they will do famously.”

Some gravel-stones, or rather some large lumps of flint were found and rammed in, and the remainder of their paper was rammed in after them. Never before, probably, had the old gun been so fully charged. The nervous time was approaching. They filled the touch-hole with gunpowder, and on the top of it Julian placed his Vesuvius.

“We’ve got powder enough for another gun,” said he, feeling in his pockets; “haven’t you more?”

“Yes,” answered Digby, “I’ve got enough to load a gun almost.”

So they poured nearly all that they had remaining into Julian’s silk pocket-handkerchief, and rammed it into another gun. They filled it up with stones, and then rammed in what little paper they could collect, and as that was not enough, Julian insisted on Digby’s sacrificing his pocket-handkerchief also. Digby did so without a murmur, though I do not know what Mrs Barker or Mrs Carter would have said to the proceeding. He filled up the touch-hole of that gun also, and placed a Vesuvius over it.

“Now’s the time,” whispered Julian.

The church-clock began to toll forth slowly the hour of midnight. He lighted a lucifer match, and in another moment had ignited the Vesuvius of the gun they first loaded, while Digby taking a match lighted the other. The damp gunpowder fizzed, and spluttered, and flamed up, occasionally throwing a lurid glare over the interior of the fort, as well as on their countenances. Julian’s face looked very pale and ghastly, for he already began to tremble for the consequences of what he had done. Little did he suspect what those consequences were to prove.

“We shall be seen if we stand here,” he exclaimed, “let’s get away, Digby, as soon as we can.”

Digby thought the advice too good not to follow it, so they both scampered off to one of the embrasures, and having just got within it were about to jump down into the ditch, when a loud roar was heard, the whole fort shook, a bright light burst forth, followed by a crashing and clashing noise, as if heavy bits of metal were falling on the ground.

“Oh, oh, oh!” cried Julian, in an agony of terror, “what shall we do?”

“The cannon has burst,” said Digby, calmly; “there’s another to come, though.”

It did not occur to either of them that they had just been mercifully preserved from a most terrific danger. Digby looked out; the Vesuvius on the other gun being somewhat wetter than the first was still fizzing away.

“Oh, come along,” cried Julian, recovering somewhat from his fright; “we must get home as fast as we can, or we shall be discovered to a certainty. The coastguard men will be up here directly to see what is the matter. Oh come along! come along!”

Even then they thought that they heard footsteps approaching the fort. They sprang out of the embrasure, and slid down the bank into the ditch. Just as they were sliding down, off went the gun with as loud a noise as the first, while the effects were no less disastrous; a lump of iron flew directly through the embrasure where they had been sitting, and just clearing their heads, fell at some distance beyond the ditch. Digby remembered the circumstance many years afterwards, but it made but a slight impression at the time.

“We had a narrow escape,” said Julian, as they reached the bottom of the ditch; “it is lucky we were out of that hole, or we should have been made to squeak out I suspect.”

They quickly clambered out of the ditch, and looking about to ascertain that no one was observing them, ran on as fast as they could move. They had already marked out the path they were to take, so they lost no time in having to stop and consider which way they were to go.

On they ran. Digby found no difficulty in keeping up the speed, but Julian had never ran so fast in his life. They had to scramble through several hedges and across several stubble fields. Julian’s foot caught in a trailing weed, and down he came on his nose. He cried out with pain, but Digby helped him up again.

“You can’t be much hurt, I hope,” said Digby; “let me help you along; we must make haste, you know, or we shall be caught.”

“But I am very much hurt; my nose feels as if it was smashed in,” answered Julian, sulkily. “You don’t care for that though, I suppose. However, help me along; we must make haste I know.”

With Digby’s aid he was once more in motion. Their great fear was that they might be met by some one on his way to the fort to learn what had occurred. They had nearly reached Mr Nugent’s garden-wall, when they thought they saw some one coming along. A deep ditch was near; Julian jumped into it, dragging Digby after him. They were only just in time to escape a person whose footsteps they heard passing by. Then up they jumped again, and ran on till they reached the wall for which they were aiming. They scrambled over it, and breathed more freely when they found themselves concealed in the shrubbery. Great caution was required, however, to get back into their room.

“Suppose,” whispered Digby, “some one should have come to our room, and tried to awaken us, or found the rope hanging out of the window?”

“Oh, don’t let us think of such things,” answered Julian, who had the greatest dread of being found out in any of his tricks, though he had not the slightest objection to doing what was wrong.

There are, unfortunately, a great number of people in the world like Julian Langley. They do not comprehend the awful fact that the Almighty God sees and knows all they do and think, even to their most trivial acts and thoughts, and that at the great Day of Judgment they will have to answer for all the evil they have committed, all the evil thoughts in which they have willingly indulged. Not understanding, or forgetting this great truth, their only dread is lest their sins should be discovered by their fellow-men, or should in any way disturb the equanimity of their own consciences. No greater offence, therefore, can be committed against them than to speak to them of their vices, or to try to prove to them that they have done wrong. Ostriches, when chased, are said to run their heads into a bush, and to fancy that because they cannot see they are free from pursuit; so men try to shut out their sins and faults from their own sight, and, as foolishly as the ostrich, to fancy that they are not perceived by others, or, still more foolishly and madly, that a due and just punishment, which an all-righteous God has said he will inflict on evildoers, will not ultimately overtake them. Unhappy Julian, I would rather not have had to narrate his career.

“Come on, Julian,” said Digby, at last. “I hear no one about; we must make a push for our window and get in. If we are caught, patience! The thing is done, and can’t be undone.”

Digby was, in reality, by far the most daring of the two, in cases of real danger. Off he set across the lawn, Julian following. They reached the window. The rope was there. Up he climbed.

Julian fancied that he heard some one speak, and then that footsteps were coming along the gravel walk. He was in an agony of terror. He could scarcely climb up the rope, and was almost letting go, but Digby caught his arm, and helped to drag him in. They hauled up the rope, and Julian stowed it away again in his box. They then shut their window and unlocked their door.

When they came to undress, they found that their clothes were very muddy, and that they had got their shoes very wet and dirty in the ditch into which they had jumped. Even Julian’s fertile brain was puzzled as to how they should account for this, should they be questioned on the subject. He lay cold and trembling, and very uncomfortable. He was paying somewhat dear for his lark; people generally do for such like proceedings.

There is an old French proverb, “The game is not worth the candle,” meaning, which is burnt while it is played. In a true and Christian point of view, sin, however delicious, however attractive it may appear, never is worth a hundredth part of the consequences it is sure to entail.

Digby was not much less unhappy than Julian. Still, as he was prepared, with sturdy independence, to undergo whatever consequences his prank might bring upon him—for a prank only it was, though an unwise one—he did not trouble himself much more about the matter, but coiled himself up in his bed to try and get warm, and prepared to go to sleep. He was just dozing off, when he heard the voices of his uncle, and Marshall, and Power, passing the door.

“Some people can sleep through a thunder-storm, or a battle at sea; and so, I suppose, those youngsters were not awoke by all that tremendous noise,” observed Marshall.

“More likely that they were awoke, and that fellow Julian Langley is lying quaking in his bed, and wondering what all the noise was about,” answered Power.

“Do not call them now, at all events,” said Mr Nugent. “We will ask them to-morrow what they thought about the matter. What could have exploded those old guns?”

Julian and Digby would have been fully satisfied had they witnessed the commotion the explosion of the guns created in the quiet old town. Half the male population, and even some of the women, turned out of their beds and ran to the fort. Some thought the Russians or the French, or some other enemies of England, had come, and were firing away at the fort—a very useless proceeding it would have been, considering that the poor old fort could not fire at them. Others, not aware of this latter fact, thought that a body of artillery had suddenly been transported there, and that they were defending the place in the most desperate manner. The braver men who thought this ran to assist them; and others, and some of the women, ran out of the town to be further from danger.

However, a very large number of people collected in the fort, everybody asking questions, and nobody being able to give a satisfactory reply.

Some asserted that a dozen guns had been fired off; others even a greater number. One thing only was evident, when lanterns were brought to make an examination—that two of the old guns had burst, and had scattered their fragments far and wide around.

“Some malicious people must have done it,” observed the worthy mayor, who did not at all like being thus rudely summoned out of his bed, as he had been by the explosion. “High treason, rebellion, and—and—” (he could not find a third word of sufficient force to express his feelings) “has been committed in this loyal, respectable, quiet town, and the villainous perpetrators of the atrocious deed must be brought to condign punishment.”

It was a pity Julian and Digby could not hear these expressions.

Some people in the crowd had their own opinions on the subject. Mr Simson was there, and he picked up a thick stick, with a thicker head, and kept it.

The coastguard men thought the smugglers had done it, but with what object they could not divine. Some wiseacres thought that the guns had gone off of themselves; others, that Dame Marlow, whose fame had long been great at Osberton, had had a hand in the work. However, though everybody looked about and talked, they were not much the wiser, and at length they retired to their homes, and the old fort was allowed to sleep on with its usual tranquillity.

Chapter Seven.

Digby finds that a Bad Adviser is the worst of Friends—More Mischief and its Inconveniences—Serious Consequences Threatened.

Julian and Digby would very much have liked to have been sent to Coventry, the morning after their cannon-firing, so that no disagreeable questions might have been asked them. They dressed slowly and tried to look over their lessons in their room, but got very little information out of their books. They felt very foolish when the bell rang, aid they had to make their appearance in the breakfast-room. Morning prayers were over, and they took their seats round the breakfast-table.

“Well, Julian, did you not hear the noise last night?” were the first words Marshall spoke.

“What noise?” asked Julian; “I sleep very soundly; it must have been a row to awake me.”

“Why, the guns of the old castle going off by themselves,” said Power.

“Not a sound,” said Julian, hoarsely.

Digby looked at him, and wondered if his friend had any conscience. What should he say? there was the difficulty. He had always scorned a lie; if so point blank a question were put to him, how could he answer and not betray their secret?

“And did you sleep through it too, Digby?” said his uncle.

“No, I heard the noise very clearly,” answered Digby, and he felt happier after he had said this, though Julian gave him a tremendous kick on the shins under the table.

“How could you remain quietly in bed after it?” asked Marshall.

“I was out,” answered Digby firmly, “but I got back before you, since you must know all about it. I don’t think that you have a right to be asking me questions, which I may not wish to answer. If I speak at all, I wish to speak the truth. More I do not wish to say; and now, if you like, tell me what you thought about it.”

Mr Nugent looked surprised at Digby’s firmness and unusual vehemence, but suspecting that Julian had not spoken the truth, and that Digby wished not to betray him, forbore to press the matter further.

Of course, both the boys were on tenter-hooks during the whole of breakfast. Digby applied himself sturdily to his food and eat on without speaking, as if he was in a very sulky mood. All day, too, while they were at their lessons, every time there was a ring at the door, they fancied that some one was coming to accuse them of their misdemeanor. Digby thought much less about it than Julian, and it also troubled him much less, because he had made up his mind, if directly accused of the deed, to acknowledge it at once, without the slightest attempt at evasion. His conscience told him, that this was the only right course to pursue; any other would plunge him into a sea of falsehood, from which he shrunk with dread. He intended, if he could avoid so doing, not to inculpate Julian, but to take all the blame on his own shoulders.

“Julian says he was not out of bed that night; he is very wrong, but I don’t want to get him into a scrape if he wishes to avoid it,” he thought to himself.

Unfortunately, he did not see Julian’s conduct in its true light. That young gentleman was all the time thinking, and plotting, and contriving, how he should himself get out of the scrape. He had already told one falsehood, he must invent others to avoid being found out after all. He could not fix his attention on his lessons, and, of course, he did them very badly.

“You must stay in and learn these twelve lines of your Delectus by heart,” said Mr Nugent, who was much displeased with him.

Digby, who had done his lessons much in his usual way, which was seldom very first-rate by-the-by, was allowed to go out. Of course all the rest were eager to go to the fort, and Digby was compelled to go with them. This was doubly annoying to Julian, who wanted to have a few minutes’ conversation with him to get him to promise not to betray him, and to induce him, if possible, to tell a long story which he had concocted, to account for his not hearing the noise, and for his not accompanying Digby afterwards to the fort.

When Digby and his companions reached the fort, he was astonished at the mischief which had been committed. The old guns lay on the ground with large pieces torn out of them, and their carriages knocked to atoms, while a portion of the parapet round the embrasures had been crumbled into powder.

While they were running about, who should walk into the fort but worthy Mr Simson, the grocer. He watched his opportunity when Digby was separated from his companions, and drew him aside.

“I hope the other gentleman isn’t hurt,” he said.

“No, he hasn’t done his lessons, so he is not allowed to go out,” answered Digby.

“I was afraid he might be hurt. Well, you two had a fortunate escape,” observed Mr Simson; “I know all about it; I don’t want to betray you, though; I have boys of my own: but you mustn’t do the same thing again, that is all.”

“Thank you,” answered Digby, “I am very much obliged to you, indeed I am.”

“That’s what I like, young gentleman, that’s manly and right-spirited,” said Mr Simson, taking his hand and pressing it warmly. “I wouldn’t betray you on any account, that I wouldn’t. Trust to me.”

Digby was much happier after this. He felt, however, that he had escaped a great danger of the whole matter being known, and though he couldn’t exactly divine what punishment he might have inflicted on him, he knew that he should at all events have been made to look very foolish.

“They wouldn’t hang a fellow for such a thing, and I don’t suppose they would send me to prison. Still, I am really very grateful to kind Mr Simson for not peaching. I’ll always deal with him in future. How did he find out all about it, I wonder?”

He heard with much more indifference than at first, the various remarks and conjectures made on the subject, and the feeling that he had acted a manly part about it enabled him to look people boldly in the face, and thus he escaped the suspicion which would otherwise have fallen on him. When he got home he found Julian very dull and sorry for himself. He told him what Mr Simson had said.

“Oh, then, he will go and peach upon us, and it will all be found out,” exclaimed Julian, half-crying.

“But he promised that he would say nothing about the matter,” urged Digby.

“So he might, but one can’t trust to a shopkeeper,” answered Julian, with a scornful turn of his lip.

“I don’t see that,” replied Digby; “if he is an honourable man and has good feelings, I think that one may trust to a shopkeeper as well as to the first noble in the land; I know that my uncle often says that one man’s word is as good as that of another, provided both are equally honest and upright.”

“All I know is, that old Simson was very impertinent to me when I went to buy the gunpowder,” said Julian; “if I hadn’t wanted more I wouldn’t have gone to him again.”

“He cautioned me about it, and not without some reason,” said Digby; “So I’ll maintain that old Simson is a very good fellow, and, what’s more, I’m sure he looks like a gentleman in every way.”

Several days passed by, and though inquiries were made and numbers of people were examined, no clue was discovered to the originators of what the county papers called that mysterious circumstance at Osberton. Digby couldn’t help cutting out the paragraph, and sending it to Kate, darkly hinting that he might, perhaps, some day enlighten her about the matter. He was afraid of committing the account to paper, but her very acute perception at once divined that he had taken a prominent part in the affair. How she did long to hear all about it, and how he did long for the holidays that he might tell her. He had an idea that his uncle knew something about it, because after this neither he nor Julian were allowed to go out, except in company with Marshall or Power, or Toby Tubb. One day, however, all the boys had gone together to the beach, and by some means or other, unintentionally, while some were climbing up over the cliffs, Digby got separated from the rest. As he knew his way home, however, perfectly well, he did not care about it, even though it was growing dark. He had not gone far when two men overtook him; they were rough-looking fellows and dressed as seamen; he did not altogether like their appearance. They went on some little way, and then turning back, they looked him in the face, and one of them said—

“Are you Squire Heathcote’s son, master?”

“Yes,” answered Digby, “I am. Why do you want to know?”

“I’ve asked a civil question, and you’ve given a civil answer, master. Good-night,” replied the man who had before spoken; and then they both walked rapidly on.

Digby thought it rather odd that men of that sort should wish to know who he was, but troubled himself very little more about the matter.

When he got home, his uncle inquired how he came to be later than the rest; and knowing he always spoke the truth, was perfectly satisfied with his explanation.

“Your uncle seems to think that he can trust you much more than he can me,” observed Julian one day. “It is very hard upon me, as I am older. He favours you as a relation, that’s it, I’ve no doubt.”

Digby made no reply, but he felt indignant, as he could not bear to have his uncle, whom he respected, spoken ill of.

By degrees Julian recovered his usual state of mind, and, as he did so, his fertile brain began to devise fresh schemes of mischief. Since his liberty had been curtailed he found them, however, much more difficult to carry out. It may seem strange that, after all the anxiety and inconvenience he had suffered in consequence of his last achievement, he should be eager to do something which was likely to produce the same results; but such is unfortunately too generally the case with evildoers. Unless some severe punishment follows they go on and on, committing the same evil again and again. Indeed, even punishment will not always deter people who have given themselves up to evil ways from continuing in them; and men have frequently been known, the very day after they have been released from prison, to have committed the very crime for which they have been confined. Reformation of heart and character is what is required, and this had not taken place with regard to Julian Langley.

“I’ve hit upon a capital idea, Digby,” said he one day when the two were alone; “help me out with it.”

“What is it?” asked his companion.

“I’ve been thinking what fun it would be to set all the fishing-boats out in the river adrift. How they would knock about each other, and how angry the boatmen would be.”

“I should think they would be angry, indeed,” answered Digby, stoutly. “Fun is fun, but it seems to me that a great deal of harm might be done by what you propose. I’d advise you to give up the idea; I’ll have nothing to do with it.”

“I thought you were a fellow of spirit, Digby,” sneered Julian. “What great harm can there be in letting a few old fishermen’s boats knock together?”

“Why, they might get carried out to sea, and be lost altogether, and have their sides stove in, or holes made in their bottoms, or be sunk, and lose their oars and sails; indeed, I can fancy a great deal of damage might be done,” said Digby. “I think that it would be very wrong and cruel to the poor fishermen.”

“Oh, now I see you are going to take a leaf out of your uncle’s book, and to turn saint,” sneered Julian. This was one of his most powerful expressions. He knew that Digby especially disliked being called a saint, and that he often confessed, as do many older people with equal thoughtlessness, that he did not set up for a saint. People seem not to consider, if they do not wish to become saints, what they really do desire to become. Certainly none but saints can inherit the glories of eternity; and unless they trust in the merits of One who can cleanse them from their sins, and make them saints, so that they may be presented spotless to the Father Almighty, from those glories they will be shut out.

Poor Digby winced under Julian’s sneer. “A saint; no, I am no saint, I hope, but I don’t want to injure the poor fishermen,” he answered, firmly.

“Injure them! Who’s going to injure them?” exclaimed Julian, petulantly. “I’ve made up my mind to have my lark, and have it I will. If any great harm comes I’m ready to bear it. You won’t peach upon me, I suppose?”

“No,” answered Digby, indignantly. “I like fun as much as you; and if I saw the fun I’d do it willingly.”

Julian thought that Digby was relenting, and still pressed the matter, but in vain. “Well, if you won’t go I must get somebody else. I know a fellow who will help, though none of the sneaks here will join me,” said Julian, walking away.

Digby felt satisfied that he had done right, still he did not like to let Julian go away, and have his fun by himself.

The latter young gentleman went into the garden, and disappeared in the shrubbery. In spite of the prohibition still existing against his going out alone, he jumped over the wall, and betook himself to the river side. He had scraped acquaintance with a lad of his own age, the son of a small innkeeper, who had been a smuggler, and was still, it was suspected, intimately connected with smugglers.

Dick Owlett was certainly not a fit associate for the son of the Honorable Mr Langley; but vice more than anything else creates incongruous companionships. Young Owlett was ready to do anything Julian proposed, because he fancied that he might easily throw all the blame on Julian’s shoulders, or else that, through Julian’s influence, they both might escape punishment. Dick had none of Digby’s scruples, so the whole plan was soon arranged. Both had thoroughly ill-regulated minds, and rejoiced in mischief for mischief’s sake.

Julian came back unperceived, and, in high spirits, told Digby that he was going to have his fun in spite of him.

The following night Julian awoke Digby about eleven o’clock, and told him that he must help him to get out of the window, and wait his return to let him in again.

Digby expostulated, but in vain; he had not yet learned that the only sure way for the young to avoid the contamination of evildoers is to keep out of their society altogether. So Digby agreed to sit up till Julian’s return.

The rope was secured, Julian descended by it, and off he ran across the lawn towards the wall, over which he had so often before made his escape from the premises.

Digby waited and waited; Julian did not return. He became very anxious about him. He wished that he had taken stronger measures to prevent his carrying out his foolish and mischievous prank. The only effectual way to have prevented him would have been to have told Marshall or his uncle, but such a proceeding was so contrary to all his notions of what ought to be done, that it did not even occur to him. He could not exactly tell how time passed, but he thought that Julian must have been away a very long time. He could bear the suspense no longer. Some boys of his age would have gone to bed, and cried, or sat quaking with fear. To do this was not at all in Digby’s nature. He loved action; he must be up and doing. He knew the road Julian would have taken, and he resolved to go and look for him. It did not occur to him that he should thus run a great risk of being implicated in whatever his companion had done; had he, I do not believe that the fear of that would have weighed with him a moment. He put on all his clothes and his shoes, and, without further consideration, slipped down the rope, gained the wall, and ran on as fast as his legs could carry him towards the river. He got very nearly to the spot where he thought Julian would have embarked, when he met two boys running. “Who’s there?—Julian, is that you?” he exclaimed.

“Oh, Digby, how you startled me,” exclaimed one of the boys. It was Julian who spoke.

“All right,” cried Digby. “I became very anxious. I was afraid some harm had happened, and so I set off to look for you; but why are you running so fast?”

“Because we are afraid somebody is after us,” answered Julian, almost breathless. “We’ve done it, though, and rare fun there will be to-morrow to see what has become of all the boats.”

It was not necessary for Julian to tell Digby to turn back; he had at once done so, and they were running on together. They turned their heads for a moment, and Dick Owlett had disappeared. His reason for so doing was very evident. Digby thus, very unintentionally, slipped into his shoes. They soon had to cross a meadow; their own footsteps now making but a slight noise, they were able to hear the sound of another person fast approaching them.

“It may be Dick Owlett,” said Julian, in a low voice. “Still, if it is one of the coastguard men we shall catch it. Run, Digby, run.”

Digby could have run a great deal faster than he was running, but had he done so he would have left Julian behind. Their pursuer, whoever he was, came on very rapidly. They had scarcely crossed the field when, looking back, they saw him at the other end of it. He must have seen them. It seemed very useless, therefore, to attempt to escape, but their natural impulse was to run on till he put his hand on their shoulder to stop them. Julian wanted to jump into a ditch and hide, as they had before done, but Digby protested against this, and insisted on running on. Across the fields they went—now they thought that they had escaped their pursuer—now they saw him again. Sometimes he got very close to them, and then they distanced him. At last they got up to the garden-wall. The footsteps sounded terribly loud close behind them. They rushed on. Julian, always most anxious to escape from danger, had first sprung to the top of the wall, and Digby was helping him over, when a person leaped forward, and seizing Julian by the leg, and Digby by the shoulder, exclaimed—

“Hillo, young gentlemen, is it you, then, who have been about this pretty piece of mischief? What will your master say to you, I should like to know? It’s lucky we found it out, or there’s no saying what damage might have been done; however, that’s no excuse for you—so come along with me to the front door, and I’ll hand you over to Mr Nugent, or I’ll take you to the lock-up house, and let you stay there till the morning.”

Julian nudged Digby, to induce him to speak. He took the hint.

“I have nothing to do with the mischief of which you are talking,” he exclaimed, boldly. “I don’t know by what right you venture to detain me. I had a good reason for being out, which will, I believe, satisfy Mr Nugent, but I do not see that you, whoever you are, or any other man, has a right to call on me to explain it.”

“Tell that to the marines, youngster; you are not going to impose on an old salt,” answered the revenue man, for such he appeared. “Why, I traced you from the time you jumped on shore every inch of the way to this place.”

“That you could not,” answered Digby; “I have not been on the water to-night.”

“Well, you are a bold young ruffian,” exclaimed the man, fairly exasperated at Digby’s coolness. “I never have heard anybody, man or boy, tell a lie and stick to it as you can do.”

“You are very impertinent,” said Digby, who, knowing that he really was speaking the truth, forgot that it was not possible for the man to believe him. It did not occur to him that he very naturally was mistaken for Dick Owlett.

“Well, if it comes to that,” said the man, “the sooner we go and talk to Mr Nugent the better. I don’t suppose that he allows his young gentlemen to be running about at nights for their own amusement.” Saying this their captor, who was a strong stout man, carried them off in spite of their struggles to the front door of the house. He rang and knocked for some time without succeeding in awaking any one.

The feelings of Digby and Julian may more easily be conceived than described, though, as may be supposed from what I have already mentioned of their characters, they were very different. They did not dare to communicate with each other, and so all they could do was to hold their tongues. At last Mr Nugent was aroused, and supposing that some sick parishioner wanted his attendance, he got up, dressed, and came down stairs. What was his astonishment at seeing two of his pupils in the hands of a revenue officer.

“Please, sir, I’ve brought you these two young gentlemen, to tell you that they have been playing no end of mischief down in the harbour, there, to-night—cutting the fishing-boats adrift, and letting them run foul of each other. If you like to take charge of them and have them ready when they are wanted, I’ll leave them; if not, I’ll take them off to the lock-up house, to pass the rest of the night.”

Poor Mr Nugent could not believe his senses. He stood staring first at one and then at the other, fully believing that he was dreaming. Then he rubbed his eyes and felt his clothes, to assure himself that he had got up and dressed. “What is it all about?” he at last exclaimed. “Out on the river—in the middle of the night—you, Digby—you, Julian Langley. I cannot comprehend it. Come in, though, I am very much grieved; I beg that you, James Sutton, will explain matters more fully.” Without saying more, Mr Nugent led the way to his study, when lighting the candles he sat down, while the accuser and the two culprits stood before him. “Now, James Sutton, tell me your story, if you please,” he said, calmly.

“Why, sir, these young gentlemen have been having what I suppose they call a lark. They went down to the river, shoved off in a boat, and went round, and with their knives cut the cables of a number of the fishermen’s boats and other small craft lying in the harbour. The ebb was just making, and the boats drove one against another; some went on shore, and others would have gone out to sea and been lost, but our boat was just coming in. Of course we boarded them, and finding no one in them, suspected that something was wrong. As our boat is white, and we pulled with muffled oars, and our young gentlemen were very busy, they did not see us. We should have caught them in the act, but that we had to look after some of the boats. We saw them just landing, so our chief boatman put me on shore, and told me to follow them up and see where they went to. I didn’t think, you may be sure, that they were your young gentlemen.”

“You acted in every way rightly,” said Mr Nugent. “And now, Julian, what have you to say to this?”

“That it is a base fabrication,” answered Julian. “I had no right to be out at night, that I know. I went out for a lark, because I couldn’t sleep, and meeting Digby we came back together; but that I did anything else I defy anybody to prove.”

“Oh,” said Mr Nugent. “What do you say to this, Digby?”

“That I had not been out of the house twenty minutes when this man caught hold of me,” answered Digby, quietly. “I certainly was not doing any harm, though I ought not to have left the house without leave. I, however, am ready to stand the consequences of doing so.”

“Well!” exclaimed Sutton, “he is the lad to swear that black is white, and make another believe it.”

“I never knew him tell an untruth, Sutton,” observed Mr Nugent. “There is a mystery about the matter which I cannot yet fathom.”

“Well, sir, I will leave the young gentlemen with you, and you will be answerable for their appearance when they are wanted,” said Sutton, laying a strong emphasis on that word wanted, which has so much significance to thieves and vagabonds.

Julian and Digby did not quite comprehend it in the way Sutton wished, but they guessed that there was something unpleasant connected with it.

“Of course, Sutton, I will take care that they are forthcoming when required to answer for what has occurred,” replied Mr Nugent, in a tone which showed how grieved and annoyed he was. “Come to me, however, at nine o’clock in the morning, and I will inquire further into it.”

When Sutton had taken his departure, Mr Nugent, desiring Digby to stay where he was, led Julian upstairs to his bedroom. The window was open, and the knotted rope hung to it. Mr Nugent stood aghast. “Have you often made use of this, young gentleman?” he asked.

Julian was really frightened, and burst out crying, in dread that his various misdemeanors would at length be brought to light. “Only once or twice, and merely for a lark, without any harm in it,” he answered, as soon as he could bring out his words. “If you will overlook it this time, sir, Digby and I won’t do it again—that I promise; indeed we won’t, sir.”

“I conclude that you will not,” said Mr Nugent, drily. “However, I do not consider it at all a slight thing to have my young gentlemen running about the country at midnight, and laying themselves open to such accusations as have been brought against you to-night. You ran as great a risk of having an accusation brought against you of being concerned in a burglary, or in the robbery of a hen-roost. And listen to me, Julian Langley, I deeply regret that I cannot trust your word, and I am not at all satisfied that you will be proved innocent of the crime of which Sutton says you are guilty. Now, go to bed, and pray that you may have a new heart put into you.”

“But Digby, sir, you’ll forgive him, may he not come up and go to bed,” said Julian, making a mighty effort to speak, for he thought that everything would depend on his being able to put Digby up to what he should say.

“Certainly not,” answered Mr Nugent, who divined his motive. “I cannot allow you and Digby again to associate till this mystery is cleared up. Pull off your clothes and jump into bed.”

Mr Nugent having taken possession of the rope, and shut, the window, took the candle, and walked away, leaving Julian to his meditations, or to sleep if he could. His meditations could not have been of a pleasant character, though it was not so much the folly of his conduct as the fear of the consequences which annoyed him. At last he fell asleep. Meantime Mr Nugent went back to his nephew.

“Digby,” he said, looking gravely at him, “you have often been thoughtless and idle, but I have ever found you truthful; I trust that you will be so on this occasion. Tell me what you know about this matter.”

“I will tell you about my share in it, uncle, but I hope you will let Julian answer for himself. All the fellows say that there is nothing so bad as one fellow peaching against another, and I don’t want to do it,” answered Digby, firmly.

Mr Nugent was too well acquainted with schoolboy notions of honour and morality to be surprised at this speech.

“But it is also very bad to shield the guilty, as in that way vice is encouraged and crime escapes its proper punishment,” he remarked. “However, let me hear what you have got to say. One thing is very certain, both you and he were doing what you should not have done, in leaving the house at night. Go on.”

“Then, uncle, all I have to say is, that Julian went out and asked me to sit up for him and let him in. I did, but he was longer absent than I expected, and so I got out of the window and took the road I thought he had gone to try and find him, fearing that some accident might have happened to him. I met him coming back, and just as we got near the house that man Sutton caught hold of us.”

“I believe you, entirely,” said Mr Nugent. “But I wish to know if you can guess what Julian Langley was about during his absence.”

“That is the very point about which I don’t want to say any thing,” said Digby. “Let Julian tell his own story.”

“But he does not seem inclined to exculpate you; he leads me to suppose that whatever he was about you were helping him to do. You will have to prove the contrary, or you will be considered as guilty as he is,” observed Mr Nugent.

“I cannot help that,” answered Digby, after a little thought. “I have stated the truth; I am ready to be punished for leaving the house, and, as things turned out, I am sorry I did it, but I should have been very miserable if any harm had come to Julian which I could have prevented.”

“Then since you refuse to enlighten me, I will not press the matter now,” said his uncle. “I will consider to-morrow what punishment I shall inflict on you. Take this cloak and go to sleep on the sofa. Remember that you are not to communicate by word or writing, or in any way with Julian. Promise me that you in this will obey me.”

“I do promise,” said Digby.

“Good-night,” said his uncle, not altogether displeased with the boy.

Oh, what a blessed thing it is to be able to confide thoroughly in the word of a person, to know that he always, and under all circumstances, speaks the truth—not only that he scorns a falsehood, but that he deeply feels how odious it is in the sight of God, a pure God who is truth itself. In what different estimation are two boys held, who are perhaps in most respects equal. They have equal talents, can play equally well at games, of the same strength, and appearance, and manners, are equally good-natured, and are equally well supplied with pocket-money, and the means of treating their companions. One has been proved never to deviate from the truth, either through fear, or for the sake of telling a good story, or on any other account; the other it is known never scruples to tell a falsehood, if it suits his convenience, or it can afford amusement to himself or others, while if he thinks he can by it avoid detection from any fault he may have committed, he invariably does so. One is looked up to, honoured, and loved, both by boys and masters; the other may find plenty of associates, but no one trusts him, and all in their hearts despise him, and what is strange, even those who will at times prevaricate and deviate as widely from the truth as he does, have a feeling of contempt for him. Remember, that it is not the only sin, vile as it is, which a boy can commit, but it is one with others which should be watchfully guarded against, and earnestly prayed against, and certainly none, even in the eyes of worldly people, is considered more unworthy of the character of an English country gentleman.

Sutton, the revenue man, made his appearance the next morning; he said some of the fishermen were so furious at the mischief which had been intended them, that unless they could be appeased the matter must go before a bench of magistrates. If so, Mr Heathcote and Mr Langley would have to try their own sons, and the whole affair would be very disagreeable and painful. Poor Mr Nugent was very much annoyed. He went to Julian’s room; that young gentleman was still asleep. He roused him up, made him put on his clothes rapidly, without allowing him time to reflect. He had previously sent Digby out of the study; he now took Julian to it.

“How do you account for yourself from the time you left the house till Digby found you?” he asked.

“Another fellow and I were taking a row on the water, and trying to catch some fish,” answered Julian, doggedly.

“Who was the other fellow?” asked Mr Nugent.

“He’s called Dick Owlett, I believe; he gets bait for us sometimes.”

“Then I can fancy how it happened,” said Sutton. “I’ll now get hold of Master Owlett, who is the wildest young scamp in the place; he’ll lie through thick and thin, there’s no doubt of that, but I’ll squeeze the truth out of him before I’ve done with him, depend on that.”

Julian when he heard this felt very sure that Dick Owlett, to escape punishment, would throw the entire blame upon his shoulders. Could he have communicated with Dick he thought that he might have bribed him to be silent, but as he had no hopes of so doing he was excessively puzzled to know how to act. He had already denied having had anything to do with the matter. He doubted even whether further falsehoods would assist him; still he could not bring himself to speak the truth, confess his folly, and take the whole blame on himself. However, Sutton had learned quite enough for his purpose. His style of proceeding with Owlett was likely to be very different to that of Mr Nugent’s with his pupils. Julian was sent back to his room to finish his toilet, Mr Nugent telling him that he must breakfast there, and not leave it without his permission. He consequently had to spend a very miserable and solitary day in a cold room; but he did not escape having to do his lessons, which he might possibly have considered a counterbalancing advantage, as Mr Nugent took him his books and went there to hear him. He was left in doubt all the time what steps Sutton had taken with Owlett, and also as to what Digby had said.

As may be supposed, Sutton had no great difficulty in getting the whole truth, and perhaps something more even, out of Dick Owlett, who, in the hope of escaping punishment, was ready enough to throw all the blame on his young gentleman companion.

Mr Nugent bethought him of calling in the aid of Toby Tubb. The affair had become the conversation of all the seafaring population of the place.

Toby was very unhappy to think that Digby was implicated, but, when he heard that he had nothing to do with it, he undertook to arrange matters, observing that somebody would have to pay pretty smartly for the lark, if lark it was, though he thought it a very bad one.

Neither Julian nor Digby had an idea that any such negotiations were going forward, and they were left with the impression that they should have to present themselves before a bench of magistrates, and perhaps be sent to the house of correction and receive a sound flogging, or be set to work at the treadmill, or some other dreadful thing to which they had read in the newspapers that juvenile delinquents were subjected.

Mr Nugent, of course, was compelled to write to Mr Langley, to explain the whole matter, and, from the tone of that gentleman’s reply, he saw that the only satisfactory course he could pursue was to request him to remove his son to another place of instruction. He from the first, when he discovered how his young gentlemen contrived to leave the house, had suspected that they had been engaged in the cannon-firing affair.

Though Mr Simson did not forfeit his word by saying anything, he ascertained enough to satisfy him on the matter from the less scrupulous Mr Jones, whose only bond to keep silence was the hope of getting more out of them.

Miserably always are those mistaken who put confidence in dishonest persons. Such are influenced only by interested motives, and invariably betray their dupes if it suits their convenience.

The holidays at length arrived. The last few weeks at Osberton, Julian Langley had found very disagreeable. His lather wrote him a scolding letter, for having put him to so much expense, as he had thought it wiser to pay the fishermen their demand for the damage done their boats rather than allow the transaction, so disgraceful to his son, to become public.

Mr Nugent kept a strict watch over him. He was not allowed to associate with Digby, while the rest of his fellow-pupils treated him with marked contempt, not so much on account of what he had done, as because he had denied having done it, and because they believed that he would have drawn Digby into the scrape, and, if he could, have thrown the blame on him.

Digby did not remain very long out of spirits. His conscience was tolerably at ease. He thought that his uncle had treated him very kindly, and as he wished, therefore, to please him, he set diligently to work to do his lessons each day as well as he could. He had not yet learned to study for the sake of the knowledge he should thus acquire. He did not appreciate the value of knowledge, the use it is of in every way, the delight it affords, the satisfaction it brings. He did his lessons because he knew that all boys were made to do lessons, and he did not expect to avoid the general fate of boyhood. He had a sort of indefinite idea that boys were compelled to do lessons from some tyrannical motive of grown-up people; probably because they, when children, had been made to do them, now, when they were grown up, they retaliated on the next generation for the annoyance they themselves had suffered; much in the same way that boys who have been most bullied and fagged when, they were little fellows, frequently bully most, and make the severest masters, when they get into the upper forms—not always, but frequently, that is the case. Digby now and then wished for the society of his former companion, and thought it rather hard that they were not allowed to speak to each other except at meal-times.

Mr Nugent or Marshall used to take Julian out to walk, never allowing him to go out of their sight. This was more galling to him as Digby now enjoyed the same unrestricted liberty as at first. He seldom, however, went out by himself, except, perhaps, to run to the post-office, or to carry a message to some neighbour.

Dick Owlett did not escape the consequences of his lark, for the fishermen did not overlook the mischief he had wished to do them, and many a kick and a cuff he got from their hands which he might otherwise have avoided. Soon afterwards, he was taken up before the magistrates for another misdemeanor, and Mr Langley, hearing who he was, told his father that he would receive the most severe punishment which could be inflicted if he did not at once send him off to sea. To sea, therefore, went master Owlett, not at all to his own satisfaction, and very much to his father’s rage, who vowed that he would be revenged on some of the aristocracy for what had happened.

The magistrates had lately got the character of being unusually severe. A gang of smugglers had some time before been captured, and a revenue officer having been killed in the affray, two were transported, and others sent for a year or more to gaol—a punishment which, to men of the habits of that class, is peculiarly galling. Although some of the band were taken, others escaped, and the latter, furious at the punishment inflicted on their friends, had sworn, it was said, to take vengeance on the magistrates who had procured their conviction by sending them up for trial, and on Squire Heathcote especially, through whose means they had been captured.

One of the transported men was a grandson of old Dame Marlow, and though it was supposed that she loved nothing human, she had certainly always shown an affection for the ill-conditioned youth in question. Ever since, she had been heard, it was said, muttering threats of dire vengeance against those who had caused it. Time, however, passed on, and nothing occurred, and even those who fully believed in the old woman’s power, as well as in the means at the disposal of the smugglers, thought that nothing would come of the threats of one or the other.

Mr Heathcote, when told of what was said, laughed the matter to scorn. “Dame Marlow has done nothing else but mutter foolish threats against all the human race for the last twenty years,” he observed; “and as for the smugglers, they know too well to come and burn down my ricks, or anything of that sort; and as to personal violence, they are pretty well aware that they would get as much or more than they gave. The man who is afraid of poachers, smugglers, gipsies, or vagabonds of any sort, had better not attempt to act the part of an English country gentleman; he isn’t fit for his place.”

To return to Osberton. Mr Nugent’s pupils took their departure for their different homes. Julian Langley, it was understood, was not to return there again. That Digby would come back was very uncertain. Mr Nugent had heard of a school which he thought might suit him. The head-master was an old college friend of his, a good scholar, and a very excellent as well as gentlemanly man.

“He is conscientious and gentle-hearted,” he observed to his sister, to whom he was writing on the subject; “I am therefore certain that he will do his best to instruct his pupils, and will treat them with the greatest kindness. Of course, after the lapse of so many years, I might find the character of my old friend Henry Sanford somewhat changed, but I cannot for a moment suppose that the change will be in any material point for the worse.”

“Oh, Mr Sanford’s is exactly the school to which I should wish Digby to go,” exclaimed Mrs Heathcote, after reading her brother’s letter; “he will be well taken care of, and well taught. What more can we wish?”

“I would rather send him at once to Eton or Winchester, and he would soon learn to take care of himself,” observed the Squire. “As for the learning, he’ll pick up enough of that, somehow or other, to roll along with, and to enable him to look after his property by and by. Really, I think we had better send him at once to Eton.”

Mrs Heathcote pleaded so hard against this, that at last it was settled that Digby should go to Mr Sanford’s for a couple of years, and afterwards be sent to one of the above-mentioned public schools.

Chapter Eight.

Return Home—Christmas Festivities—How they were interrupted—The Heir of Bloxholme missing—Dame Marlow’s Revenge—Arthur Haviland goes in Search of his Friend.

There were great rejoicings when just before Christmas time Digby’s jovial, smiling, and sunburnt countenance beamed forth in the hall of Bloxholme. How pleased were his father and mother to see him—how delighted Kate was—how fondly she kissed him, and how eagerly she asked him, as soon as he could, to come and tell her about everything. Gusty shouted and cheered as if some great event had occurred—so it had to him—for one of the most important personages he had ever known, had just returned, after a long absence, to the home of his ancestors. John Pratt came to the door, hat in hand, grinning all over with glee, and eagerly helped the coachman to unstrap Digby’s trunk and play-box. Alesbury, the butler, looked benignly at him—“Glad to see you, Master Digby, very glad, that I am,” he exclaimed, in his usual well-bred undertone; “so grown too, you are. Well, we’ve all sorts of things ready for the holidays—very glad to see you, very.” Mrs Carter hurried out of the housekeeper’s room to welcome him, and after shaking hands and looking at him proudly for a minute, she gave way to the feelings of her heart, and seizing him in her arms, covered his cheeks with kisses. Nurse treated him much in the same way. He was too happy to resent the indignity, though he did rub his cheeks pretty hard afterwards with his handkerchief, when they were not looking. His two elder sisters were out riding when he arrived. When they came back they gave him as hearty a welcome as the rest of the family. Miss Apsley, too, in her quiet ladylike way, expressed her pleasure at seeing him. Her discernment enabled her to discover that he possessed many qualities which, if properly directed, would make him both generally liked, and a useful member of society. She liked him because she thought that he was an honest true-hearted, English boy.

Digby had good reason, therefore, to be satisfied with the reception he met with from every member of the family after this his first absence from home. So he was, and he felt that he was a very happy fellow. Still more full of glee was he, when he at length having been sufficiently looked at, and talked to, and cross questioned, and kissed, and hugged, and fed, found himself running through the grounds, with Kate by his side, towards their favourite resort, the summer-house on the mound.

It was a bright clear day, and though the air was cold, the sun striking through the glass windows for several hours made the room warm and pleasant. Then looking out together at the view, which, even in winter, was beautiful, Digby told Kate of all that had happened him at Mr Nugent’s. How she did laugh at the idea of firing off the old guns at the Castle, though she very nearly cried with horror when he described how they had burst, and how narrowly he and Julian had escaped being killed.

Digby touched very lightly on Julian’s behaviour, but he could not help saying enough to make Kate exclaim—

“Oh, I hate him!—mean-spirited, disagreeable boy. I hope papa will not ask him here again. I never liked him—I did not know why—now I guess the reason.”

Kate then told Digby that all sorts of preparations had been made for his amusement during the holidays, and that several people, young and old, had been invited to come to the house.

“And who do you think is among them?” she asked. “Somebody you will be very glad to see, and whom I never saw. I begged that I might be the first to tell you, because I know that it will give you so much pleasure.”

Digby guessed all sorts of people, but gave it up at last. Perhaps he knew how much Kate would like to tell him.

“Then I won’t leave you longer in doubt,” she exclaimed, eagerly. “Arthur Haviland is coming.”

“You don’t say so,” said Digby, clapping his hands. “How very jolly.”

“Yes, he is, though,” cried Kate. “Papa, it seems, knew Mr Haviland, who wrote to him about your having helped to pull Arthur out of the sea, and then they found that they were old friends, and so it was arranged that Arthur should come here for your holidays. Who else do you suppose is coming? I’ll tell you, as you are not in a guessing mood to-day. Cousin Giles. We could not get on this Christmas without him, I’m sure. He’ll manage everything. He’ll direct all our games in the evening, and settle about all the sports in the morning for you boys. We were quite anxious till we knew that he would come; now I am certain that everything will go smoothly.”

“Capital! how jolly!” exclaimed Digby.

Everything which promised to be pleasant was jolly with him. If he had been asked what was the most jolly thing in existence, he would have answered—his sister Kate.

Cousin Giles and Arthur Haviland were to arrive the very next day, and several other people who had sons with them were coming before New-year’s-day, so that the house would be full from the top to the bottom.

Kate had another surprise for Digby. After they had had their confabulation, and the sinking sun warned them that it was time to return home, she led him round the back way, under pretence of showing him the dogs and some young pups Juno had produced. By chance, it appeared, as she passed the stables, she threw open the door, and there stood John Pratt, grinning with pleasure, and holding by the head a beautiful little pony, with a new bridle and saddle on.

“Oh Kate, how kind, how delightful, how jolly!” exclaimed Digby. “Is that really for me? What a beauty. What grand gallops I’ll have on him, and go out with you on your Tiny. It is of all things just what I should have liked the best, if I had been asked. What is his name? I hope that it is a pretty one.”

“Guess,” said Kate, who, although Digby never had guessed anything in his life, always persisted in making him try and do so.

“Oh, I can’t! Angel, or Fairy, or Beauty, or something of that sort,” he answered.

“You burn, you burn—something very nice,” cried Kate. “Well, then, if you give it up I’ll tell you—Sweetlips. We didn’t give him the name. It was what he was called by the person from whom papa bought him, but as he knows it, and will follow like a dog when he is called, we did not like to change it.”

“It’s a funny name for a pony, but as he has got it, we will still call him by it, and I shall like it very much,” answered Digby. “But I say, John Pratt, can’t I have a gallop on him at once across the park? I won’t be ten minutes away, and it would be so delightful.”

“I sees no reason again it, Master Digby,” replied John; “I thought as how you’d be liking it, and so I put the new saddle on him, which the Squire sent and made me buy for you.”

“Says he, ‘John, our Digby will be coming to cover with me, to see the hounds throw off, and he’ll be by my side I hope when I go a coursing; and I wish him to appear as my son should appear, John.’ This was afore we bought the pony. I heard of it, and I was certain that it would just do, so the Squire told me to go and settle for it at once, and not to stand on price, and right glad I was when I brought back Master Sweetlips; and says the Squire, ‘I never saw a greater beauty in my life, John. He’ll just do for our boy. Now go and buy a new saddle and bridle to fit him. You can judge of what it ought to be just as well as I can.’ Wasn’t I proud; and so, Master Digby, here he is, all your own. And here’s a new whip I bought at the same time. The Squire didn’t tell me to get that, but if you’ll accept it from an old man, you’ll make his heart right glad.”

“Oh, thank you, John—thank you, John Pratt,” exclaimed Digby, his heart so swelling with kindly and grateful feelings that the tears almost came into his eyes. “You run in, Kate, and say I’ll be back directly, but I must have a gallop on Sweetlips.”

John had been assisting him to mount, and adjusting his stirrups all the time. Away trotted the young heir of Bloxholme, and truly he looked the worthy scion of a sturdy race. John Pratt stood outside the yard gate, watching him with admiration, and Kate remained on the upper step of the hall-door, gazing at him with affectionate interest, till he was lost to sight among the trees, and the sound of his pony’s hoofs died away in the distance.

“He is a dear fellow!” she exclaimed, as at length she entered the house, and ran up stairs to prepare for dinner. She was to dine late that day in honour of Digby’s arrival. She anticipated a delightful evening. He would have so much to tell her, so much to talk about—she felt so proud of him. He looked so well—so manly, she thought, and was so much improved in every way. Kate dressed and came down to the drawing-room long before dinner-time, that she might have another talk with Digby. He had not made his appearance, so she sat down and took up a book, thinking that he would come soon. Miss Apsley appeared next. Kate remarked that she thought Digby was a long time dressing for dinner. She ran up to his room, but he was not there. When she came back, expecting to find that he had in the mean time come to the drawing-room, she felt blank at not seeing him.

“He probably is with your papa or mamma, dear,” observed the governess; “it is scarcely fair to wish to monopolise his society.”

“No, I will not; of course everybody will wish to speak to him,” said Kate, and she resumed her book.

In a few minutes, however, she laid it down again.

“It is very odd that he does not come,” exclaimed Kate; “I must go and find him.”

She ran again to his room. His evening clothes and shoes were put out, the hot-water jug was on his wash-hand stand untouched, and his hair-brushes were in order on the dressing-table. He evidently had not been there to dress. She ran to her father’s room, and then to her mother’s and sisters’, but he was not with them.

“Then he must be with Mrs Carter,” she said to herself, and away she ran to the housekeeper’s room, but Mrs Carter had not seen him nor was he in the nursery.

She was in hopes that he might have gone to play with Gusty before he went to bed. Coming back she met Alesbury, and begged him to send to the stables to ascertain if Digby was still there. Hoping that her brother might have gone into the drawing-room during her absence, she returned there. Her father was standing before the fire, her mother and sisters were sitting down on sofas and comfortable chairs, attempting to snatch a few minutes light reading in that generally very idle portion of the day.

“Kate, where is Digby?” asked her father, as she entered.

“I have been looking for him, papa, but I cannot find him,” she answered.

“He has forgotten the dinner-hour, and is still renewing his acquaintance with the horses and dogs,” said the Squire, adjusting his cravat.

He poked the fire, turned himself about before it once or twice, and then took up the newspaper. While thus occupied, the footman abruptly entered the room with a startled expression:—

“Mr Alesbury sent me out to the stable to bring in Master Digby, sir,” he exclaimed in a hurried tone; “I went, sir, but neither John Pratt nor any of the men could I see; and while I was there the new pony came trotting in by himself with the reins hanging over his head.”

“What is this, what is this I hear?” cried Mr Heathcote, in a state of great agitation, running to the hall-door.

He was going out, he scarcely knew where, when Alesbury came into the hall, and handed him his hat.

“You will put on your coat, sir; the evening is cold. We don’t know where Master Digby is,” he said in a tone which showed that he also was much agitated.

Meantime Mrs Heathcote, who had not exactly understood the footman’s announcement, was very much alarmed.

“Has Digby been thrown? is he hurt? where is he?” she asked, hurriedly, trying to go out into the hall, but her elder daughters and Miss Apsley held her back, thinking that it was much better to keep her quiet till they could ascertain what had really happened.

Kate had followed her father out of the room; she thought that she would at once set off to find Digby; she flew up into her room to put on her walking things.

Into the hall speedily hurried Mrs Carter, and nurse, and all the servants. Everybody was asking questions which no one was able to answer. Neither John Pratt nor any of the other men had yet come back.

Mr Heathcote, telling Thomas the footman to attend on him, seized a thick stick, and set out in the direction he understood Digby had gone with the pony. He had no definite plan; he forgot that it would have been wiser had he remained at home to have directed the search, and heard the reports of those sent to look for his son.

Kate came down prepared for her expedition soon after her father had gone out and disappeared in the darkness. She wanted to follow, but she did not know which way he had gone, and Alesbury, who thought that she ought not to go out, would not tell her.

“I will go,” she exclaimed vehemently; “I have as good eyes as anybody, and I am as likely to see him.”

Eleanor and Mary came out several times to make inquiries, and then Alesbury and Mrs Carter were summoned into the drawing-room to state all they knew and had heard. All anybody could say was, that Master Digby galloped off on his new pony, and that when John Pratt and the other men found that he did not come back, they set off to look for him. They must have missed his pony, because the pony came back by itself.

As soon as Kate saw that she was not watched, she opened the hall-door, and slipping out, closed it behind her unperceived. Then down the steps she went, and away she ran as fast as her light feet could carry her along the path she had seen Digby go. She could not bear to think that any very serious injury had happened to him, but she fancied that he had been thrown from his pony and stunned; or, perhaps, that his ankle might have been sprained or broken, and that he was, in consequence, unable to walk home.

The sky had become overcast and the night was very dark. Poor little Kate ran on, looking anxiously on every side and calling out Digby’s name.—Snow, too, began to fall, and came down in large flakes on hat face. For herself she did not care, she did not feel the cold, but she thought of dear Digby, lying on the bare ground; and, perhaps, unable to move or to call out. Perhaps he might have attempted to leap, and got thrown, or his pony might have stumbled. Still it appeared so sure-footed and sagacious a beast, that that could scarcely have happened.

“Oh Digby, Digby, where are you?” she every now and then cried out in a piteous tone.

Not a ditch nor a recess in the road of any sort, escaped her scrutinising glance. But no Digby replied, no sign of him could she discover. On she went, it appeared that she had got a long way from home. The road, and the country seemed strange to her; she had scarcely ever been out at night during her life; she did not like to turn back, but she began to fear that she might be looking for him in one direction, while he might have gone another. She had just begun to think this, when a snow-flake fell on something shining on the ground, she stooped down, and she found that it was Digby’s whip. She had no doubt about it.

“He must be near! he must be near!” she exclaimed. “Digby, Digby, answer, where are you? it is Kate calls you. Digby, dear. Brother, brother, speak to me. Oh do! do speak, Digby, just one word that I may know where to look for you. It is so dark that I cannot see you. Digby, Digby, brother, brother, speak!” she screamed out almost frantically.

No answer came to her repeated calls.

“He must have dropped his whip as the pony was galloping on,” she thought; “he may have gone further than this before he fell; and yet Digby was not likely to be thrown off; no boy of his age rides better.”

So again the brave little girl ran on, crying out his name as before. Oh, what a loving affectionate sister was Kate, well worthy to be cherished. I fully believe that there are many such who would do the same, if occasion required, for their brothers’ sakes. She did not feel faint, or fatigued, or cold; she did not think of herself, all her thoughts were for Digby, as she pictured him lying maimed on the cold ground. The snow fell thickly, the north wind blew keenly, she did not feel it herself, but she thought he did. She would have run on crying out Digby’s name till daylight, or till nature had given way and she had sunk on the ground. She heard footsteps coming along the road.

“Oh, can you tell me anything of my brother Digby?” she cried out, “Mr Heathcote’s son, he is lost. He rode away and has not come back.”

“Mercy on me, my sweet Miss Kate, is this you?” exclaimed a voice near her. It was that of John Pratt.

“Dear, oh dear, we mustn’t be a losing two on you in one day. We cannot find him, Miss Kate; but bear up, dear. It will break my heart, that it will; but that’s no matter. We be a going back to get lanterns and torches, and more people, to help in the search. The Squire will be for sending out all the men and boys from the village to look for him. He must be somewhere, and not far off, that’s my opinion. But come along back, Miss Kate; you’ll be catching your death of cold, and they’ll be wondering what has become of you next at the Hall.”

John Pratt spoke so rapidly that Kate had not been able to put in a word. She at last told him that she had found Digby’s whip not far from where they were, and that she should know the spot by some high trees of peculiar form, which were near it. Many people would have picked up the whip, and afterwards would have been unable to tell where they had found it, but her natural sagacity at once showed her the importance of being able to return to the exact spot. John wanted to carry Kate, but she would not hear of it; she consented only to hang on his arm as he hurried along. He tried to keep up her spirits in his somewhat uncouth, though not rough way.

“He’ll come back, Miss Kate, no fear. It’s not likely any great harm could have happened to him. Mayhap he has got into some cottage, and the pony ran away. When we gets lights we’ll find him. He’ll be late for dinner. It can’t be that any great harm can have happened to the heir of Bloxholme; it’s impossible, Miss Kate, I am sure it is.”

Thus rambling on in his talk, John, with poor Kate, reached the Hall. Everybody there was in a state of consternation. In the first place, Kate had been missed, and it was supposed that she had been spirited away, as had been Digby. Then, not far from the Hall, the Squire and Thomas had been set upon by half a dozen men or more, whose aim seemed to be to inflict a severe injury on them. The Squire cried out who he was, but they only seemed the more eager to conquer him. Fortunately his thick stick stood him in good stead; and Thomas being armed in a similar manner, they had for some time kept their assailants at bay; but the Squire was at length brought on his knees, being very severely handled, and almost overpowered, when some of the men who had gone out to look for Digby, came up, and his assailants fled. He called on his people to pursue, but, much injured as he was, he stumbled and fell before he got far, and the ruffians escaped. His condition was deplorable. He was brought back to the Hall, his mind racked with anxiety at the disappearance of his son, and indignant at the way he himself had been treated. He was puzzled to ascertain whether the two circumstances were in any way connected. As soon as he was a little recovered, and had been able to collect his thoughts, he sent off to the village to demand the services of most of the male population, as John Pratt had suspected he would do. He also sent off in every direction to borrow lanterns, and anything that would serve as torches.

John Pratt, on his return with poor little Kate, was heartily welcomed. The Square was too ill to direct the search, so he desired John to make all the arrangements he thought necessary, and to carry them out without delay. He wished to go out again himself, and would have done so had not Mrs Heathcote and his daughters entreated him to remain within.

The attack on the Squire had naturally created a new cause for alarm about Digby. It seemed more than probable that the same ruffians who had attacked him had got hold of his son. Still it was not supposed that they had killed him; the very idea was too dreadful.

Through the active measures taken by John Pratt, the inhabitants of every cottage and house for miles round were aware of what had occurred; but John’s hopes that he might have got into some cottage were disappointed; not a trace of him could be found.

A sleepless night was passed by all the inmates of the Hall; no one thought even of going to bed. Everybody sat up expecting to receive information about Digby; but though people continued constantly to return, no satisfactory information was brought. The place where Kate had found her brother’s whip was carefully searched by men with torches and lanterns, but nothing else belonging to him could be discovered in the neighbourhood. It became evident, at last, that they must wait for daylight to make a more satisfactory search.

Never had the inmates of Bloxholme Hall passed a more anxious and miserable night. The morning brought no news of the lost one; not a trace of him could be discovered. The snow lay thickly on the ground, and must completely have covered up all marks of every description, if any had been left.

Poor Kate wandered about the house more like a ghost than a thing of this world, watching anxiously for every person who came in, and trembling at every footstep she heard.

Early in the day, cousin Giles—or rather Mr Woodcock, for that was his proper designation—arrived with Arthur Haviland. They, of course, were very much shocked at what had occurred. Arthur was eager to go out at once to assist in the search.

Mr Giles Woodcock had seen a great deal of the world, and had profited by what he had seen. He was an acute, sensible, energetic man, full of life and spirits, and fun too, which he was always ready to exercise in its proper time and place. He was more, also, than all that—he was a devout, serious-minded Christian, and never ashamed of acknowledging the motives of his conduct. His arrival at the moment was most opportune.

The Squire, although up and dressed, was, both in mind and body, so prostrate that he could not take that active superintendence of all the arrangements which were necessary.

Cousin Giles saw the state of things, and at once set to work. He called everybody in, and made them give their reports, of which he made notes. He called for a map of the district; he inquired whether anybody in the neighbourhood could have a motive for attacking Digby and the Squire. He strongly suspected that the men who had assaulted Mr Heathcote were in some way concerned in the disappearance of his son. How to find out who they were, and to get hold of them, was the difficulty. Although, however, he suspected one thing, he did not, as is often the case, exert himself to prove his suspicions correct to the neglect of all other points, but he directed the search to be continued and inquiries to be made in every possible direction and way.

At last John Pratt returned after another prolonged search over the country.

“Well, John,” said cousin Giles, “this is a sad matter. We won’t waste words, though. Have you a suspicion who has got hold of the lad? Had anybody any reason for attacking the Squire? Can you suggest any means of finding this out?”

John thought a little. “Old Dame Marlow may tell us something about it, zur,” he said, after scratching his head vehemently. “She knows zomething of everything; and if she don’t know, nobody does.”

Cousin Giles, having made further inquiries as to the dame’s character, was about to dispatch John to bring her to the Hall, when Mr Bowdler arrived.

He had been absent from home, and immediately on his return, hearing what had occurred, set off for the Hall.

Cousin Giles told him what he was about to do.

“She may know something about the matter, but not by supernatural means, as these poor ignorant people suppose,” he remarked. “A magistrate’s warrant, in the hands of a constable, will have the best effect in eliciting the truth from her. The Squire can issue it; a constable is in attendance; we will send it off at once. A grandson of her’s was lately apprehended and transported through the Squire’s means, and it is probable that she has instigated some of her friends to this act, to revenge herself.”

In less than an hour the wretched old woman was brought up to the Hall.

Mr Bowdler first endeavoured by gentle persuasion to induce her to confess all she knew; but she was deaf to all his exhortations. Though she put on a stolid, dull look, and answered only in monosyllables, there was a cunning twinkle in her eye, which showed that she fully understood what was said to her, and was evidently not ignorant of the matter.

Cousin Giles next tried to draw some information out of her by threats. She looked up several times with an inquiring look to ascertain whether he had the power of doing what he threatened. When brought before the Squire, she scowled fiercely at him, and not a word could be drawn from her. She was sent under charge of the constable to remain in the servants’ hall.

“Give her food and treat her kindly,” said the Squire; “she is an old woman, and feels the loss of her grandson.”

The old woman heard what was said, but made no remark.

“At all events I am convinced she can, if she will, give us some of the information we require,” remarked cousin Giles; “she completely betrayed herself by her looks and gestures. I remarked particularly her fear of me, not knowing who I was, and her hatred of the Squire, while she had made up her mind to turn a deaf ear to your exhortations, Mr Bowdler.”

“What do you advise, then?” asked the clergyman.

“Keep her here, and work upon her fears. Then show her that it is her interest to tell us what we want to know,” answered cousin Giles; “force will not do. I doubt if even the judges of the Inquisition would get much out of her.”

The whole day passed by and no clue as to what had become of Digby was obtained. Even John Pratt was knocked up, and was obliged to go to bed to recover strength, that he might continue the search.

When it was known that Dame Marlow was had up to the Hall, two men came in and stated that they had heard her threaten both the Squire and his heir with her vengeance, though they supposed that she intended to carry it out by means of her incantations. Their evidence, however, was sufficient to enable the Squire to detain her at the Hall. A bed was made up for her in a little room where people, who came to speak to him on magisterial business, were put till their turn arrived to see him. She much wanted to be left alone.

“No, no, old lady,” answered the constable, laughing; “you’d be flying up the chimney, or burning the house down, or playing some prank or other. That would never do.”

Arthur Haviland felt very sorry. He was very anxious to be doing something, but did not know what to do. Kate very naturally took him into her confidence.

“Oh, I wish that I was a boy,” she exclaimed. “I would roam the country round till I found Digby, or cross the seas, and search for him through every land, if I thought he had been carried there. But they will not let me go. Mamma says I must not, and Miss Apsley made me promise to obey, and so I must submit; but it is very cruel.”

“Fortunately I am a boy, and I will go,” cried Arthur, enthusiastically. “He saved my life, and I am sure that my father would not disapprove of my going.”

“Thank you, Arthur, thank you,” she answered. “I am sure that he is alive. I should have felt very differently had he been dead. I could not have borne that thought. You will find him; I feel that you must find him, remember that. Poor mamma and my sisters think that he has been killed by those dreadful men who attacked papa.”

This sad event made Arthur at once feel himself at home, and one of the family. He was prompt in all he did. He went at once to Mr Woodcock, and asked him to obtain a man to accompany him, saying that he would set off the next morning at daybreak, and prosecute his inquiries through the neighbouring districts.

“Perhaps I may find out something which has escaped the notice of the people here,” he remarked.

“I like your zeal and spirit, and will gladly aid your plan,” answered cousin Giles.

Arthur was ready at the hour he had arranged; and he found a lad of about eighteen prepared to be his companion. Adam Hodder seemed a very intelligent fellow; and Arthur felt that he would rather have him than an older person.

Both Arthur and his companion were warmly clad and well prepared to brave the cold. Arthur had put on his roughest clothing, but still he looked the gentleman. They carried some provisions in a bag that they might not have to go out of their way to obtain them: but they had taken a good breakfast in the dark, that no time might be lost of the short day of that season. The air smelt pure and fresh as they stepped out in the grey light of the early dawn; and as they walked on briskly Arthur found his spirits rising, and he felt sure that he should again see his friend.

“Well, Adam Hodder, what do you think can have become of Master Heathcote?” he asked.

“That’s more than I can say, sir,” answered Adam. “But I don’t think with some of the people about here, that old Dame Marlow has spirited him away. It’s more than likely that some of her people may have got hold of him, and will either carry him away out of the country, or make the Squire pay pretty largely before they give him back.”

This was a new idea to Arthur, and it served to help him in his inquiries. He told Adam also to make his own observations, and to gain certain information at every cottage they visited. He learned that some men in the dress of seamen had been seen in the parish. They had not spoken to any one, and no one knew where they were going. Then, again, these were the men probably who had attacked the Squire, and they might possibly have had nothing to do with Digby’s disappearance. Still, from their being dressed as seamen, Arthur resolved to prosecute his inquiries towards the coast. He accordingly sent a messenger back to the Hall to say what he had heard, and what he proposed doing. He hoped to get as far as Osberton that night. He had gone some way when he heard some horses’ hoofs clattering along the hard road. He looked round, and, as the riders approached, he saw that it was John Pratt and another man.

“I’ve come after you, sir, to tell you that we’ve got hold of some information that may lead us on the right scent,” said John, jumping from his horse. “I am to go along with you, sir. If you like to ride there’s a horse, if not, I’ll send him back.”

“I infinitely prefer walking such weather as this,” answered Arthur. “Send the horse back, and now tell me the news.”

“Why, sir, first, Mr Woodcock sent off to London for what they call a detective, a sort of ferrety-like fellow, who pokes his head in everywhere, and finds out everything. When Dame Marlow heard of it she was in a great taking, and asked what reward she would have if she tried to find out where the young Squire is?

“‘I’ll tell ye what, Dame,’ says Mr Woodcock to her, ‘if he isn’t soon found, you’ll have very much the contrary to a reward, let me tell you. When the detective comes down, you’ll find that tricks like these can’t be played, and you go unpunished. However, I’ll tell you what, Dame, we don’t want to be hard upon you, and if you help in any way to find the young master, depend on it the Squire will be liberal to you, and you’ll be a richer woman than you have been for many a day.’

“She made no answer, but sat smoking a pipe they had given her over the fire, for a long time; she smoked and smoked away. At last, says she, ‘I want to speak to that strange gentleman. He can see better with half an eye than all you people can with two; and I have a respect for him.’

“When Mr Woodcock went to her, says she—

“‘I may put you in the way of finding the young Squire, but send at once; there’s no time to be lost. Look out an honest man, if you can find such. It won’t do to be sending a beak, remember that. Send a lad with him; he may want somebody to help him.’

“Mr Woodcock at once thought of me, as he knows that no one loves the young Squire better; and so he sent for me, and told the old dame that I was the man he would send, and that he was sure you, Master Haviland, would wish to go also. She seemed well satisfied at this, and then went on to tell me what to do.

“‘A mile to the west of Osberton, in Luccombe Cove, there’s a fisherman’s cottage, close down to the beach,’ said she; ‘there’s no other near. You’ll find an old man there. Ask for Jem the Spotsman. Say that I sent you to him. Tell him that if he shows you where the young Squire is you’ll give him five golden guineas. He’ll not do it for less. If he says he knows nothing about the matter, tell him that the beaks will be on him, and that he’d better do as I bid him. If you can get another fearless man to go with you it may be better. Jem will lead you to a strange place, where you’ll meet strange people. Speak them fair; you’ll not do much by force. Tell them that you’ve plenty of friends at your back, who know where you are, and will come and look for you if you don’t soon return to them. I tell you this because I don’t want any more mischief to come out of the matter. Again I say, you mustn’t lose time. It’s just possible that, even now, you may be too late, and that the lad is on his way to far distant lands. That’s no fault of mine, remember. Those who have got him may be thinking of taking him, or they may not. It is not very likely that they will be wishing to send him back after they have shown him their hiding-place, and let him into other of their secrets.’

“I didn’t stop to hear more, but I just got a couple of brace of pistols, and came away at once to overtake you. We might have ridden all the way into Osberton, but Mr Woodcock cautioned me to go in quietly, lest the smugglers or the people, whoever they are, who have got Master Digby, should hear of our coming, and suspecting treachery, should carry him off elsewhere.”

“I am rejoiced to hear what you tell me,” exclaimed Arthur, when John Pratt had finished his account. It is impossible, by the by, to do justice to the quaint and thoroughly provincial way in which he expressed himself; so that Arthur at times could scarcely understand him. “There can be but little doubt, from what you tell me, that he is alive, and that we are in a fair way of recovering him. We must proceed, I see, with caution and courage; and as we may employ another man, I know one who will gladly aid us. He is a friend, too, of Digby’s—Toby Tubb is his name. If we want help, he can help us better than anybody.”

“He may be a friend of Master Digby’s, and I hope he has many friends, but he can’t be a greater, nor one who would give every day he has to live for him,” exclaimed John, with a very natural burst of feeling.

They were walking on all this time rapidly towards Osberton. On arriving there, they first went to Mr Nugent’s house. He had been made aware of what had occurred, and had already consulted with Toby Tubb on the subject. While Arthur took some tea, and rested, he sent off for Toby.

When Toby, who had been thinking the matter over, as he said, arrived, and was told Arthur’s errand, he slapped his thigh, and exclaimed, “I thought it was so. I know the gang; a set of daring ruffians as ever lived. Poor Master Digby; it was hard for him to fall into their power. But we will get him out again as soon as we can, if they haven’t spirited him away.” Toby had come prepared for an expedition. He begged Mr Nugent to lend him a brace of pistols. Arthur and John Pratt were already armed. Adam Hodder had gone back with the horses. Arthur, with his two attendants, therefore, John and Toby, immediately set forth on their undertaking. As Toby Tubb knew every inch of the way, they soon reached the high ground above Luccombe Cove.

“There’s the cottage,” he observed, pointing to a hut low down on the beach. “I know Jem the Spotsman well—a terrible old ruffian he is. Do you, Master Haviland and John Pratt, go in and give him your message. If he refuses to help you, call me, and I’ll see what I can do.”

Arthur, followed by John Pratt, stepped boldly in. The expedition, independent of the object, had peculiar charms for him; there was so much romance and excitement in it. He did not stop to knock, but flung open the door of the hut, and unhesitatingly entered. An old man, in a blue Guernsey frock, sat bending over a drift-wood fire, which spluttered and smoked as he kept piling on the yet damp chips. He looked round at the noise, and, seeing strangers, rose with considerable activity to his feet. He scowled at them beneath his white shaggy eyebrows.

Arthur had begged that he might be the spokesman; he felt fully up to the emergency. At an early age, indeed, he had learned much to rely on himself. “Jem the Spotsman, I have a message for you,” he began.

“Who told you that was my name?” asked the old man, with a growl.

“Never mind, if it is your name,” said Arthur. “We’ve come to do you good, and show you how to gain five golden guineas.”

“Time was when I could gain fifty without much trouble,” interrupted the old man.

“You cannot now, though; and five guineas is a good sum,” observed Arthur. “You’ll get that, but not more. Dame Marlow bids me tell you that the beaks will be on you; that you know where the young Squire of Bloxholme is hid away, and that if you would keep your neck out of a noose, you will show us where he is to be found.”

The old man sat down and began to rake the ashes of the fire with a stick. He did not ask his visitors to take seats, though, but he kept watching them warily out of the corners of his eyes. “Five golden guineas, five golden guineas,” he kept muttering. “Who are you who make the promise?”

“A friend of Mr Heathcote’s,” answered Arthur. “It will be faithfully kept with you, depend on that.”

“Who’s that man with you?”

Arthur told him.

“Ay, he looks as if he had the hay-seed in his hair,” observed old Jem. “I’d rather trust a seaman.”

“If I bring a seaman, one, perhaps, whom you know, will you trust him?” asked Arthur.

“Yes,” answered the old man, after a little thought.

Arthur made a sign to John Pratt to go and fetch Toby; but he seemed unwilling to leave Arthur alone.

“Go, go. What have I to fear?” said Arthur, firmly.

The old man looked up at him. “Some who have been here have been afraid, though,” he muttered. “Take a seat, young gentleman. I like your spirit.”

Arthur thanked him, and sat down on a three-legged stool, near a table, which, from its appearance, he knew had formed part of the furniture of the cabin of a ship, probably wrecked on the coast. Every portion of the hut, indeed, was evidently composed of wreck-wood—the roof, the sides, and floor.

John Pratt soon returned with Toby.

“Ho, ho, old shipmate,” said Toby, as he entered, “so you won’t believe what the young gentleman promises; but you’ll believe me. Five golden guineas or a rope’s-end, remember that.”

“The guineas,” answered old Jem, who at once recognised Toby as an acquaintance. “But I was placed here to receive a message; when they come who will they give it to?”

“Never you mind that; we’ll be be back in time, I dare say,” answered Toby.

“Then come along,” said the old man, whose weak mind was evidently powerfully influenced by the prospect of receiving the five golden guineas to the exclusion of every other consideration. “It will be rough work for the young gentleman, but he looks as if he wouldn’t fear it.”

Getting up, and walking with wonderfully firm steps, the old man led the way to a little inlet of the sea, into which a stream fell. It was large enough to allow four or five boats to float in it at once. One only was seen, and she was drawn up on the beach. A pair of oars and a rudder, and a mast and sails were in her. The old man called to Toby to help him launch her.

“What, be’es we going by the sea?” asked John Pratt, who had a thorough dread of the ocean.

“It’s better than going by the land, seeing that we could not get there at all, if I guess the place we are bound for,” observed Toby. “Now step in, young gentleman—step in, master.”

“Can you steer?” old Jem asked of Arthur.

“Yes, I am well accustomed to it,” he answered.

“Then take the helm, and do as I bid you,” said the old man, taking the after oar.

Toby took the other, and they pulled away from the land. The cove was sheltered by a high reef of rocks, so the water was perfectly smooth—so smooth, that a thin coating of ice had been formed at the margin, through which the boat easily forced her way. The stars shone brightly forth from the dark sky, and enabled Arthur to discern the whole outline of the wild, and fantastically-shaped cliffs, which formed the coast, as they towered high above his head on the right. The boat had gone out to clear a reef of rocks which ran out from the shore, and having got to the end of it, old Jem told Arthur to port his helm, and thus doubling it, he steered close in under the cliffs. In many places there was no beach, the water coming close up to their bases; and so close was the boat that frequently the oars touched their rugged fronts. Often, too, the sea-fowl, roosting low down on ledges of rocks, were disturbed from their perches, and flew up with loud screams, circling round and round their heads, till they had passed their resting-places.

John Pratt looked about him with considerable awe, if not dread; all was strange and new to him.

Arthur had witnessed similar scenes. The boat made but slow progress, for she was kept all the way in and out, through all the little bays, and bends, and inlets of the shore. Many thoughts passed through Arthur’s mind during the long pull. He hoped to recover his friend, and to enjoy the delight of restoring him to his family. At the same time, he could not help recollecting what Dame Marlow had said to John Pratt, and also the remarks of old Jem, and often he feared that they might arrive too late at the cavern where they expected to find him; that he might already be carried off to the distant lands of which the old woman spoke. Such things had occurred before, and might occur again; yet he was puzzled to know what motives the smugglers could have in such a mode of proceeding. He thought and thought over the matter without coming to any satisfactory conclusion. No one spoke above a whisper.

“We might be seen or heard by some passing coastguard man,” observed old Jem.

Now a lofty, dark, and beetling headland was seen before them.

“It’s on t’other side of St. Niven’s Head. We’ll have to go round it,” said old Jem.

Arthur did not object to the long pull, but he was eager to discover Digby, and to relieve him from all the anxiety he must be feeling.

On pulling out towards the end of the promontory, a swell was felt which, as it rolled in, broke on the cliffs, and compelled them to keep at a somewhat greater distance. On they went. As Arthur looked up it appeared as if the cliffs rose to a prodigious height above his head, almost reaching the sky. In several places, indeed, they appeared to be completely overhanging the water; and he could scarcely divest himself of the feeling that they were about to fall down and overwhelm the boat. The boat now rose and fell more rapidly to the heaving wave, and nothing but John Pratt’s earnest desire to find his young master, prevented him from bitterly repenting that he had trusted himself on the treacherous ocean.

“Starboard your helm!” suddenly exclaimed Jem, with an energy which he did not seem capable of exerting.

A loud splashing, washing sound, was heard, and Arthur saw the sea breaking wildly over a rock, on which, in another instant, the boat would have struck. The danger passed, they pulled on till they rounded the headland. Wilder than ever was the scene. On one side the lofty cliffs, with their steep front, on which there appeared scarcely a ledge on which a sea-fowl might set its foot; while on the other was the broad boundless expanse of ocean. Arthur thought what would have been their fate if the boat had struck on the rock, and sunk.

“The cave where we may find him is not many hundred fathoms off,” said old Jem.

Arthur’s heart beat eagerly at the information; and John Pratt forgot all his fears.

“Remember, you have to deal with men who care not for law of any sort. You must speak them fair, or you will gain nothing,” said the old man. “Now steer in for that white spot. You’ll find some steps and a path cut in the face of the rock. Take care you don’t slip, or you’ll chance to break your neck. Enter the cave as boldly as you entered my nephew’s cottage; say your say, and wait for the answer. If they threaten you, call for me. I want my five golden guineas.”

Arthur sprang out of the boat, followed by Toby and John Pratt.

Toby whispered that he had no idea of the place they were going to.

Arthur carefully groped his way up the cliff, but had great difficulty in finding the path. He could not help allowing it to occur to him how completely they were in the power of the ruffians they had come to seek. A few stones rolled down would have precipitated them all into the sea. Still the idea was far from making him repent that he had come on the expedition. His chief thought and earnest wish was to rescue Digby.

Toby Tubb puffed up after him, but John Pratt, once on dry land, was himself again, and came along with easy strides. Lichens and salt-loving plants grew on the face of the cliff, and served Arthur as handles to assist him to mount, though he trusted chiefly to his feet and the ledges and excrescences in the rock. Up he went—on, on, on. He thought that he must have got into the wrong path; not a sight of a cave appeared. Then he thought that perhaps old Jem had played them a trick, and having placed them on the wild rock had pulled away. The old man had charged him not to speak, so he was afraid of stopping and consulting with Toby and John Pratt. He was beginning to despair, when suddenly he found that he had reached a broad ledge. The party collected on it. A dark spot on the face of the cliff was before them; that was evidently the entrance to the cavern. He drew his breath faster; who would not on such an occasion? Then he and his two attendants walked rapidly forward, till they found themselves under the arched roof of the cave. There was no light, or signs of any one being there. Toby had brought a lantern; he lighted it. As he did so, he whispered to Arthur—

“There may be pitfalls in the way; it’s as well not to tumble into them.”

The cave did not run directly into the cliff, but turned sharply round to the left. Toby holding up his lantern, they boldly advanced. Still no voices were heard.

“The fellows are asleep,” whispered Toby.

They soon reached a narrower part of the cave, with a screen of rough planks running across it. At one end of the screen was a low door; Arthur pushed it open, and entered, fully believing that, in another instant, he should grasp Digby’s hand. Arthur saw before him a large vaulted cavern. In the centre was a fire, over which an old man and a boy were sitting toasting some slices of fish at the points of their knives. So eager were they in their occupation that they did not perceive his approach. Could the boy be Digby? The idiotic expression of wonder and fear with which the lad looked up at him showed him that he was not. The few inarticulate words uttered by the lad made the man turn round, when, starting up, he drew a pistol, and presented it at Arthur.

“We come in peace, and have no wish to hurt you,” said Arthur. “Tell me where is Squire Heathcote’s son. We come to seek him.”

While the man stood irresolute, without replying, Arthur’s eye fell on some clothes on the top of a cask. He took them up: there was a cap, and jacket, and waistcoat, such as Digby was accustomed to wear. He had little doubt that they were Digby’s. His heart sunk within him.

“Where is Squire Heathcote’s son?” he repeated.

The man stretched out his hand. “They have carried him off; he is far down Channel by this time.”

All Arthur’s worst apprehensions were realised; he was too late to save his friend.

Chapter Nine.

Digby’s New Pony—Attacked by Smugglers—The Outlaws’ Cavern—A Voyage—The Gale—An Ill Wind that Blows no one Good—Digby Shipwrecked.

“You beautiful little Sweetlips, many a jolly ride I’ll have on you,” cried the young Squire of Bloxholme Hall, as he patted his pony’s neck while he cantered along over the ground, just crisping with the newly set in frost. He had intended to go only as far as the park gates, but the air was so refreshing, and the feeling of finding himself once more in the saddle was so exhilarating that, seeing the gate open, he could not help dashing through it, and giving his pony the rein and a cut with his whip, galloping along a smooth piece of turf which ran for some distance by the side of the road. “I shall be back quite time enough to dress for dinner,” he thought to himself, “and Sweetlips likes the fun as much as I do.” He galloped on a little longer. “Oh, this is delightful! We must go a short distance further, Sweetlips,” he exclaimed. “We will turn back, then, and you shall have a capital feed. I’ll tell John Pratt to give it you. Oh, how kind is papa. You are a first-rate pony, indeed you are, old fellow.” On he went; the pony certainly seeming to enjoy the gallop as much as his young master. “Now we really must go back, Sweetlips,” cried Digby, pulling in his rein, for the gloom of evening was rapidly increasing. He did not perceive that several men were coming quickly along the road close to him. “Now for Bloxholme, at your best speed, my pony, he shouted in his glee.”

“Hillo! stop, master!” cried one of the men, springing forward and seizing his rein. “Who are you?”

“Let go my bridle,” answered Digby, trying to free himself. “I am Mr Heathcote’s son, if you wish to know.”

“Ho, ho! are you, indeed, youngster?” said one of the men. “We are in luck, then. I say, though, you are not going home just now. Come along with us.”

“Along with you! Indeed I will not,” answered Digby, with very natural indignation.

“Ho, ho, my cock of the woods, don’t crow so loudly, or we may have to squeeze your windpipe,” exclaimed another of the ruffians coming up.

All Digby’s spirit was raised. He struck out right and left with his whip, and endeavoured to force his pony out from among them. In vain were his efforts. He, however, struck the ruffian who held the reins so severe a blow across the eyes that the man let them go, and he might have escaped, had not, at the same moment, two other fellows seized him by the collar of his jacket, and he was dragged to the ground. The pony, finding his head free, sprang forward, and before either of the men could catch him, had galloped far beyond their reach, though one of the most active ran on in the hope of catching it. Digby in the scuffle, while bravely trying to escape, let go his whip, which fell to the ground unperceived by his captors. Few other words were spoken. They dragged him rapidly along the road they had come, which led past Dame Marlow’s cottage. One of them threatened to blow out his brains if he made the slightest noise, and suspecting that they might put their threat into execution, he refrained from crying out. Still, as he went along, he was considering all the time how he could effect his escape. He counted eight or ten men in the party who had got hold of him. When they arrived at Mile-End gravel-pits, they turned off and took the path to Dame Marlow’s cottage. They seemed to be expected there. When they entered, the old woman was leaning over the fire, stirring a large caldron boiling on it. As the bright light fell on her thin, sharp features, and her long, bony arm, almost bare, was stretched out grasping the ladle, with her red cloak thrown over one shoulder, her long, straggling hair, and her fantastic dress, she looked, indeed, like one of the witches Digby had read of, and he could not help feeling that the outrage of which he was the victim, was a just retribution for the trick he had once played here—a retribution probably brought about by her machinations.

“We’ve caught the young bird sooner than we expected, Dame,” said one of the men. “But, we’ve more work on hand to-night. We’ll leave him with you and Dick Owlett till we come back. Take care that he doesn’t fly off.”

Master Dick Owlett, who had hitherto kept in the background, now made his appearance. He had grown so much stouter and bigger since Digby saw him last at Osberton, that dressed as he was, in a rough seaman’s costume, he could scarcely have recognised him.

Digby knew that he had been sent off to sea, but he learned, from his conversation with the old woman, that he had deserted and found his way back to his old haunts.

One of the men placed a bench near the fire. “Sit down there, youngster,” he said. “Mind you don’t stir till we come back. Dick, keep an eye on him.”

Dick Owlett scowled at Digby, and drawing a pistol from his coat-pocket, sat himself down at the other end of the bench, eyeing him as a bull-terrier does his master’s bundle he has been placed to watch. The rest of the men then hurried out, leaving only old Marlow, who lay groaning on a bed at the further end of the cottage, the Dame, and Owlett watching Digby.

When the men were gone, the Dame came and placed herself before Digby, eyeing him with a very sinister glance. “So, young Squire,” she hissed out, “the old Squire will learn that the poor can love their children as much as the rich. He sent my boy across the sea with the help of the law, and never will he come back to gladden his old grandmother’s eyes; and now I’m going to send his son far away, and may be he’ll never come back to brighten Bloxholme Hall with his smiles and his laughter. Revenge is sweet, and there are many to-night who find it so, and there are some who will find it bitter, too.”

Digby heard these words, but scarcely comprehended their full meaning, or was aware of the very terrible misfortune threatening him. He sat still for some time, while the old woman’s words were ringing in his ears. “I don’t much fear her threats, and I ought to be ashamed of myself in allowing the old woman, and that young rascal, not so many years older than I am, to keep me a prisoner,” he thought. “I’ll break away from them.” He sprung up to rush to the door, but before he had moved further, the click of the pistol-lock struck his ear.

“I’ll fire,” exclaimed Owlett, with a dreadful oath. “I’m not going to be informed against, and sent off to prison for this night’s work.”

“Young Squire, he’ll kill thee,” cried the old woman, placing her long, skinny hands on his shoulder, and forcing him down to his seat with a strength he could not resist.

He was too indignant to expostulate, but he eyed Dick Owlett, and considered whether he could compete with him in a tussle, and wrest the pistol from his hands. Then he recollected that if he made the attempt, he should have the old woman attacking him in the rear with her sharp, talon-like fingers. Whenever she moved, he felt that the Dame’s keen eye was upon him. Even while preparing the supper for her guests, and stirring the caldron, her glance was constantly turned towards him. Then, also, Owlett had his finger on the lock, and the muzzle of the pistol pointed at his breast. A full-grown man might have felt very uncomfortable under such circumstances, so, considering that Owlett might possibly put his threat into execution, much against his will he sat still.

A long time seemed to pass, and then, at length, the band of ruffians came back. From their appearance and conversation Digby supposed them to be smugglers. They seemed highly delighted with their performances that evening; and having hurriedly discussed their supper, they declared that they must be off without further delay.

Digby now thought it was time to speak out.

“What is it you want with me?” he asked. “I wish to return home.”

“That’s what you will be crying out for many a day, youngster,” answered one of the men. “No, no, you’ll go along with us.”

In vain Digby expostulated, and threatened, and at last entreated his captors to let him return home. They only laughed and sneered at him. Had he himself only been the sufferer, he felt that he would not have condescended to use any arguments but threats with such ruffians; but he knew the misery his disappearance would cause his parents and sisters.

“Poor dear little Kate; how she will cry about me,” he said to himself; and he thought again and again how he could get away.

The men buttoned up their coats, slipped a rough pea-jacket over his shoulders, and put a tarpaulin hat on his head, which they tied down so that he could not throw it off.

“Gag him,” said one of them; and he found a handkerchief passed tightly over his mouth, effectually preventing him from crying out. Two of them then took him by the arms between them, and, nodding to Dame Marlow, went out. She merely cast one very unpleasant glance at him, but said nothing. The whole party followed, and walked along the road at a rapid rate, every now and then looking behind them as if they expected to be pursued. In about twenty minutes they reached a low public-house, well known as the resort of smugglers and other bad characters. Two carts were standing before the door; jumping into them, without entering the house, they drove on at a rapid rate. Digby looked up at the sky, which was beautifully clear. Mr Nugent constantly gave his pupils lessons in practical astronomy, and Digby was therefore able to discover that they were driving towards the sea. They kept, however, considerably to the west of Osberton. At last they reached the edge of a cliff; before him lay spread out the ocean, now sleeping in calm grandeur. The men roughly pulled him out of the cart, and two of them taking him as before, between them, made him descend a narrow zig-zag path down the face of the cliff. Down, down they went, till they reached a small curving beach, the high cliffs towering above it, and without any communication with the other part of the shore. A boat lay there; she was quickly launched, and the men, getting in, took Digby with them.

He had been full well sure that search would be made for him, but he saw that the difficulty of discovering him would be much increased by this proceeding of the smugglers. He had been unable to drop anything on the road by which he could be traced; and now embarked, and, as he thought, about to be carried out of the country, he was brought to the verge of despair.

The smugglers, however, had not rowed far before they once more turned the boat’s head towards the land; and he soon found that they were at the foot of a lofty cliff.

“You may sing out now, youngster, as loudly as you like; no One will hear you whom we fear,” said one of the men, undoing the handkerchief secured round his mouth.

Up the cliff the whole party climbed till they reached a cave in the face of the rock. Digby had not supposed so curious a place existed in that part of the country. The entrance was of no great size, but when they had gone a little way, he saw that it branched off into several broad and lofty galleries. Into one of them the smugglers turned, when a wooden partition appeared before them, and going through a small door, he found that they were in what looked like a large hall, lighted with lamps hung from the roof. A fire burnt in the centre with pots and caldrons cooking over it, and near it were several long tables and benches, sufficient to accommodate a considerable number of persons. The glare of the fire fell on numerous packages, and bales, and casks, piled up round the walls of the cave, while several ship’s bunks and rough-looking bedsteads were arranged at the further end of the hall.

Several persons already occupied the place. Two of them were women, so Digby judged by their dress, though they were the roughest specimens of the female sex he had ever seen; the rest were men and boys. They all evinced great curiosity about him, and made many inquiries as to how he had been taken, and what was to be done with him. Digby did not hear the answers made to these questions, so that he was left in the dark as to the fate intended for him. The party were soon seated at the tables, and fish, flesh, and fowl, in ample quantities, were placed before them. Digby was invited to join them in somewhat a rough manner, but with no unkind intention, apparently. At first he thought that he ought to refuse, but he had grown very hungry, and he felt that it would be foolish not to make himself as comfortable as he could. Room was made for him near the fire, and one of the women brought him a plateful of the most delicate of the morsels of food which she could pick out.

“Poor little chap, it’s hard for you to be taken away from home just now; but cheer up, may be they’ll let you go again, by and by.”

“Hillo, Bet! what are you talking to the child for?” exclaimed a man, whom Digby had for some time suspected to be the captain of the band.

The men, however, addressed him in the same familiar way that they spoke to each other, and called him “Nat Charnick.” Though roughly dressed, his costume was neater than that of the other men; he spoke more correctly also; in appearance there was, perhaps, less of the ruffian about him. He was of moderate height, strongly built, and of a fairish complexion, but the expression of his countenance showed that, in essential points, he was in no way superior to the men who surrounded him. The ruffian crew appeared, from some reason or other, to be accustomed to look up to him, and a word from his lips speedily brought the most unruly to order. Food, though somewhat coarsely dressed, there was in abundance, and spirits of various sorts were passed round and drunk, as if they had been so much water. When, however, the carouse appeared to be growing fast and furious, Nat Charnick called his crew to order, and reminded them that they had work to do that night. In an instant the men put aside their glasses, and rising from their seats, each one loaded himself with one of the casks, or bales, I have mentioned, and went out of the tavern. Digby sat still, wondering what was going to be done. The men, however, quickly returned and took up more bales or casks. Everybody, even the boys and women, were employed in the work. Like ants they kept going continually backwards and forwards, till the heaps of goods sensibly diminished.

“Oh, oh!” said Digby to himself, “here is a possibility of my effecting my escape, and I will carry out a burden with the rest, and as soon as I have put it down, I will try and make off, or hide myself somewhere outside the cavern.”

Accordingly he jumped from his seat, and putting a bale of silk on his shoulders, he followed Dick Owlett and some other lads out of the cave, as he fancied, unobserved by any one. How delighted he felt at getting into the open air, keen and cold as it was.

“In a few minutes I shall be free,” he thought; “if I once get to the top of the cliff won’t I run on? I doubt if even the fastest among the smugglers would overtake me.”

On he went with his burden, which was a pretty heavy one. They soon reached a narrow ledge on the face of a perpendicular cliff. Ropes were hanging over it, and the smugglers securing their bales and casks to them, away they were hoisted rapidly out of sight; but bitter was Digby’s disappointment when he found that there was not a spot near where he could by possibility conceal himself.

“Well done, youngster,” said the voice of Captain Charnick; “I like to see a lad willing to make himself useful; you’ll soon become like one of us, and spend a much more happy and free life than you would at school or at the old Hall there.”

Digby found himself caught in a trap, and that the smugglers might not suspect the design he had entertained, he was compelled to run backwards and forwards with the goods, as they were doing, till the cave was completely empty. The exercise had, however, the effect of making him so thoroughly tired, that he was glad to throw himself on a bed pointed out to him; and in a minute he was fast asleep. When he awoke the smugglers were astir, and the women were bending over the fire, busy in preparing breakfast. He was invited, as before, to partake of it.

“They cannot intend to do me much harm, or they would not feed me so well,” he said to himself; and he very wisely resolved to keep up his spirits, and to make himself as much at home as possible. He thanked the women in a cheerful voice for their kindness, and laughed and chatted in a perfectly natural and free way with every body round him. Dick Owlett looked surprised and rather suspiciously at him.

“You are a merry as well as active youngster, I see,” said Captain Charnick, coming up to him; “keep alive, and we will give you employment before long.”

“Thank you,” answered Digby, “I am much obliged to you for the good supper and breakfast you have given me, and if you will pay me a visit at Bloxholme Hall, I shall be very happy to give you as plentiful ones in return.”

The smugglers laughed heartily at the remark.

“It’s a doubt whether you’d like to see us at Bloxholme Hall, in the way we should go there,” remarked one of them; “howsomdever, we are not likely to put you to the trial.”

Breakfast over, most of the men left the cave; some of the remainder hauled out ropes and sails, and began working away busily on them, while others employed themselves in overhauling sea-chests, casks, and sacks of provisions, or in cleaning and repairing arms. It was very evident that the smugglers did not spend an idle life in the cavern; indeed, from what Digby had hitherto had an opportunity of remarking, he could not help thinking that the same industry employed in any of the lawful callings of life, would have procured them far more wealth and comfort than they could in any way at present enjoy.

Thus the day passed on. Digby, however, found that he was still a prisoner, for whenever he went towards the entrance of the cavern, Dick Owlett jumped up and made a very significant sign to him to go back again, and as Dick strengthened his argument with a loaded pistol in his hand, Digby saw that it would be wise to submit.

It was late in the afternoon when the greater number of the band hurriedly entered the cavern. They evidently brought some information, which was not of a pleasant character; the rest sprung quickly to their feet—the sails were rolled up—the rigging was put in a form to be easily carried; sea-chests, and cases, and baskets, were brought out and placed near the entrance ready to be moved; indeed, as far as Digby could judge, the smugglers were preparing to desert the place altogether. The Captain was still absent. Soon after these preparations were concluded, he made his appearance. Whatever had been the information previously received, he corroborated it.

“Be smart, my lads,” he exclaimed; “the lugger is ready, and the revenue people are on the wrong scent. We’ve no time to lose, or they may be back on us.”

At these words the men loaded themselves with the various articles which they had got ready to move, and one after the other left the cavern.

Digby hoped that he was to be allowed to remain, and to find his way home as best he could after the smugglers had gone; but again he was doomed to disappointment.

“Come, youngster, you are going with us,” said Captain Charnick, who had remained behind to see that nothing was left which he required.

Digby began to expostulate.

“Why, just now you were, I thought, all ready to join us,” exclaimed the Captain, with a laugh. “Come along, though. I want you, that’s enough.”

Saying this, he took Digby by the arm in no very gentle way, and led him out of the cavern and down the face of the cliff. At the foot of it, so close in that she looked as if she must be touching the shore, lay a large lugger. The cliffs there formed a bay, in which she lay, and from her position, no one, except those who stood near the mouth of the cavern, could by any possibility see what was going forward on her deck.

Digby found, on reaching the foot of the cliff, that nearly all the things just carried from the cavern had been conveyed on board her. At last everything was embarked. Even now Digby hoped that he might be allowed to get away.

“Come, my lad, wish good-bye to old England,” said the Captain, taking him by the arm, and lifting him into the boat. In another minute he was on board the lugger; the boats were hoisted in, the anchor was got up, and sail being made, with a fair and strong breeze she stood down channel.

Digby burst into tears; it was long since he had cried so bitterly. No one seemed to pity him; but they allowed him to grieve on by himself. The smugglers themselves, however, it was evident, were not free from anxiety. A bright look-out was kept in every direction, and more than once the lugger’s course was altered to avoid a strange sail. The weather, too, had changed for the worse, and had become very threatening. To increase their difficulties, a thick mist and driving rain came on, so that they could often see but a short distance beyond the vessel. Still they ran on under all sail. The evening of a short winter’s day was drawing on, when suddenly, the mist clearing off, a large cutter was seen right ahead, standing across their course.

“Down with the helm! Haul aft the sheets!” cried the Captain; and the lugger was brought on a wind. The movement, however, did not escape those on board the cutter, for she immediately went about, and stood after the smuggler.

That she was a revenue vessel Digby had no doubt; and now he hoped that his emancipation was near. But the lugger proved herself to be a very fast craft; and though the cutter carried all the canvass she could bear, she did not appear in the slightest degree to be overhauling them.

“We are not in her clutches just yet, my lad,” said Captain Charnick, as he saw Digby anxiously watching the cutter. “Once upon a time we would have fought her, and beat her off, but now we must trust to our heels. We’ve a pair of smart ones, let me tell you; and if you expect ever to step aboard that cutter you are mistaken.”

Digby’s heart sunk at hearing the Captain express himself with so much confidence. The wind continued increasing; and Digby heard some of the smugglers say that it was shifting about very much, and that it would settle down into a regular south-westerly gale. In spite, however, of the strong wind, neither the smugglers nor those on board the cruiser appeared inclined to shorten sail. The lugger tore through the water with a mass of foam at her bows, which came flying in sheets over the deck. The sea, too, was getting up; and as she rushed on she seemed to be making such headlong plunges into it, that Digby sometimes thought that she would never rise again. There was a little binnacle on deck. Digby got a look at the compass within it, and found that the cutter was once more running up Channel. This again raised his hopes; he thought that there was a better chance of the lugger being overtaken by the revenue cruiser, when he had little doubt that he should be able to make himself known. The gale increased, the waves danced more wildly than ever, their white crests gleaming amid the gloom of night, which rapidly came on. Still the smugglers would not shorten sail; they trusted to the stout little craft which had carried them safely through many a storm, and to the darkness of night, to enable them to escape.

Digby kept on deck in spite of the way the vessel tumbled about, and the seas, which every now and then washed on board, soaked him through. He had been for some time standing holding on by the weather bulwarks, looking anxiously ahead, and wondering whether the lugger could possibly mount again over the next foaming wave. Had he not learned a good deal about sailing from Toby Tubb, he would have been much more alarmed. As it was, the smugglers remarked to each other that he was a brave little chap, and would make a good seaman some day or other, when he was one of them. Digby might have been flattered with the remark, but he would have rather shrunk from the career they proposed for him. He had stood thus for some time, when turning round, and looking astern, the cutter was no longer to be seen. In vain he tried to pierce the gloom; nothing could he see but the dark waves, and the white spray, dancing up towards to the sky.

“There’s no fear, we’ve given her the slip this time,” he heard one of the smugglers remark; and soon all were congratulating themselves on their escape from their pursuer.

Poor Digby felt very miserable. The gale came down stronger and stronger. The lugger held on her course; the smugglers no longer spoke to each other; only new and then the Captain issued some order in a loud tone, which all hastened to obey. And Digby judged from this that they were far from contented with the state of affairs. Some sail was taken off the vessel, but she still had too much; she at times heeled over fearfully, and the seas, with terrific force, washed on board. Digby felt that he would have been carried away, but he had bound a rope fast to the weather bulwarks, and securing it round himself, he was preserved from a fate so dreadful. Hour after hour passed, and still the lugger went tearing through the dark waters.

“You’d better go below and turn in, youngster,” said the Captain, good-naturedly, to him. “There’s some brandy and water and a biscuit for you in the cabin; it will do you good.”

Digby thanked him, but said that he would rather stay where he was, and see what was going to happen.

Sometimes the wind seemed to lull, and Digby hoped that the storm was going to be over, but it again breezed up, and blew harder than ever. The smugglers stood some at the helm, and others clustered round the masts. As the storm increased, the darkness became more intense. The vessel seemed to be rushing into a mass of black; the rain came down in torrents; thunder, in terrific peals, rolled overhead; and forked lightning darted from the skies. Digby felt almost worn out, and ready to sink—a dreamy unconsciousness came over him. Had he not secured himself by the rope he would have fallen to leeward, and been washed overboard. How long he had continued in this state he could not tell. He was aroused by a terrific crash; he was up to his waist in water—a tremendous sea had struck the vessel; the masts had gone by the board; and many of the crew had been washed away. He could hear their shrieks of agonising despair us the vessel was swept on away from them; and they, with all their sins on their heads, were left amid that dark sea to perish miserably. The survivors, bold seamen as they were, held on to whatever they could grasp, knowing that, till daylight, they could do nothing towards getting up a jury-mast, on which they could set sail, to carry them into port. Were they destined ever again to see the bright light of day? On went the lugger, impelled by the force of the wind, bodily to leeward. Suddenly there was a crash; the vessel seemed to be lifted up and down; she came again on a rock, which split her into fragments. Shrieks of terror and despair sounded in Digby’s ears. He, too, cried out—it was that God would save him. He was alone, tossed about by the wild waters, clinging to a part of the bulwarks. Soon the voices of the once bold and hardy smugglers were silent. Digby felt himself lifted up and down by the waves; the spray, in thick masses, flew over him. The loud roar of the sea dashing on the shore almost deafened him. There was a grating sound as if he was close to the beach; he touched the sand with his feet. Now he was carried away; but another wave rolled in, and sent him high up against a rugged rock. He had become separated from the plank to which he had been but loosely secured. He grasped hold of the rock; the wave rolled back, and he found his feet touching the soft sand. He ran on as fast as he could move, but he ran against a rock. Again he heard the roar of a wave as it came rolling up, but it did not even reach his feet. He clung to the rock till it had retired. Once more he tried to work his way on, but he could discover no outlet, and stooping down, he found that the sand was dry and soft; he therefore suspected that he had been thrown into a cave. It did not, happily, occur to him that the tide might be rising, and that even then the sea might pursue him. He crawled up to the furthest end, where the ground was dry, and the air comparatively warm; but he himself felt numbed and chilled, and could not help thinking that he should be frozen to death. As he sat there he began to consider how he could make his escape. In the dark he could do nothing. It was still some hours to daylight he supposed. He wished that he could make a fire; it would show him where he was, and help to dry his clothes. He felt about, and found that there was an abundant supply of wood, but it had been so long there that much of it was soft as tinder. Not long before, one of his companions had given him a present, which every boy prizes—a flint and steel, with some tinder; it was in a small tin case. He expected to find that the water had got into it, and spoilt it, or that it had been washed out of his pocket. He felt for it; there it was safe. He scraped all the wood he could find round him, and then took out his box; it was well made, and had proved water-tight. With a grateful heart he struck a light, and put a piece of the burning tinder under some of the soft wood; then, stooping down, he blew it steadily till, to his joy, the wood caught, and very soon burst into a flame. He piled more wood on till there was a good blaze. Looking around, he found that he was in a large cavern, with the water filling its mouth, and which ran up some way directly from it, and then turned sharply round to the left. He had happily been guided to this turning, where he was sheltered from the wind, and was well supplied with fuel. The blazing fire again made the blood circulate through his numbed limbs, and dried his clothes. He looked about and could not see how he could escape; but he felt, after the merciful way in which he had been preserved, that it would be gross ingratitude to doubt that means for saving him would be provided.

“Where are all the people who so lately were with me, full of life, on board the lugger?” he thought to himself; “not one of them remains in existence. I alone have been saved among them all, though the weakest, and least able to help myself.”

Such, indeed, was the case. His strength had hitherto been wonderfully kept up, but he was beginning to grow very faint and hungry, and he felt as if he should not be able to hold out much longer. He, however, exerted himself to the utmost to keep up his fire; he knew that his life might depend on it. It was so cold and damp, though fortunately not freezing, that he thought if he went to sleep, and let his fire go out, he might be so chilled and benumbed as to be unable to rally. Whenever, then, he felt very sleepy, he got up, and walked round and round his fire to arouse and warm himself. How anxiously he looked for daylight; how he longed for the storm to cease, that he might try and make his escape.

Poor Digby; he was very young, and not altogether very wise, but there was good stuff in him, as the way he behaved on this occasion showed; but it required care and attention to bring it into permanent practical use.

At length he grew very weary; he was obliged to sit down. He drew as near the fire as he could venture to sit; his eyes closed, and his head dropped on his knees. All sorts of strange scenes passed before him: he felt as if he was still struggling in the waves; that he heard around him the shrieks of the drowning wretches. He started up—a cry or shout rung in his ears. The fire was still blazing, for the drift-wood burnt slowly; the bright sunlight, too, was streaming in at the mouth of the cavern, and the storm was over.

Chapter Ten.

Further Adventures of Arthur and his Companions—Digby Rescued—Rejoicings at Bloxholme—Christmas Amusements—The Leader of the Revels—The End of the Holidays.

Arthur Haviland and his companions having assured the old man and idiot boy, whom they found in the cavern, that they had no wish to do them harm, they, after some time, succeeded in quieting their apprehensions. In vain Arthur tried to gain more information about Digby. All he could learn was that the captain had carried him off in the lugger to foreign parts, and that they had all made up their minds not to come back to England.

As it was getting late, and they had a long way to pull, Toby now summoned Arthur to return. Arthur, however, was not satisfied with the information he had obtained, and was unwilling to go away without gaining some definite clue to the place to which Digby had been carried. Finding that threats were of no avail, he tried to induce the old man to say all he knew by the promise of rewards.

“You hear what the young gentleman says,” observed Toby. “You and I know each other, old Joe, and you know that I would not deceive you. What Mr Haviland says, he’ll do; that he will, depend on it. Come along, sir; I know where to find him. If he’s got anything to say, he’ll tell me. We haven’t another moment to lose, that I know.”

Saying this, Toby led the way from the cave, followed by Arthur and John Pratt.

The weather had evidently changed very much for the worse, and the wind was blowing strongly, and sending the spray right up to where they were standing. Toby shook his head doubtfully; but he continued to descend.

“I thought so,” he exclaimed, when they reached the bottom of the cliff.

There was old Jem with the boat partly out of the water, he hauling away with all his might to get her out of danger; but the waves were dashing against her stern, and threatening every instant to knock her to pieces. They had arrived only just in time; but, by dint of working away together, they got the boat hauled up beyond the reach of the sea. When this was done they went back to the cave, for the wind was blowing stronger and stronger, and it was very evident that they would not be able to leave the place that night. They had reason to be thankful that they had a place which would afford them so complete a shelter during that tempestuous night. When they got back they found the old man perfectly ready to be civil; and making themselves at home, they rummaged, out an ample supply of food, and materials for forming beds, which they ranged round the fire.

Toby talked for all the party, and told many of his best anecdotes and stories. The genius of the place seemed to recall the memories of his early days, and many a tale of smuggling life and adventure he poured forth.

Neither Arthur nor John Pratt were inclined to talk. They were thinking too much of poor Digby, tossing about on the wild ocean that stormy night. Had they been able to see the terrific danger to which he was exposed, they would have been still more alarmed. How mercifully has God hid the future from us, as well as the scenes of peril and suffering to which those we love at a distance may be exposed. How it would double our anguish to feel that we could not fly to their help, that we could afford them no relief. How foolish and wicked, then, are those persons who try to draw aside (by devices the most absurd however) that impenetrable veil which the Almighty, in his infinite wisdom, has placed before our eyes. Never let us put faith in those who pretend that they can either show the future, or bring the present, when at a distance, before our eyes. Clairvoyants, spirit-rappers, and similar pretenders, under whatever name they may appear, we may depend on it, are impostors. They have been shown to be so over and over again; but like Chinese tumbling-figures, though knocked down, they will spring up again, over and over again, as long as dupes can be found to put faith in them.

Arthur Haviland long recollected that night in the cavern—the flickering light of the fire; the red glow cast over some parts of the sides and roof; and the dark, strange-shaped shadows, which passed over others; the low voices of his companions; the howling of the wind; and the incessant roar of the waves, as they beat against the foot of the cliffs. He at length, however, fell asleep, and did not awake till Toby called him, with an invitation to take a cup of coffee and a biscuit before they embarked. He was not sorry to accept the offer.

As soon as the meal was over Toby went out, and returned with so favourable a report of the weather, that it was agreed that they might venture once more to embark.

Arthur repeated his promise to the old man, who undertook to bring any information to him he could gain about Digby.

The sun was shining, and the air was keen, for the wind had got round to the north. That, however, was an important advantage, as it sent down the sea; and the boat, when they had launched her, though tossed about a good deal, was able to continue her progress by keeping close in shore, and skirting all the bays and inlets. They had gone some way, and had just rounded a reef of rocks, whose black heads rose with threatening aspect out of the water, when Arthur exclaimed that he thought he saw a smoke coming out of the cliff. Toby ceased pulling, but did not speak. He looked round on every side; several pieces of timber were floating about, and on the shore lay a mass of cordage and broken spars.

“Some vessel was cast away not far from here last night,” exclaimed Toby, at length. “Heaven help the unfortunate fellows on board her; but that smoke may be made by some of them who have escaped. What say you, old Jem?”

Old Jem agreed with Toby, and told him that there was a small cave just in there, from which the smoke might proceed.

Paddling in cautiously, for there were a good many rocks about capable of knocking an ugly hole in the boat’s bottom, as Toby observed, they approached the cliff. The entrance to the cave on the sand was soon perceptible. The boat reached a sandy beach. So completely did the cliff overhang the water, and so much did it project on either side of the cave, that only by means of a boat could anybody possibly leave it. So Arthur remarked as he jumped with Toby and John Pratt on shore. They could see the gleam of a fire from the interior. Arthur ran on; a little sailor-boy was sitting over it.

“Hillo, my poor lad; we have come to help you,” exclaimed Arthur.

The little sailor-boy looked up. There could be no doubt about it—there sat Digby Heathcote.

With a shout of joy Arthur sprang forward, and lifted him up in his arms. John Pratt, in his delight, gave him a hug which almost squeezed the breath out of his body; and Toby Tubb seized his hand, and gave it a shake which well nigh wrung it off. It was some moments before any one could speak, and Digby could hurriedly give an account of what had occurred.

“Well, I be right glad, that I be,” exclaimed Toby. “Them who has gone to their account has brought their fate upon themselves. Howsomdever, Master Digby, come into the boat; you are cold and hungry, I’ll warrant, and will be glad of a breakfast and warm bed.”

Digby was ready enough to go, but he begged that search might be made in case any of the crew of the lugger might have been washed on shore, and be still clinging on among the crevices of the rocks.

Toby shook his head. “It was not likely any had escaped. It was a wonder he had done so.”

Search was made, however, but there was not the sign of a living being, nor had any of the bodies of the smugglers been washed ashore.

Toby and John Pratt insisted on taking off their overcoats to wrap up Digby; and the former had a little brandy in a flask, which he insisted on pouring down his throat. Digby, to his surprise, found that it appeared very little stronger than water, a proof of how much chilled he was, and how important a stimulant this was to him.

Little are spirit-drinkers aware of not only how much injury they are doing themselves, but how completely they are depriving themselves of important assistance in time of need. A glass of brandy may save the life of a person who never touches spirits, but would have no effect on an habitual brandy-drinker.

The voyage back to Osberton need not be further described. The reception Digby met with from Mr and Mrs Nugent may easily be conceived. Digby indignantly declined to go to bed, but he did not refuse to eat a hearty breakfast, in which Arthur joined him, or to change his sailor’s clothes for a suit more fitted for the heir of Bloxholme to appear in.

“Put up the others, however; I’ll have them with me,” he exclaimed. “They will remind me of my trip in the smugglers’ lugger, at all events.”

“Of its fearful termination, and of the merciful way in which you were preserved, my dear boy,” observed Mr Nugent.

“Yes, uncle, yes,” said Digby; “I thought of that. I don’t feel I can ever be too thankful.”

A carriage was ordered, and Mr Nugent, and Digby, and Arthur, went inside; and John Pratt and Toby Tubb, whom Digby insisted should accompany them, went outside; and away they rattled as fast as four horses could gallop towards Bloxholme. Every minute was of importance to release Mr and Mrs Heathcote from their state of suspense. The carriage with its four smoking horses, rattled up the avenue. Almost before John Pratt had time to jump from the box the hall-door was flung open; Alesbury had caught sight of Digby, and hurrying down the steps faster than he had moved for many a day, he pulled him out of the carriage, and carried him into the house. Then Digby found himself in his mother’s arms. Then, and not till then, did he burst into tears, but they were tears of joy and gratitude.

Poor little Kate, how she cried, too, and then she smiled and laughed; and when she got hold of Digby she could scarcely refrain from beating him for making her so very miserable; indeed, she gave him two or three severe slaps, and called him naughty, dear, tiresome, good boy; and Digby pulled her ears, and her nose, and showed his love in a variety of other eccentric ways. Digby came in for a great deal of caressing from all sides, of which he did not at all approve; but he submitted to it as an unavoidable evil, and looked very much as a donkey does when harness is about to be put on its back.

Gusty shouted and laughed louder than ever that day; and his elder sisters kissed him as elder sisters generally do their younger brothers; but he took that sort of thing better from them than from any one else.

Then he had to tell the story of his adventures over and over again. John Pratt, however, was able to help him in that respect in the servants’ hall, where he did ample justice to the young Squire’s courage, and never was tired of telling all he knew about his adventures.

Digby was a strong hardy fellow, but he was not made of iron; and, long before dinner-time, he gave signs of being very sleepy and tired. He consented to go to bed, provided he was called in time to get up and dress for dinner. When, however, he was called, he was so fast asleep that nothing could awake him; and so he was allowed to sleep on till the following morning. It was ever afterwards a constant joke against him, that, when he came down, he fancied that he was coming down to dinner, and was very much surprised to find breakfast on the table.

Arthur Haviland had pretty well kept him in countenance by sleeping the greater part of the time; and neither of them were quite themselves again for two or three days.

Their adventures were fully a nine days’ wonder; and the whole visiting acquaintance of the family called to hear about it. Indeed, Digby had to tell the story so often that he got weary of it; and at last insisted that Kate should represent him, and tell it instead, as if the events had happened to her. He did not, however, forget poor Dame Marlow, of the death of whose grandson he had heard from some of the smugglers. He told Mr Bowdler of the trick he had once played her, and begged him to go and break the news to the old woman before she heard it from any one else.

At first she would not believe that the only being she seemed to love was lost to her for ever; and at length, when the Vicar assured her that there was no doubt about the matter, she gave way to a fit of tears such as she had not shed for years. Her heart was softened. The clergyman placed before her in the clearest way the great truths of the Gospel. Many days passed away, and many visits he had to pay, before she at all seemed to comprehend them; but he persevered—as every true and faithful minister of the Gospel will persevere—when he feels that a lost soul is to be saved. At length the light seemed to dawn on her long-benighted mind.

“You tell me wonderful things, Mr Bowdler, which I never before understood,” she said, at last. “I am a sinner, I feel that; and if I was left to myself, I am sure that I should be lost, for I don’t think that I could undo a quarter, nor an hundredth part, for that matter, of the sins I have committed; but as you say, that if I repent I may go to One who will wash away my sins, I will go to Him; and I am sure, from everything he has caused to be said in the Bible, that he will wash away my sins, and save my soul from death.”

Much more she said, showing that she fully comprehended the great truths of the Gospel; find now her great anxiety was to warn those she had so long misled, and she was never weary of going about, and telling them of the Bible, and of the comfort it had been to her. At first, people could scarcely believe their senses when they heard her talk, so completely changed she had become, and so anxious she was to be doing all the good in her power. She tried to make her old husband comprehend the truths she had imbibed; but he afforded one of the numberless examples of the danger of putting off repentance to another day. His mind was dead, though his body was still alive, and in a short time he sunk into the grave. Her great grief was about her grandson, to whom she had set so bad an example, and whom she had never attempted to direct aright. He was gone, and nothing she could do would now have any power over his fate.

Oh, may all those who read this reflect on the incalculable harm which a bad example may do to those younger, or in an inferior station to themselves. If they could see it, they would start back with horror and dismay at the result of their conduct. An idle word, an idle expression, or an irreverent joke, may seem a light thing in their eyes, but even words may produce a great deal of harm; much more will a continual course of idle, careless, and bad conduct; and depend upon it, many a younger brother and companion has been lost, body and soul, who might have had a very different fate had those who had an influence over him endeavoured to lead him aright.

Digby was very glad to hear the account Mr Bowdler gave of Dame Marlow, though he probably did not understand the great importance of the change. Kate, however, whose comprehension was far more advanced than Digby’s, did understand it fully, and, of her own accord, went and explained the trick she had once played her, and expressed her sorrow for it.

Digby was not quite himself again for a week or more after his dangerous adventure, and very often in the night he used to start up in his sleep, dreaming that he was on board the lugger, and that she was being dashed on the rocks. The holidays, however, promised to be as pleasant as usual. Many a delightful ride Digby got on Sweetlips; while often Kate cantered gaily by his side, dispelling, by her cheerful conversation, any of the over-gloomy thoughts which, in spite of his well-strung nerves and constitutional hardihood, would occasionally occur.

The expected guests, also, arrived, and several of them had sons about Digby’s age; so that the house was full, and a very merry Christmas party were collected.

Cousin Giles was the life and soul of the younger portion of the community. He started all the games in the evening, and arranged all the out-door amusements. A hard frost set in, and, as soon as the ice bore thoroughly, skating became the order of the day. Neither Digby nor Arthur Haviland had ever skated; indeed, only two of the boys had begun the previous year, and they were no great adepts at the art. Skates were, therefore, sent for, and cousin Giles undertook to be the instructor of the party. As he said that he should be frozen if he fastened on all the skates to his pupil’s feet at the pond, he had them all fitted and secured in the house, and then procured a small cart, and carried them all down bodily in it to the pond. He allowed those who wished it a kitchen chair to shove before them; but Digby and Arthur disdained such assistance, and preferred trusting to a stout stick and their own legs to keep them from falling. Cousin Giles having taken them out of the cart, arranged them in line about two yards apart.

“Now, boys, watch me,” he cried out, putting himself before them. “Stand upright, as I do, feet a little apart, ankles stiff. Don’t tremble; you won’t tumble if you do properly. Just give a slight touch with the point of the right skate and away you go on your left foot; now touch the ice with the point of your left foot, and you slide on with your right. Away we go. Who’s that tumbled down? Oh, Benjie Bowland. Never mind; up, Benjie; at it again. Bravo, Arthur. Bravo, Digby. You get on better than the fellows with the chair. You’ll skate in a day or two, do the outside edge in four or live days, and the spread-eagle in a week.”

With such assistance and encouragement the boys got on rapidly, and enjoyed their skating. Digby beat all the others by perseverance and pluck. The moment he tumbled, he picked himself up, never minding the bruises; while his sturdy little legs soon got the entire command of his skates. He did not promise to make a peculiarly graceful skater, but it was evident, from the rapid progress he made, that there were very few things he would not be able to do.

At last, however, a heavy fall of snow came on, and completely covered up the ice. Though men were set to work with brooms to sweep passages across and round the pond, yet a second fall again covered them up. This happened three or four times. A small space was still cleared every morning, but only the most persevering skaters frequented it; and the boys expressed a wish for some other amusement.

“I vote we build a snow-man, the largest snow-man that ever was built,” exclaimed Cousin Giles, while all the party were assembled at breakfast.

The idea took, and was hailed with enthusiasm.

Cousin Giles went about everything he undertook systematically. He set John Pratt to work to cut out a number of bits of board, with handles, to serve as trowels, and he collected all the wheelbarrows and hand-barrows, and spades, on the premises. John Pratt and three other men were called in to assist. A sheltered place on the lawn was chosen for the erection of the snow-giant, while a large field on one side, through a shrubbery, would afford an amply supply of snow, when that on the lawn was exhausted. All hands, with great glee, set to work; some were to bring the snow up to the spot, others were to act under Cousin Giles, as masons.

“He will be very imposing if we make him like an ancient king, seated on his throne, with a huge staff in his hand,” he observed. “We will make him hollow, with steps in his inside, so that we may climb up, and look out of his eyes, and halloo out of his mouth—eh, boys? Then we must have a seat in each arm, and another in his crown, where one of you must get up, and make a speech from. You see we have undertaken to perform a gigantic labour; we must lose no time, therefore, though, luckily, our material is not difficult to work.”

First, Cousin Giles marked the foundation of the giant’s throne; the sides of it were five feet thick, so that a large quantity of snow was required for that alone. The greater part of it was scraped up from the lawn. While that was being done, Cousin Giles made a model of the proposed giant in snow, a couple of feet high, and that very much assisted his young workmen in their undertaking, as they at once saw the figure he had conceived, and which they wished to produce. Everybody labouring with a will, and systematically, the work went on rapidly, and the chair assumed gigantic proportions. The giant’s feet, which were placed on a footstool, were four feet long, and his legs were eight feet high up to his knees. Ladders were soon required to reach the seat of his chair; and then his body was commenced. A young pine-tree was procured, and that supported one of his arms, while the other rested by his side. Some pretty severe tumbles were got from the top of the chair, but no one was much hurt. Cousin Giles arched the greater part of the inside, but he did not disdain to make use of some timber to strengthen his erection.

A great deal had been done by luncheon time, when all the party assembled, with very good appetites, in the dining-room; but Cousin Giles begged that none of the visitors would go out to see their little man till he was complete.

After luncheon, they all went back; but though they worked away till dark, the giant still wanted his head and crown. It was agreed that though they might continue labouring with lanterns, they could not complete it before dinner. Not to lose time, however, they all joined in bringing in snow, and piled it up near the figure, ready to begin work the next morning.

They had a very merry evening, and all sorts of games were played. Cousin Giles, however, disappeared earlier than usual, and they were afraid that he was tired with his labours during the day, and had gone to bed.

The next morning the party assembled at breakfast, and, after it was over, and the letters had been read, and the newspapers glanced at, Cousin Giles invited everybody to see their little man.

“But we have to finish his head,” was the general exclamation from the boys.

“Never mind,” was his answer. “Head or no head, or crown or no crown, I beg that he may be looked at.”

Great coats and cloaks, and hats and bonnets, were procured, and the party assembled. A sheet was seen thrown over the top of the figure, and behind it was a tall pole, at the foot of which stood John Pratt.

“Here is our snow-giant, ladies and gentlemen,” cried Cousin Giles. “Though so large, he is perfectly harmless, and no one need be afraid of approaching him.”

He then made a signal to John Pratt, who, hauling away on the rope, withdrew the sheet, and beneath it appeared not only the giant’s head, and a large pair of black eyes, and a red mouth, but a crown of gold a foot or more high, on the top of it; while in the centre stood Kate Heathcote, waving a flag, with Digby on one side, and Arthur Haviland on the other.

Loud shouts from the spectators greeted them; and everybody complimented the architect on the execution of his vast undertaking. No one present had ever seen so huge a man. He was said to be even larger than the idols of the Assyrian temples, represented at the Crystal Palace.

As Kate and her young companions found it somewhat cold on the top of the giant’s head, they very soon descended; and then all the boys amused themselves by climbing up and about the monster, till they ran no small risk of pulling him bodily down. He was, however, so scientifically and securely built, that he withstood all the rough usage he received. The snow-giant afforded a fund of amusement for a long time. The next morning, his crown was gone, and a huge broad-brim hat was on his head. Another morning, a pipe was found in his mouth actually smoking, and for some time he continued to blow his cloud. Another day, he had a large branch of holly in his hand, and a wreath of holly, with red berries, round his head. Once he appeared in a high conical cap, very like a fool’s-cap, while in front hung a placard with “Won’t say his lessons,” painted on it. Indeed, there was no end of the changes the snow-giant underwent. Then he was seen to appear with a post-bag hanging from his arm; and, on its being opened, it was found to contain a variety of letters to different people present, mostly the younger ones of the party. They were from very odd correspondents. One was from the Man in the Moon; another signed himself—Your affectionate cousin, Timothy Tugmutton; the Antipodes. The King of the Cannibal Islands wrote two letters; and the Polar Bear another. They were very amusing epistles; and the writers seemed to know in a wonderful way what was going forward in the house. The arrival of the snow-giant’s post-bag was looked forward to with even more interest than had been the changes which had taken place in his head-dress.

Thus the early weeks of winter passed pleasantly by. Mr Nugent tried to induce Digby to give some time in the morning to study, to prepare himself for the new school, to which it was arranged he should go after the Christmas holidays; but he appeared always to be in too great a hurry and bustle to sit down quietly to his books, so as to imbibe any information from them.

“You will be sorry for your idleness, my dear boy,” said his uncle. “Not only are you acquiring no knowledge, but you are altogether getting out of the habit of study—out of training, I will call it. Suppose that you were to give up running for some months, do you think that you would be able to move your legs as fast as when you were constantly using them? Or if you were not to employ your arms for the same length of time, you would be very unwilling, I suspect, to climb a tree. The mind, in the same way, requires constant and regular exercise, or it very rapidly gets out of use, and it takes a great deal of trouble to bring it into working condition again.”

Digby listened respectfully to what his uncle said; and though the next morning he got out his books very manfully, one of his young friends coming in, made him put them up again, and they were not looked into that day.

Thus the holidays glided by, and the day of his departure approached. He liked having so many guests in the house, but they prevented him from enjoying Kate’s society as much as formerly, and he was not sorry when all of them, with the exception of Arthur Haviland, went away.

Everybody liked Arthur. He was a great favourite with Mrs Heathcote, as well as with the Squire and Digby’s eldest sisters; and Kate thought him a first-rate fellow; he was so very different to Julian Langley.

Digby was very sorry to part from Arthur. He, as it had been arranged, was to go to Mr Sanford’s school, in Berkshire, while Arthur returned to one in Hampshire, of which he spoke in the highest terms, and regretted that his friend was not to accompany him.

Digby pressed Arthur warmly to come back and spend the summer holidays. This, however, he could not promise to do.

“My father may wish me to accompany him somewhere, and I, of course, shall wish to go with him,” said Arthur. “But I will promise not to let a year pass, if I can help it, without our meeting.”

No one ever quitted a house having more completely secured the regard of all the family than did Arthur Haviland.

Cousin Giles, who had great discernment of character, spoke very highly of him, and regretted much that Digby could not have been more with him.

To Digby’s surprise, a day or two before he was to leave home, his father called him into his study; not that the Squire ever did study anything there beyond the newspaper, or a compendium of information for justices of the peace, or some similar work.

“So, my dear boy, you are going away again from us,” he began. “I wish that you could stay with us always, and have John Pratt to look after you, as he did when you were a little chap; but as that can’t be, you must make the best use of your time when you are away from us. What I want to talk to you about is this—your mother and I intended that you should spend a couple of years or so at Mr Sanford’s, at Grangewood House, and then go to some public school; however, we shall talk about that by-and-by. I wish to see how you get on at the school to which you are going. It will be a very different sort of life to that to which you have hitherto led. You’ll get some hard knocks and kicks, but you’ll not mind them; and you will have to fight your way upward, but that you are well able to do; and I have little fear that you will take good care of yourself. I am not much in the habit of giving advice, as you know, my boy; but there is one thing I must charge you, never to forget that you are a Christian, and a gentleman. I have done my best to make you hate and scorn to tell a lie, and the consequence is, that I would sooner take your word than I would the oath of any man I know. And now I charge you to fight against every bad thought which comes into your mind, and to scorn to do a mean or ungenerous action. Guard especially against selfishness; nothing so quickly grows on a person by indulgence. Fight for your undoubted rights, but gladly give up anything which may conduce to the pleasure of others, or benefit them. I don’t mean, of course, that you are to let a bully take anything he may fancy from you, that is quite a different matter; but never try to get hold of what you know another person wishes for, and of which you will thus deprive him.”

Much more the Squire said to the same effect. Digby grasped his father’s hand.

“Yes, papa, I will do my best, indeed I will, to act as you tell me,” he answered. “I have done a good many things I have been sorry for, but yet I don’t think there has been anything which would make you ashamed of calling me your son.”

Such were the sentiments with which Digby went to school. His parting was not a very melancholy one. Kate and Gusty cried, but he held up very bravely; and when a postchaise came to the door, and his boxes were secured, and he had manfully stepped in, and John Pratt, who was to accompany him all the way, had taken his seat on the box, and the postilion had cracked his whip, he was able to wave his cap out of the window, and to sing out, in a cheerful voice—“Hurra for the Midsummer holidays!”

Chapter Eleven.

Digby’s New School—How he was received there—He learns the Inconvenience of Want of Discipline—His Companions and their Characters—Advantage of a Bold Front in a Good Cause.

“Is this Grangewood House, John?” asked Digby, as he looked out of the window of the fly which had brought them from the railway station, and which was now stopping at a large white gate, which John Pratt had got off the box to open.

“Yes, sir; this be Mr Sanford’s academy for young gentlemen. There’s a great many on ’em comes backwards and forwards by me at times,” answered the driver, instead of John, who did not hear the question.

It was a substantial, large, red-brick house, completely in the country, with a circular drive up to it, and a meadowish piece of lawn, with some fine elms, in front. The place was not picturesque, but well suited for the requirements of a school. There were wide-spreading wings on either side, with a walled enclosure on the right, from which proceeded the sound of many young voices, shouting, bawling, and laughing, showing Digby that it was the playground. He altogether liked the look of things outside.

The fly stopped in front of the house; a flight of stone steps led up to the chief door. John descended, and rang the bell, and, while it was being answered, busied himself in taking his young master’s things out of the fly.

“Is this Mr Sanford’s school, young woman?” he asked of the maid-servant, who opened the door.

“It is, young man, and my name is Susan,” was the quick reply; some people might have called it pert.

“Then, Susan, do you just tell your master that young Master Digby Heathcote, the eldest son of Squire Heathcote, of Bloxholme, has come,” answered John, letting down the steps, and handing Digby out with an air of the greatest respect. He unintentionally spoke, too, in a tone which sounded not a little pompous.

Several boys, who had been passing through the hall at the time, and, of course, followed Susan to the door, to have a look at the new comer, overheard the announcement. A loud shout of laughter from many voices followed, in a variety of tones, as they retreated down a passage. Digby heard them repeating one to the other “Young Master Digby Heathcote, the eldest son of Squire Heathcote, of Bloxholme, has come. Ho, ho! young Master Digby, what an important person you are—ha! ha! ha!—we don’t think.” Great emphasis was laid on the words young master, and eldest son. Digby knew quite enough of boys to wish heartily that poor John had held his tongue.

“You’ll go round to the back door; or are you going away in the fly?” said the maid-servant, addressing John, with rather a scornful glance.

“Neither one nor t’other, Mistress Susan,” answered John. “I’m going to stay with Master Digby for the present.”

“You can’t do that; Master Digby has to go at once to Mr Sanford,” replied Susan.

“That’s where I’m going to, young woman, let me tell you,” exclaimed John, bristling up. “He has been spirited away once, and we had a hard job to get him back; and I’m not going to lose sight of him till I see him safe in Mr Sanford’s hands, who must be answerable for him whenever he is sent for. A pretty thing to leave him with such as you, indeed, who might go and declare that you never got him. No, Master Digby, dear—that’s what I’m going to do, I know my duty, and I’m going to do it.”

The last remark was made to Digby, who was expostulating, by signs, with John, fearing that he would offend Susan. The damsel, however, seemed not to care a bit for what John said; and would have shut the hall-door in his face, but he would not let go of Digby’s hand.

“Well, I don’t know what master will say to you,” exclaimed Susan, as John entered the hall, evidently resolved not to lose sight of Digby, or his boxes, till he had delivered them into what he considered proper custody. Susan, meantime, disappeared at a door on one side of the hall. She soon returned.

“You are to go in there,” she said, addressing Digby. “Not you,” she said, looking at John.

“There are just two opinions about that,” answered John, coolly opening the door, and walking with Digby into a handsome library.

A tall, delicate-looking man, was reclining in his dressing-gown on a sofa, with a book in his hand. He looked up with an expression of surprise on his countenance on seeing John; and then glanced at Digby, but did not rise.

“Bee’s you Mr Sanford, sir?” asked John, pulling the lock of his hair he usually employed for that purpose.

“Yes, I am, and the head of this school; and who are you?” said the gentleman, but not at all in an angry tone.

“I’m Squire Heathcote’s man, of Bloxholme, and this is his son, Master Digby Heathcote; and I’m to deliver him safe and sound into your hands, to keep him carefully till he is sent for home, or till you send him back,” answered John, firmly. “I suppose it’s all right, sir?”

“I will give you an acknowledgment in writing that I have him all safe,” said Mr Sanford, much amused at John’s mode of proceeding. “Go into the kitchen, and get something to eat and drink after your journey.”

“No, thank you, sir; I’d rather have the writing. I’m not hungry. We had something, Master Digby and I, as we came along; and I have to go back to the station with the fly.”

“Very well; push that table with the desk on it near me. I will give you what you require.”

John did as he was desired; and Mr Sanford wrote a short note, which he gave him.

John forthwith handed it to Digby. “I suppose it’s all right, Master Digby, dear,” he whispered. “I bean’t no great scholard, sir, and so I just wanted the young master to see that the lines was all right and proper. No offence to you, sir, you know,” he added, turning to Mr Sanford.

The schoolmaster was highly amused; but Digby was afraid that John had gone too far.

“It’s all right, John,” he exclaimed, taking his hand affectionately. “Good by, good by. My love to papa and mamma, and Kate and Gusty, and all; and don’t forget to look after Sweetlips, and tell Kate to write to me about him; but she’ll do that, I’m sure. You must go, John, I know you must.” Digby felt more inclined to cry than he had done before. John was the last link which united him with all the home associations he was conjuring up. John warmly returned Digby’s grasp. He went to the door, and opened it. He turned round once more with his hand on the lock.

“You has him in charge, sir,” he said, looking sternly at Mr Sanford. “Oh, take care of him, sir; he’s very precious down at Bloxholme there.”

John, afraid of trusting himself, bolted out of the door.

Digby overheard some words between John and Susan outside; they ended in a laugh, just before the fly drove off, so he had no doubt they had become good friends; and he afterwards had reason to believe that John had bestowed half a sovereign on her from his own pocket, to secure her good services for the young master.

“Sit down, young gentleman,” said Mr Sanford, in his usual languid tone, when John had taken his departure. “I am glad to have you as a pupil, for I find that you are a nephew of my old friend, Nugent, for whom I have a great regard. I dare say he has done you justice. What books have you read?—Latin and Greek, I mean?”

Digby told him; he had very little Greek to boast of, however.

“I thought that you were more forward,” observed Mr Sanford. “You will be placed under the third master, Mr Tugman, in his upper class, I hope. I must leave him to settle that. I will send for him, and he will take you round the school before tea-time, and introduce you to some of the boys. He may not be quite ready yet, so I will let Mrs Pike, the housekeeper, show you your dormitory, and have your things put away.”

Mr Sanford was taking unusual trouble about Digby. He rang the bell, and the usher and housekeeper were sent for. Mrs Pike appeared first; Old Jack, the boys called her. She had a stern, relentless expression of countenance, Digby thought. Her dress was black, with a plain white cap, and a large serviceable apron. There was business in her.

“Come along, young gentleman,” she said, taking Digby by the arm, when she had received the master’s directions. “It will be time for tea soon, and I shall have to go and look after it.”

She first showed Digby a large room fitted all round with lockers, or drawers, and numbers on each. Into this his things had been wheeled on a truck.

“Here is your drawer, Master Heathcote,” she observed. “You will remember the number—sixty-five. We had a hundred and thirty not long ago. Here you will keep your clothes; your play-box you can have with you in the play-room to-morrow; it can stay here till then. Now, come along to your dormitory. Susan will unpack your trunk; and if there is anything in it you want, you can have it when you come back.”

All this sounded very well. There were a dozen rooms on the first and second floors appropriated as bedrooms; some had eight or ten beds in them, others only three or four. Digby was shown a room looking out at the back of the house, with eight beds, in one of which Mrs Pike told him he was to sleep. There were wash-hand basins and tubs, and a drawer for each boy to hold his dressing things. All looked very neat and well-arranged. Mrs Pike prided herself on having her department in good order. She looked as if she could have said, “Better washed and fed than taught at this establishment.”

Digby returned well satisfied to the study, where Mr Sanford was still reading his book. He looked up, and was putting a question, in a kind tone of voice, to Digby, when the door opened. Digby looked up. A broad-shouldered, pock-marked man, with sandy hair and small grey eyes, entered. His costume, which consisted of a green coat, with a reddish handkerchief, a many-coloured waistcoat, and large plaid trousers, did not improve his appearance. He threw himself into a chair, if not with grace, at all events with ease, and observed, in an off-hand way, that it was a chilly day—a fact about which Mr Sanford did not seem inclined to dispute. He looked at Digby with no pleasant expression, and Digby looked at him, and hoped that he was not the usher under whom he was to be placed.

All doubt, however, about the matter was quickly removed by Mr Sanford saying—“I have sent for you, Mr Tugman, to beg that you will take charge of this new boy, Digby Heathcote. Examine him to-morrow, and place him as you judge best. I hope that he will be in the highest of your classes, as he has been lately under a clever man, an old college friend of mine, his uncle, for whom I have a great regard.”

The usher was listening, with a look of impatience, to all this.

“Oh, I know; he’s the son of Squire Heathcote, of Bloxholme,” he observed, with a laugh, which Digby understood, for he spoke exactly with the expression of the boys who had heard him announced.

“I will take him with me, and introduce the young gentleman to his future playmates. I hope that he may get on well with them.”

“Do, Mr Tugman, do,” said Mr Sanford, languidly. “I wish that my health would allow me to afford greater support to my assistants, efficient as I am bound to say that they all are.”

Mr Tugman did not seem to listen to the compliment, but, with a slight good evening, taking Digby by the shoulder, walked him off to the schoolroom.

Digby felt somewhat like a fly in the grasp of a spider, for there was very little of the suaviter in modo, however much there might have been of the fortiter in re, in Mr Tugman’s proceedings. They passed a large glass door, guarded on both sides by wire-work.

“These are your future companions,” he said, opening it, and pointing to a wide-extending gravel space at the back of the house, which Digby guessed was the playground. Though it was growing dark, the boys were still there; but all he could see was a confused mass of fellows rushing about, hallooing, and shouting: some with hoops, against which their sticks went clattering away incessantly; others driving, with whips cracking and horns tootooing; some were running races; others playing leap-frog, or high cock-o’-lorum; indeed, nearly every game which could make the blood circulate on a cold winter’s evening, had its advocates. From the darkness, and from the state of constant movement in which they all were, there appeared to be double the number of boys Mrs Pike had mentioned.

“Well, what do you think of them?” asked Mr Tugman.

Digby said, “That he could form no opinion from the slight view he had of them.”

“Not badly answered,” observed Mr Tugman. “Now I will show you the schoolroom before they come in, and select a desk, so that you may make yourself at home at once.”

Going down a few steps, Digby found himself in a large and lofty room, or hall, lighted by lamps from the ceiling, with rows of desks across it, and two large fire-places at the sides towards each end. At one end was a high desk, and there were five or six smaller desks, intended for the masters, down the hall, flanking the rows, as the sergeants stand in a regiment, drawn up on parade. The hall ran at right angles to the back of the house, by the side of the playground, and had evidently been built for a schoolroom.

Mr Tugman took Digby to the further end, where his own desk was, and lifting up several in one of the last rows, he came to one which was entirely empty.

“Seventy is the number, is it not?” he asked, going to his own desk. “Now, take this key, lock up whatever you like. I dare say you have some good things in your play-box, or valuables of some sort; put them there, and make yourself at home.”

Scarcely had these arrangements been concluded, when a bell rang, and the boys came trooping into the schoolroom. He was fairly caught, like a mouse in a trap. At first he was not perceived; but it was soon buzzed about, that the new boy was there, and he was quickly saluted by—

“How do you do, Master Digby Heathcote, son of Squire Heathcote, of Bloxholme Hall?”

“Pretty well, I thank you, young gentlemen,” answered Digby, determined not to be outdone, and resolved to put a bold face on the matter. “I shall be happy to make the acquaintance of any of those who will favour me with their cards, and an account of their own family, parentage, and connexions.”

“He is a pert little chap,” observed one. “Plenty of impudence in him,” said another. “A plucky little cock, though, I think,” remarked a fourth. Opinions among the bigger fellows varied considerably as to his character, and how he was to be treated.

Seldom is there a school without a bully, and Grangewood was no exception to the rule. The chief bully was a big, hulking fellow, called Scarborough. He remarked, “That there was a great deal to be taken out of the little cock, and that he purposed having the satisfaction of taking it.”

“I’m in the habit of giving small change, remember that,” said Digby, who had overheard the remark—as it had been intended he should.

Scarborough turned white with rage on this being said; and would then and there have inflicted condign punishment on the daring upstart, had not the bell rang, and the boys been called to order by Mr Yates, the head usher, who, entering Mr Sanford’s desk, assumed command in the evening. He only deferred doing so, however, till another opportunity.

The little fellows, and those about Digby’s own age, listened with eager and surprised ears to what he said; and at once looked upon him as one likely to prove their champion. In a very short time he had made a number both of friends and foes; but, curiously enough, he knew none of them by sight, as he could only distinguish the countenances of the few who sat immediately about him. They being mostly about his age, and having suffered from the tyranny of Scarborough, were inclined to side with him.

As, of course, he had nothing to do, he was able to sit quiet, and observe what was going forward. Each of the masters called up a class to say lessons, while the rest of the boys had to prepare them for the following day. Books were got out, and a murmur of voices was heard through the school. A stranger coming in might have fancied that everybody was very studiously employed; but although all had piles of books before them, on a closer inspection he would have seen, as Digby did, that very few were really learning their lessons; some were drawing, others playing games, draughts, or spillikins, or dominoes, and some even had cards; many were cutting out things in card-board or wood, making models of carriages, and houses, and boats. It had become the practice of the school at that time of the evening, especially as they would have another half hour in the morning to look over the lessons they were then supposed to be learning. Digby was surprised, and thought that he had come to a very slack sort of school. He was not particularly shocked, for he could not fancy that what everybody was doing was so very wrong.

The classes had just been dismissed, when another bell rang, and everybody hurried away out of the schoolroom. Digby, not knowing what was to take place, sat still.

“Come with me,” said a boy, who looked rather smaller than himself. “I am delighted with the way you answered that big bully, Scarborough. Keep up to it; don’t give in, and I will stick by you. We are now going into tea. I will find a place for you near myself, and tell you all about the fellows.”

Digby was very glad to fall in at once with a friend; and he at once accepted the little boy’s offer.

“My name is Paul Newland,” said his new companion, as they followed the rest into the tea-room. “I am rather older than I look, for I am not very big; but I intend to grow some day. You will be in my class, I suspect. I’m at the top of it, and expect to get into the sixth soon; that is, under Mr Moore, who is a very quiet sort of fellow. You must try and work up along with me. There is nothing like working, I find. I came in at the lowest, and got up three classes in one half year. But this is the tea-room. Come along; don’t mind what fellows say.”

This was not an unnecessary caution, for Digby found himself saluted as he went along by the boys turning sharply round and saying—

“How do you do, Master Digby Heathcote, son and heir of Squire Heathcote, of Bloxholme Hall? Welcome to Grangewood House, most noble young Squire.”

It need not be said how Digby felt, but he fortunately kept his temper; nor did he lose his appetite in consequence of these sarcastic greetings.

“I wish that John Pratt had not announced me in that way. Of course it would make a capital joke for the fellows,” he said to himself, as he took his seat at the table.

The boys near nodded to him, holding up their mugs of tea with mock gravity.

“Your health, Master Digby Heathcote, son and heir of Squire Heathcote, of Bloxholme Hall,” was repeated over and over again, in various tones.

Digby was determined not to be put out, whatever was said or done. He lifted his mug to his lips—it was filled with a liquid he thought most execrable—some one had evidently put salt in it; but he pretended not to have discovered the bad taste.

“Young gentlemen,” he said, holding up his mug, and mimicking the tones of those who had spoken to him, “I beg to return you my thanks for the honour you have done me. When I know your names and places of abode, as well as you appear to know mine, I can address you more personally. As neither tea nor salt-water are the proper things to drink to the health of one’s friends, I will make a libation with the contents of my mug into the slop-basin, which you will receive as a mark of the honour I wish to do you.”

Digby was sorely puzzled to pump up all these words. He had never made so long a speech in his life before; but the importance of the object inspired him; and a large slop-basin standing before him to receive the dregs of the mugs, put the idea into his head. He had been afraid at first that he should have been obliged to drink the salted tea.

His young friend, Paul Newland, inquired why the boys addressed him as they had been doing; and he then explained that it was owing to John Pratt’s desire to give him importance; instead of which, as is often the case, a contrary effect had been produced.

“I need not tell you not to mind, for I see you don’t,” observed Paul. “Everybody has to go through something of the sort when they first come, and some remain butts all the time they stay. That sort of thing matters very little if a fellow keeps his temper, and pretends not to notice it. They soon grow tired of a joke when it produces no effect. They bothered me a great deal when I first came, and called me Paul Pry, and Paul the Preacher, and Little Bank Note, and Pretty Poll, and Polly, and all sorts of names, and they played all sorts of tricks; but I pretended not to mind, though I was really very much annoyed; and, at last, they gave it up, and it is only occasionally that I now get addressed in that way.”

Digby thanked Newland for his good advice, and promised to follow it as far as his temper would allow.

“Oh, that is the very thing; you must keep in your temper,” answered Newland. “I don’t mean to say that you may harbour revenge, or that you intend to pay them off another day. Far from that; that would be horrid, you know, not like a Christian or an honest Englishman; but that you may disarm them, make them ashamed of themselves, or tired of their stale tricks or jokes.”

Paul went on talking in a quiet, low tone, while Digby was munching a thick slice of bread-and-butter. He sent up his cup for some more tea by one of the attendant maid-servants; but was told by Mrs Pike, who had seen him throw the first away, that he could have no more.

“But some salt had got into the mug, marm; and salt with tea is not pleasant, I assure you,” exclaimed Digby, feeling very indignant, notwithstanding Newland’s exhortations and his own resolutions.

“We only use sugar at Grangewood House, young gentleman,” answered Mrs Pike, looking angrily at the bold assertion of the new boy. “Those who throw their tea away can have no more. That is the rule here; is it not, Mr Tugman?”

The third master, thus appealed to, replied, with what he intended to be a bland smile, though it had very much the look of a grin—

“Certainly, marm, certainly. Master Digby Heathcote, of Bloxholme, has been brought up with rather extravagant notions, and has been accustomed to take salt as well as sugar in his tea.”

This sally produced a grin from the surrounding boys who heard it; for the big fellows considered him a great wit, and a jolly cock, a character he had striven to obtain from some, that he might the more easily manage, or rather bully, the rest.

“Never mind,” whispered Paul; “wait a moment till no one is looking, and take mine. I’ll get some more presently, if I want it. Mrs Pike likes me, as I never bother her. She’ll like you some day, if you are quiet and well-behaved. She’s not ill-natured at bottom, but her temper gets put out very often. She almost manages the school now, since Mr Sanford has been ill.”

Digby accepted the offer; and Newland soon afterwards got a fresh and ample supply for himself. Perhaps Mrs Pike winked at the arrangement, after she had duly asserted her authority.

Digby had been accustomed to very different tea arrangements, and did not admire those he now saw. The tea was made in great urns, and there were huge jugs of milk, or, as the boys declared, of milk-and-water, and basins of brown sugar. The mixture was served out in blue and white mugs, which did duty as beer mugs at dinner; while trays, with slices of bread-and-butter, were continually being handed round. Of the latter, the boys might have as much as they wanted; and their tastes were so far consulted, that they might have milk-and-water without tea and sugar, if they wished for it. They sat at table chattering away, or playing tricks with each other, or reading, if they liked, provided the books were not on the table, till the bell again rang, and they hurried back into the schoolroom.

Other classes were now called up, and more lessons were supposed to be learned; but nothing was very strictly attended to at that time in the evening. In summer, they would have been out in the playground. The boys in those classes which had said their lessons were allowed to amuse themselves as they liked at their desks, either in reading, or writing, or making some of the nine hundred and ninety-nine curious articles which boys are wont to manufacture.

As Digby had nothing to do, Newland lent him an interesting book—“The Swiss Family of Robinson”—which he had never seen. He was soon absorbed in it, and not at all inclined to be interrupted. The shipwreck he had suffered enabled him to realise that described in the book. At length, however, he heard somebody speak to him. What was said he did not understand. He turned round, thinking it was Newland; but, instead of him, he saw a much older, taller boy, with a fair complexion, and greyish eyes. At the first glance, he did not like the expression of his countenance; and he was not over-pleased at being interrupted.

“What do you think of our school?” said the boy. “Some of the fellows have been trying to make fun of you, but you do not mind that. I hate that sort of thing myself. We have got some tremendous bullies here. I’ll point them out to you, and show you how to avoid them. Where do you live?”

Digby told him.

“I live in Berkshire, some miles away from here, though. My name is John Spiller. I manage to get on very well with the fellows, and I’ll put you up to a thing or two which will be of great assistance to you. Now, about your play-box; you haven’t unpacked it yet, I suppose?”

“No,” said Digby; “not yet.”

“All right. Don’t till I can help you, or you’ll have everything carried off by the fellows,” observed Spiller. “While you are looking to see who has got hold of a knife, or a saw, or a cake, or a boat, others will be carrying off a pot of jam, or a Dutch cheese, or some gingerbread, or a pot of anchovies, or a parcel of herrings, or—”

“Oh, there’s no fear of that. I have not got half the things you speak of,” said Digby, rather inclined to laugh at the collection of valuables his box was supposed to contain.

“What have you got, then?” asked Spiller, point blank.

Digby, who had not suspected his new acquaintance’s object in introducing the subject, was going to tell him, when Paul Newland came back to his desk.

Spiller did not see him. He started, and seemed very much annoyed when Paul put his hand on his shoulder, and said, quietly—

“Well, what do you find that he has got?”

Spiller looked big enough to keep in awe a dozen such little fellows as Paul Newland, but he seemed in no way inclined to pick a quarrel with him.

“Nothing that I know of,” he answered. “We have been merely talking about things in general; have we not, Heathcote? It will soon be bed-time, or I should like to have heard more about your part of the country. I’ll get you to tell me to-morrow. Good-night, Heathcote.” Saying this, he moved away.

“I’m glad I came back when I did,” sail Newland. “That fellow is the most notorious sponge in the school. We call him Spongy Spiller. He makes friends with all the new fellows, and sticks like a leech to them as long as they have a piece of cake, or a lump of barley-sugar, or anything else in their boxes, which he can get hold of. His desk is full of things, which, he says, were given him, but which he has, in reality, sponged out of fellows. About your box; unless there is anything in it which won’t keep, just don’t open it for a day or two, till you are able to judge for yourself a little of fellows. To-morrow is a half-holiday, and you will better see what the different fellows really are.”

Digby said he would take his advice, for he felt sure that he might trust him. Both Newland and Spiller were strangers, but, when comparing the two, he did not for a moment hesitate as to which was most worthy of his confidence.

Just then the bell rang; and Paul told him they were to have prayers. He expected to see Mr Sanford; but instead, Mr Yates entered the head-master’s desk, and saying that he was too unwell to come into the schoolroom, read a very brief form of prayer, while the boys knelt up on the forms at their desks.

Digby was not surprised to find very little attention or reverence, for though Mr Yates read slowly, in a loud voice, there was a something in his tone which showed that the devotional spirit was not there.

The moment prayers were over, the boys rushed off upstairs. The lamps were put out by a man in a fustian coat, whom Digby had not seen before. Digby found Paul by his side.

“Come along quickly, or you will have an apple-pie bed made,” he said, in a low voice. “You ought to have been out one of the first.”

“Never mind,” answered Digby, laughing. “I know how to unmake it fast enough. I have done such a thing as make one myself.”

“Very well, then,” said Paul, “we need not hurry. You are to sleep in our room, I find. I have gone through a good deal from the fellows there, though they now let me alone. You’ll not have a pleasant night of it, I am afraid. I wish that I could help you.”

“You can help me,” exclaimed Digby, who had been been silent for some time, as they went upstairs. “I have made up my mind how to act. Is there no one who would support you?”

“Yes; I think that there is one, Farnham. He is a good sort of fellow, but he generally sides with the majority. However, if he sees anything done in a spirited way, it would take with him.”

“Then I’ll do it,” cried Digby. “There are no very big fellows who could thrash me easily.”

“There are two or three a good deal bigger than you are; and I don’t think that you could thrash them.”

“I don’t mind that,” answered Digby. “They would find me very tough, at all events, if they attempt to thrash me. You go into the room first; it won’t do to let it appear as if we had formed any plan together.”

Newland seemed highly delighted at Digby’s proposal, and ran on into the room, which was at the end of a long passage.

Digby followed in a few seconds. He had noted well the position of the bed Mrs Pike had told him was to be his, so he walked straight up to it. Susan had placed his night-shirt and night-cap on the pillow. A lamp, with a tin reflector, placed against the wall, over the wash-hand places, gave light to the room. Most of the boys had already got their clothes off, and had tumbled into bed; they were laughing, and talking, and cutting jokes with each other.

Paul had begun to undress. Presently one of them, directly opposite Digby’s bed, put up his head, and said—

“Ah, Master Digby Heathcote, son of Squire Heathcote, of Bloxholme Hall, how are you?”

“That’s me,” answered Digby, firmly; “I’m very well, I thank you, in very good condition, and not bad training; and I am strong, though not very big. And now I’ll tell you what I am going to do: I am going to make my bed, to see that it is comfortable, and then I am going to say my prayers, as I always do; and I beg that you fellows will not make a row till I have done. I shall not be long; then I intend to undress, and get into bed. After the candle is put out, if anything is shied at me, or any other trick is played, I’ll tell you what I intend to do. I have fixed upon one of the beds, with a fellow in it, and, big or little, as he may be, I’ll pay him off in such a way that he will be glad to help me another night in keeping order. I am not a greenhorn; I just want you to understand that.”

There was something in Digby’s well-knit figure, sunburnt, honest countenance, and firm voice, which, as the boys, one after the other, popped up their heads to look at him, inspired them, if not with respect for him, at all events with a dislike to bring down on their heads the chastisement he threatened. The bigger boys, though they might have thrashed him in open daylight, could not tell what means he might have for attacking them; and those of his own size saw that he was very likely to thrash them, even on fair terms, if they attempted to try their strength together. No answer was made; so, whistling a merry tune, he set to work: first, he carefully and systematically undid his bed, which had been made into an apple-pie, and smoothing down the sheets, and tucking in the feet, he said—“Ah, now that will do.” Then he knelt down by the side of the bed, and most earnestly and sincerely repeated the prayers he had been accustomed to use. Several attempts were made to disturb him.

“Shame, shame!” cried Paul Newland from beneath the bedclothes.

Another voice said, “Shame! Let him at least say his prayers.”

Digby very soon rose from his knees.

“I am much obliged to those who cried shame,” he said, firmly. “It is a shame. It is an insult, not to me, but to Him to whom I was trying to pray. To morrow night I shall know most of the voices of our fellows, and I am resolved not to be interrupted. Now, make as much row as you like; I can sleep through it all; but you remember what I said.”

Digby began undressing, and stowing his clothes away at the head of his bed, so that they could not be removed, jumped into bed.

Just then an usher entered, to put out the light. It was the French master, Digby concluded, for one or two of the boys exchanged salutations with him, calling him Monsieur Guillaume. “Bon nuit, bon nuit—va dormir, mes enfants.” There was a great deal of chattering and noise as he went out.

“Remember,” said Digby, in a firm voice; and then put his head on the pillow.

“Oh, he’s a crowing little cock,” cried some one. “A regular bantam,” observed another. “I wonder if there are more like him at Bloxholme Hall?” exclaimed a third.

But Digby made no answer. Similar remarks were made for some minutes, but he kept silence, till his persecutors began to grow sleepy. One after the other they dropped off, and so did he, at last; and never slept more soundly in his life.

If all right-thinking boys would exercise the same firmness and resolution as Digby did on this occasion, the better disposed would soon gain the upper hand, and there would be much less bullying and general bad conduct than is too often to be found even at the best-regulated schools.

Chapter Twelve.

Digby’s Trials and Triumph—The Bully and the Sponge—A Dinner at Grangewood—Digby’s Fight with Bully Scarborough—A Friend in Need.

Digby had gained a great triumph—more important, probably, than he was aware of. That first night of his arrival at Grangewood had been the turning-point of his school life. Had he yielded in the first instance, been terrified by threats, lost his temper, shown the white feather in any way, he would, insensibly, have become like one of the rest—leavened with their leaven, addicted to their bad habits, a thoughtless, idle little tyrant; too likely, on entering the world, to become a useless profligate. As it was, in consequence of his conduct, he had inspired some of his new companions with admiration, and others with respect; while even those of baser nature felt that he was likely to prove a person with whom it would be disagreeable and inconvenient to contend; and so it became impressed on their minds, that it would be better to let him alone. Of course, these feelings were only shared among the boys of his room. He had still to make his way in the school. Like a knight-errant of old, there were many giants for him to overcome; many castles, surrounded by enchantments, to enter, before he could hope to establish himself on a proper footing in the school. Of course he did not think all this; he only felt that he had altogether acted in a perfectly satisfactory way, and was contented, and pretty happy. He slept soundly, but was the first to awake in the room. He jumped up, put on some of his clothes, said his prayers, and then went to the wash-hand basin, and began sousing his face away in the cold water, as was his custom.

Slowly the cold, grey light of a February morning drew on. A bell now sounded loudly through the house, to rouse the inmates from their slumbers. The other boys awoke, and lifted up their heads to see how the new boy looked by daylight. They saw him standing in his trousers and shirt, with his sleeves tucked up, his face glowing with the cold water, his hair brushed back, and scrubbing away at his hands in a basin full of lather, with an energy which showed that cold water had no terrors for him. His well-knit frame, broad chest, and muscular little arms, appeared to considerable advantage. Some of the boys, who were unable to appreciate higher qualifications, could not fail to feel respect for these; though Digby had not thought about them, nor was he aware of the strength which he possessed, which, for his size, was considerable. He brushed his hair with the same sort of energy with which he had washed his hands, and then went to the drawer which had been awarded to him, to put away his things. He was rather disgusted than amused at seeing the dawdling way in which the boys put on their clothes, and the mode in which they dabbed their faces over with the cold water, and hurriedly dipped their hands in, though some only half dried them, after all. Paul and Farnham were an exception to the rule.

“Well, Heathcote, I hope that you have slept soundly in this, to you, strange place,” said Paul, in his usual brisk tone.

“As sound as a top. It is all the same to me, when I have my head on a comfortable pillow. It takes a good deal to keep me awake,” answered Digby, in the same tone. “I sleep fast, and get it over the sooner. I hate to be long about what can be well done quickly.”

“So do I,” answered Newland. “Slow coaches are apt to break down as often as fast ones.”

Another bell now rang loudly, and the boys all hurried away downstairs to the schoolroom. Digby accompanied Paul. He felt several fellows push against his back, to throw him downstairs, but he was on his guard; and one of them, to the fellow’s surprise, he lifted up on his shoulders, and, without difficulty, carried him down to the next landing-place, where he bumped him pretty hard against the wall. Another, not seeing what had occurred, tried the same trick. Digby, putting his hands suddenly behind his back, seized him, and had carried him down, holding the boy’s arms tight, and was beginning to bump him, when he felt his own ears pulled, and a voice exclaiming—

“Vat you do dat for? Is dat de way you new boy is going to behave here?”

Digby guessed that it was Monsieur Guillaume, the French master, who was thus addressing him.

“He tried to push me downstairs, sir; and I wish to show him that two can play at most games of that sort,” answered Digby, quietly.

“Ah, I do not tink you say de truth, you,” exclaimed the French master, angrily. “He is a good boy; my protégé; speak French well. Put him down, I say. Tommy Bray, come here; you not hurt, my poor boy?”

Digby put Tommy Bray on his feet, who accompanied Monsieur Guillaume into the schoolroom, where Paul and Digby followed.

“The Frenchman has given you a fair specimen of himself. He is the most uncertain, fickle little fellow I ever met. He bullies all the little fellows except his favourites, or protégés, as he calls them, and makes up to the older ones, who are big enough to thrash him, if they like. He spites those who don’t learn French, because he is not paid for them. He is always trying, therefore, to get new pupils. However, I do not believe that he is really bad tempered when he has his own way. He has been soured by loss of property; and having to live out of la belle France. And do you know, Heathcote, I really do believe that an usher at a school like this, when no one is exactly master, and the big boys have it much their own way, has a good deal to put up with.”

“I should think so,” observed Digby, as they entered the schoolroom.

They went to their desks. Mr Yates read prayers, and though everybody was cold and hungry, lessons began.

Mr Tugman had not yet had time to examine Digby, so he sat at his desk reading the Swiss Family of Robinson, which he confessedly preferred to lessons. Each master had a class up before him; there were some crying; a good deal of caning on the fingers—a particularly disagreeable punishment, in cold weather especially—and a considerable amount of blundering and hesitation. A few quick runs round the playground would have saved a great deal of suffering and discontent; but Mr Sanford never went out in the morning, and it never occurred to him that the blood in his pupils’ veins would circulate more freely with a little brisk exercise, and give vivacity to their intellects.

Breakfast was at last announced by the constant sounding bell. It varied little from tea, except that those who liked bread-and-milk might have it. It was served out in large basins.

Digby, however, preferred the tea. He kept his eye sharply on his mug, to see that it was not tampered with. He observed Tommy Bray take a pinch of salt, and then ask for a cup of tea, though he had a basin of bread-and-milk before him.

“Tommy Bray,” cried Digby, in an undertone, “you had better not. Susan, bring me that mug of tea, please. He does not want it.”

Susan, remembering John Pratt’s half sovereign, brought Digby the tea intact; and Tommy was disappointed of his trick.

Several other boys, however, commenced their jokes on the new comer as soon as their spirits had revived a little, by their appetites being satisfied; but none of those in his room attempted anything of the sort; and it soon became whispered about that the new boy was a plucky little cock, and that his arm had a great lump of muscle in it, as big almost as Scarborough’s, which he was so fond of exhibiting.

After breakfast, the boys went into the playground. It was cold enough to make everybody wish to run about as much as they could. Hoops were the order of the day; and Farnham came up and asked Digby if he had got a hoop.

“No; I never trundled one in my life, but I will try,” he answered. “I did not know that gentlemen used them. I have only seen the boys in the streets at Osberton play with them.”

Farnham thought that he was supercilious in his remark. “Oh, then, I suppose you would not condescend to trundle a hoop?” he exclaimed, turning away.

“But I would though, gladly,” cried Digby; “if you can lend me one, and just show me the knack of the thing, I shall like it very much.”

Farnham was satisfied, and brought him a good strong hoop which he had wished to offer him. His first attempts were not very successful; but he saw how Farnham pressed the stick against the hoop rather than beat it, and kept his eye on it and not on his stick, watching every deviation from the direct line, so he was soon able to drive it along at a fair rate, with tolerable satisfaction to himself.

Soon after returning into school, Mr Tugman called him up to undergo the threatened examination. It was not very severe, and he managed to get through it pretty well. He had a vague suspicion, indeed, that the usher himself was not an over-ripe scholar. He found afterwards that his suspicions were correct, and that poor Mr Tugman had to get up every night the lessons he had to hear his head class the following day. No wonder that his temper was not over-sweet, and that he was awfully afraid of the big boys, lest they should find out how much more they knew than he did. He was placed in Paul Newland’s class, but as it was Saturday he did not go up with it; so that, with Paul’s assistance, he was able to prepare his lessons for Monday. He determined to do his best, and set to work to get them up thoroughly.

Boys in a private school have an advantage over those at a public one. If they wish to study during school hours they can do so, under the eye of the masters, without any fear of interruption. In a public one, excellent as the system of most of the great ones is, the boys, working in their own studies with one or two companions only, are liable to the practical jokes and tricks of various sorts of the idly disposed, who may have resolved to prevent them altogether from getting up their lessons, and, of course, then it is very difficult work to do so. School was over at half-past twelve, and then for a short time they all rushed into the playground.

Spiller was on the watch for Digby at the door. “I am glad to find you, Heathcote,” he said, in a soft, quiet voice. “You remember what I told you about your play-box last night. If you come with me I will show you where to put it, and what to do with the things you have got.”

“Shall I call him spongy to his face, and so show him that I know his character?” thought Digby. “No; I don’t like to do that, it’s scarcely right.—Thank you, Spiller,” he said aloud, “I am not certain that I shall unpack my things to-day. I have nothing that won’t keep, I believe; and I want to become better acquainted with fellows before I cut up my cake.”

This was a poser for Spiller, who had never before received such an answer. He looked very hard at Digby, to try and find out whether he knew anything about his character; but Digby had said simply what he had intended to do, and Spiller was completely puzzled. Still he was determined to try again. “Most fellows like to open their boxes at once, to give away some of the good things they have got, to prove their generosity,” he observed. “A fellow can’t expect to have friends unless he does something to win them, you know. I only tell you this as a hint, just that you may know how to act.”

“I don’t fancy buying friends in that way,” answered Digby, laughing; “I should not trust much to a fellow who said he was my friend for a piece of cake or a spoonful of jam. If anybody else offered him a bigger piece, or more jam, he would very quickly leave me. I like fellows not for what they have got, but for what they are; and I want to be liked for the same reason myself.”

“Oh, I see that you are a radical,” said Spiller, sneeringly; “those are regular chartists’ sentiments; but they won’t go down with me, let me tell you.”

Digby burst out into a regular fit of laughter.

“Well, I never should have supposed that it could be considered radical to like a fellow with a number of good qualities who was poor, in preference to a bad fellow who happened to be rich. I must repeat it, that I hope to find friends among the boys here, whom I shall like for their good qualities.”

“As you please,” remarked Spiller; “of course I can’t force you to do as I recommend; but if, on thinking the matter over, you change your mind, come to me and I will help you. Those are my principles; I’m not ashamed of them, let me tell you.”

What Spiller meant by his principles, Digby could not tell. Perhaps he might have explained more clearly, but he saw Paul Newland approaching, and he knew that he must abandon his designs for the present on Digby’s strong box.

Digby told Paul how he had managed Spiller.

“Capital,” exclaimed Paul. “I wish that we could get rid of all the disagreeable fellows in the school as easily as you have, for the present, of Spiller; but I want to tell you to be on your guard against that big bully, Scarborough. The fellows were talking about you just now, and mentioning the plucky way in which you behaved last night; instead of saying, as I am sure he ought, that you acted very rightly, he sneered and vowed that he would very soon take the pride out of you.”

“Let him try, if he wishes,” answered Digby, not particularly alarmed, for he never had been imbued with any especial dread of big fellows; his fearlessness, however, in reality, arose from his want of experience of the evil they had the power of inflicting; “if he knocks my nose off, he certainly will prevent me from feeling proud of my face, but otherwise, I don’t see how he can very well alter my character.”

Paul thought Digby a perfect hero, and wished for the time when he would be big enough to be cock of the school. While they were speaking, Scarborough lounged by with his hand on the shoulder of another fellow, very much of his own character. There is a great similarity in the look of all bullies, not so much in figure as in expression of countenance; some are big, burly fellows, like Scarborough, others are tall and thin. Of course, they all have more or less physical strength; some are dark and some are fair, but they one and all have an inexpressible resemblance to each other. Scarborough passed close to Digby, and as he did so he put out his foot, and tried to trip him up; but Digby observed the action, and, guessing the intention, jumped off the ground, and escaped even being touched. He felt inclined to make some remark, but he restrained his temper, and left the bully without any excuse for picking a quarrel with him. Scarborough strolled to the end of the playground, and when he came back, he stopped, and looking hard at Digby, said—

“I suppose you are the new fellow who is going to do such mighty things in the school—well, I want you to understand that I shall not allow you to play any of your tricks with me; remember that.”

Digby looked at the bully very steadily; he felt that he ought to answer him, if he could do so, quietly, so he said—

“I don’t know of any tricks which I wish to play; but if you will just tell me what you don’t like of what I have done, or have been said to have done, I will do my best not to offend you.”

“It’s very well for you to talk in that way,” said the bully, disarmed for the moment; for even he could not venture to thrash a fellow without some pretext; “just remember to keep up to it, or you’ll find yourself in the wrong box with me, my lad, that’s all.”

With this ambiguous threat, the bully moved on.

“Well done again,” exclaimed little Paul, who had been trembling with alarm all the time for the result of the meeting; “he won’t let you off without many another attack; but manage him as you have already done, and I do not think that he will annoy you much.”

The moment the dinner-bell rang, there was another general rush into the dining-room. This was that the first comers might secure the best pieces of bread and mugs of beer, arranged up and down the tables. Digby found only half a mugful of beer and a very small piece of bread remaining to his share; but he was not at all put out, and made no remark, resolving another day to be earlier in the field.

Grangewood School had existed for a number of years, and things were carried on there very much in the old-fashioned style in most respects. Mr Sanford was a very good scholar and a gentleman, but he had no talent for the economical arrangements of a school. It is a favourite saying with some people, that boys are better fed than taught. He had resolved that, as far as he had the power, they should be well taught; but it did not occur to him, that it was incumbent on him to see that they were well fed and well looked after.

Mrs Pike was, fortunately for him, a conscientious person; but her notions were somewhat antiquated. She wished to attend to his interests, and she was not aware that they and those of the boys were identical; that is to say, that if the boys were thoroughly looked after, well fed as well as well taught, brought up as Christians and gentlemen, the school would flourish; and that if the boys were badly and coarsely fed and treated, and neglected, the school would go down-hill.

Digby was very hungry; the novelty of his position did not spoil his appetite. He turned his head in the direction of the table at which Mrs Pike, supported by Mr Yates, usually sat to superintend the serving out of provender, to see what was coming. Some huge dishes piled up with large white balls were brought in, and plates, containing half of one of the balls, were in succession thumped down before each of the boys. Digby turned over the mass with his fork to discover the contents, but finding nothing but a mass of dough and a strong smell of beer, he put it down; and when one of the maid-servants came by, held out his plate, and quietly said, that he would rather have meat before pudding. The maid-servant, who was not Susan, or she might have whispered a bit of good advice, seized his plate, and going up with it to Mrs Pike, said in a loud voice, so that all might hear:—

“The new boy, Master Digby Heathcote, marm, says that he likes meat before pudding.”

Mrs Pike cast a withering glance at Digby; such a piece of insubordination had not been met with for a long time to her authority.

“We here give pudding before meat, young gentleman, if it suits us,” she exclaimed, in a dictatorial tone; “if you do not choose to eat such excellent pudding as this is, you can have no meat. Take it back to him, Jane.”

Again the plate was placed before him.

“You had better eat it,” whispered Paul Newland. “It is very good yeast dumpling, and you will like it when you are accustomed to it.”

“With all my heart,” answered Digby, laughing. “I did not want to make such a fuss about the matter. I like duff very well, only I really thought that they had forgotten to put the meat on my plate.”

“Don’t touch the stuff, Heathcote, take my advice,” exclaimed Spiller, in a low tone, across the table. “You have got plenty of good things in your box to feed on, I dare say. All new fellows have; and there is nothing like holding out against injustice.”

“Thank you,” said Digby, pretty well guessing Spiller’s drift. “I had rather not lose my dinner. Very good stuff, though; capital duff; a little sugar and wine would make it perfect.”

He ate it all up.

“Here, Jane,” he exclaimed, holding out his plate; “say that I find it very good, and should like some more.”

Jane, who was pretty well up to the tricks young gentlemen were capable of playing, looked suspiciously at his pockets, and then under the table, to ascertain whether he really had eaten up the dumpling; but even she was assured by his ingenuous countenance, and so she went up to the head table, and said that Master Digby Heathcote liked the yeast dumpling and wanted some more.

Mrs Pike looked, also, very suspiciously at Digby.

“I’ll give him some,” said Mr Yates, who was assisting in serving out the provisions.

Mrs Pike, with feminine tact, would have given a small piece, not to disgust him; but he, whether with malice or from thoughtlessness, put very nearly a whole one on the plate. Some brown sugar, however, was added by Susan on its way to Digby; and when he got it, he liked the taste so much, that although not aware that Mrs Pike’s sharp eyes were on him, he sat manfully to work; and yeast dumpling being of a very compressible nature, he demolished the whole mass in a very short time.

It did occur to Mrs Pike’s economical mind that it was fortunate the new boy liked pudding, or he would be very expensive to feed.

Digby felt rather thirsty, so he drank up his beer. That was rather sour; but he was not easily put out, and he felt already very much as if he had dined. When a huge dish of salt beef, with carrots and turnips, did come, he could do but little justice to it; but he was grateful to Mrs Pike’s delicate attention, when, in a tone of which he did not discover the sarcasm, she pressed him to take a second helping.

He begged to have some more beer, though; but was told that one cupful was the allowance, and so had to quench his thirst with water.

“We have pudding first only twice in the week,” observed Paul. “I have got accustomed to it, and rather like the variety, though I thought it odd at first. One day we have yeast, and another suet-dumpling. Then two days we generally have pease-soup, or some fellows do call it pease-porridge. It is rather thick, to be sure, and on those days we have porter instead of beer. I seldom after it have an appetite, even for Irish-stew or toad-in-the-hole. On Wednesdays, Mrs Pike lets a cake-man come just before dinner with gingerbread and lollipops; and many fellows would rather spend their money on his grub than in any other way; and they are not so hungry on that day, and don’t care so much what they have. We call that scrap-and-pudding day, because we have hashes first and rice-dumplings afterwards. Mrs Pike, on that day, always talks about the immense sum she spends on currants and other groceries for the school.”

However, enough about eating; Paul and Digby were philosophers in their way, and had no wish to make grievances out of trifles.

Mr Sanford himself would have been horrified had he known the light in which the domestic arrangements of his establishment were regarded; and it told among the elder boys with very injurious effect to his interests. Some of the best left; and their parents, knowing him to be a gentleman—cruelly, certainly—did not explain the real cause, and so he let things go on as before. The worst remained; those whose friends knew that they were not likely to get on well anywhere, and perhaps would not believe their statements. They, of course, leavened the rest. The younger ones, by degrees, took up their notions and habits; and a first-rate school had not only diminished in size, but had deteriorated sadly in quality, by the time Digby went to it.

He, of course, did not find this out. The state in which he found things he supposed to be inseparable from schools in general, and he was disposed to make the best of them. However, he had resolved not to give in to the bad ways of others, when he once saw that they were bad. But he had yet to learn how insensibly a person may be drawn into the bad habits, and a bad style of thinking and speaking, and may adopt the erroneous notions of people among whom he lives. Digby was in a much more perilous position than he was aware of. He was of a dauntless disposition; he had always been accustomed to rely a good deal upon himself, and he was anxious to do his duty. More than that was wanted to preserve him. He had at home a pious mother and sisters, who never failed to offer up their prayers for his safety. Surely those prayers were not uttered in vain. It would have been doing, also, great injustice to the Squire of Bloxholme to say that he forgot his son, though those who knew him best might have supposed that his prayers might have been of a somewhat inarticulate nature. Still, certainly, there was fervency and sincerity in whatever ejaculations he uttered.

The subject is too serious to be touched on lightly. Only thus much may be said, that if more parents prayed for their children, and more children for their parents, the sacred ties of that relationship would not, as now is too often the case, be loosened or rudely torn asunder; and there would be more good parents and good children than are to be found.

Dinner was over; the boys rushed into the playground; neither the yeast dumplings nor the salt beef stuck in their throats. Most of them were hallooing, shoving against each other, trying to trip up those nearest them, slapping each other’s backs, and, indeed, playing every conceivable trick of the sort.

Digby was soon overtaken by Scarborough.

“Well, jackanapes, how are you?” said the latter.

Digby ran on without taking any notice of the address.

“Did you hear me speak to you?” exclaimed the bully, catching Digby by the collar of his jacket.

“I heard some one speak to somebody, but I could not possibly tell that you meant to say anything to me. There are big monkeys as well as little ones. You might have been wishing to say something to a fellow of your own size.”

Digby had shaken himself clear of the bully, whose face was livid with anger, and stood facing him.

Scarcely were the words out of Digby’s mouth, than he received several tremendous boxes on the ears. He felt a choking sensation in the throat; he had never before been struck unjustly. All the pugnacity in his disposition rose at once into his well-rounded knuckles, and springing forward before the bully had a conception of what he was about to do, he had planted two such heavy blows in his two eyes, that they flashed fire in such a way, that he could scarcely see what had become of his small opponent, while he himself absolutely reeled back with pain. When he did open his eyes, there stood Digby, his feet firmly planted on the ground, his fists clenched, his teeth firmly set, undaunted and ready to do battle, yet well knowing that he must inevitably get the worst in an encounter with so big an antagonist. He had not provoked the quarrel; he had justice on his side, and he was encouraged by the shouts of a number of boys, and cries of “Bravo, little cock!” “Well done, new boy!” “Give it the bully!” “Stand to your colours!” Digby felt like a martyr to a great cause. If Scarborough had been angry when merely spoken to, he now became furious at being thus unexpectedly bearded by so small an antagonist. If the new boy escaped without a severe punishment, he might become a most troublesome opponent in the school. He rushed at him, uttering terrific threats of vengeance, intending to seize him by the collar and to throw him down, and to bite his ears and kick him at the same time, more tyranni. Digby leaped nimbly aside, and hit his right arm a blow which made it tingle from the shoulder to the tips of the fingers. This, however, only put off the chastisement which was sure to be inflicted, where his antagonist was so vastly superior in strength.

It is not necessary to repeat the abusive epithets and oaths which flew from Scarborough’s mouth. Hitting Digby a terrific blow with his left hand, which knocked off his cap, and kicking at his legs, he brought him to the ground, when seizing him by the hair, he began to knock him about most unmercifully on the head and shoulders.

“Shame! shame!” cried many of the boys together; “a new fellow, and down on the ground. Shame, bully! shame!”

“Why don’t some of you come and help me?” cried Digby, in the interval of the blows, and trying to get on his legs.

“I will,” cried little Paul Newland, who had only just come into the playground, and had run up to see what was happening; “who’ll follow me? Farnham, you will, I’m sure.”

“That I will,” cried Farnham, all the generous emotions in his heart rising up; “he stood up bravely for us younger fellows. He is a gallant little cock. To the rescue! to the rescue!”

Farnham was a good-sized fellow, though young. A number of other boys, inspired by his address, joined him; and, without further concert, they made a bold dash at Scarborough, who little thought that they would really attack him. Some clung to his legs, others seized his arms, and clung round his neck and pulled him backwards, so that Digby had time to jump to his feet, and to shake himself to ascertain that no bones were broken.

“Thank you, thank you,” he exclaimed: “I am not much the worse for the way that big coward behaved; but take care, he will be hurting some of you; I don’t mind if he was to set on me again; I dare say I can stand his knocking about as well as anybody.”

The boys who had so gallantly come to Digby’s rescue had not thought of that, and Scarborough, struggling desperately to free himself, had thrown some of them off, and was in his fury striking, right and left, blows heavy enough to have maimed any of them for life; but at the same time he had his eye on Digby, on whom he was evidently longing to wreak his vengeance.

By this time most of the boys, big and little, were drawn round the scene of the contest. Scarborough had his friends, who urged him to annihilate his small opponents, but did not think it necessary themselves to interfere. Bad as were many of them, Digby’s gallantry had been remarked by one of the elder boys in the first class, who, though not so big or so old as Scarborough, was a person not to be trifled with. His figure was light, active, well-knit, and his countenance had a mild expression, at the same time that it possessed signs of peculiar firmness and decision.

Scarborough had freed himself from all those who surrounded him, except from Farnham and Newland, who were in vain trying to prevent him from once more seizing Digby, when Henry Bouverie, the boy spoken of, stepped up, and placing himself between Scarborough and Digby, exclaimed:—

“You shall not touch him; while I remain at this place, I will not, if I can help it, allow so thoroughly un-English and cowardly acts to be committed. That young fellow only came yesterday, and you must needs run foul of him and half kill him with your brutality to-day. Whatever others may think, I know that the sooner you leave the school the better it will be for all of us.”

Scarborough was still advancing. Bouverie lifted up his fists.

“You shall light me and thrash me before you again touch that young fellow,” he exclaimed, in a voice which made the bully draw back. “Remember, Heathcote, if he strikes you, you are to come and tell me; and any of you fellows who came to Heathcote’s help are to do the same.”

The bully stood irresolute. Should he at once fly at Bouverie and attack him. He was certainly stronger; he might thrash him; and if so, he should not only keep him in check, but be able to tyrannise over all the other boys as much as he liked; but then he looked at Bouverie, and observed the calm, firm attitude he had assumed. The reverse would be the case if he failed. His prestige, already having suffered a severe blow from Digby, would be for ever gone.

When Bouverie had first spoken, Farnham and Newland had let him go, and though he struck at them as they did so, they escaped without much injury. Some of the bigger boys, who did not like Bouverie, shouted out:—

“Knock him over; down with the radical!”

But still louder rose a shout of approbation from Farnham, Newland, and the boys with more generous feelings who had sided with them, in which Digby heartily joined.

“Bravo, Bouverie, gallant fellow! we’ll stick by you.”

“Thanks to all those who so express themselves,” said Bouverie; “recollect, however, it is only by being kindly affectioned one to another, and by supporting each other in everything that is right, that you can hope to resist tyranny and oppression. Mark me, also, Scarborough; I have no wish to set the fellows on against you, but I detest bullying, and if you continue the system you have been pursuing, I shall do my very utmost to help the younger fellows, and to oppose you. No more shouting, pray. I’m for a game at Prisoners’ Base. Here, Farnham, you lead one side, I’ll take the other. Any fellows who will oppose bullying may join; no others, remember.”

Digby was surprised at the rapid and systematic way in which the arrangements were made. Farnham was evidently pleased at being chosen by a big fellow like Bouverie to play against him. Of the mysteries of the game he himself knew nothing; still he longed to join in it in spite of his sores and aching bones. Bouverie at last looked towards him and invited him to join.

“All right; I thought he would,” said Paul Newland, who was standing near.

“But I have never played at it before,” said Digby.

“Oh, never mind that! I’ll show you what to do; and I am certain you can run fast, and will play well,” urged Paul.

“Yes, he’ll play,” he added, turning to Bouverie. “You know, Heathcote,” he continued, “you must be up to everything and ready for everything—in the way of games, I mean. When you know the ways of the school, the younger fellows will look to you as a leader. They want one, and I know that you will make a good one.”

These remarks naturally could not fail to fire Digby’s ambition. He forgot all about his bruises, and ran eagerly to the spot marked out for the game. Paul explained it to him. The base was at the bottom of the playground from one side to the other. This was divided in two. The prison was at a pump which stood in the middle of the ground—a great luxury in hot weather, but a terror to the little boys in cold, for they were sometimes placed under it and unmercifully soused.

“Now, you see,” said Paul, “one fellow starts out on one side, then another on the opposite, who tries to touch him. If he succeeds, the first goes to prison; but if the first gets in, the second may be touched by a third, and himself have to go to prison, and so on. The next aim is to get those on our own side out of prison. This is done by running to them and touching them, but in so doing, a fellow is liable to be touched by one of the opposite side, and have to go himself to prison. If, however, he rescues a prisoner, he may not be touched on his return to the base. To my mind, it is the best running game there is.”

Digby thought so likewise, and entered with great zest into the game. He soon understood it as clearly as if he had played it all his life. Once Bouverie himself was touched, and had to go to prison. Nearly all their side were out chasing, or being chased. Digby rushed back to the base, and then, quick as lightning, started out again, and though pursued by a fast runner, he succeeded in rescuing his leader in gallant style.

“Well done, new boy! well done, small one! well done, Heathcote!” was shouted by several on his side, and Digby felt very proud of his success. Whenever one of his party was taken prisoner, he was the first to dash out to his rescue; and if he saw one pursued, he was instantly in chase of the pursuer. From this time he entered warmly into all the games which were played, and was soon invariably chosen to take an active part in all those which did not require practice. Some required, however, both practice and instruction, and for those he always found ready instructors in Farnham and Paul Newland. He practised away, however, so zealously, that he very soon played, even in games of skill, almost as well as those who were teaching him. He not only listened to what they told him, but he attentively watched them and all the best players, and saw how they did things, and their various tricks and devices. He did not forget also to observe, occasionally, the bad players, that he might see how it was they managed so soon to be put out. Cricket, of course, had not yet come in; in that capital game, likewise, he was anxious to become a proficient. He had been initiated at Mr Nugent’s in single wicket, so he could bat and bowl pretty well, but he knew very little of the game at large.

From the style of his previous education, he found himself also in lessons somewhat behind many boys younger than himself, though he knew a great deal more than they did of other things, and of affairs in general.

However, he had no reason to complain after his measure had been taken by his schoolfellows of the position he occupied in their estimation. Whether this was for his ultimate advantage remained to be seen; one thing was certain, it demanded of him a considerable amount of temper, judgment, discretion; and not only good resolutions, but strength to keep them.

Chapter Thirteen.

The Play-Box and its Contents—A School Supper—Digby learns French, and Wishes that he did not—Digby rises in his schoolfellows’ estimation.

Digby’s first half-holiday had been full of stirring events. As the evening drew on, his hunger reminded him of the contents of his play-box. He had not entirely lost his taste for jam and honey since the days when he had made free with Mrs Carter’s preserve pots; and it was with some anticipation of pleasure that he proposed to Paul Newland to examine his treasures.

Paul was a thorough schoolboy, so he willingly agreed; but suggested that it would be wise to keep the jam till after tea, when they might have bread to eat with it. “I have two bottles, and we will pour our tea into them,” observed Newland. “Cold tea is very nice, you know; and we will stow away as much bread as we can in our pockets. I have some gingerbread and a bottle of ginger-beer remaining; and we shall have a good supply for a feast.”

“But I dare say that I have plenty of things more, for I did not see what was put up; only I know that the housekeeper was told to fill my box as full as it could be,” answered Digby. “And do you know, I should like to ask some other fellows to join us. Farnham, certainly, and all those who came to my help when that bully attacked me; or, if you like, all who were playing with us just now. I can easily get some more pots of jam, if I want them, I dare say.”

“Capital, capital!” exclaimed Paul. “But I don’t think it will do to have as many fellows as you propose. I’ll just ask those I think you would really like; but would it not be wiser to see what you have got first. I have known boxes broken open, and when the owners have gone to them, they have found only lumps of paper instead of cake, and empty jam and honey pots.”

Digby’s heart sank somewhat on hearing this; and with no little trepidation and doubt he accompanied Paul to the play-room.

It was a good-sized place, and had been originally used as a schoolroom; a passage led to it from one end of the present schoolroom. A fire was always lighted there on half-holidays in the winter, so that it was a very favourite resort in the evenings, especially in bad weather. It was not the thing to read there, nor were running games allowed. An exception was made in favour of high-cock-o’-lorum and leap-frog, which might be played at the end furthest from the fireplace. There were tables, and benches, and a few strong wooden chairs and stools; and shelves all round on which the boys might keep their boxes, and other treasures, boats, or little theatres, or museums, or anything they were making.

Digby found his box standing by itself, on a spare shelf. The lock looked all right; he produced the key, and opened it—nothing had been touched.

“All right, then,” exclaimed Paul. “We ought to get Farnham and two or three other fellows to stand by as guards, or we shall have Scarborough pouncing down on us like a hawk, or Spiller insinuating himself like an eel, and carrying off the spoil, as they will call it. I have seen those two fellows, before now, half clear out the box of a fellow who had just come from home before he has been able to give anything to his friends. There they both come; I thought so. Shut it again, and hide the key in your pocket.”

“I say, though, don’t you think we might ask Bouverie to come to the feast?” exclaimed Digby, as Paul was running off. “Is he above that sort of thing?”

Paul stopped, and considered.

“He likes jam and cake, I dare say; but I don’t think he would take yours, lest it should be said he helped you for the sake of what you have got,” he answered. “I’ll ask him in your name, though; there can be no harm in doing that.”

When Newland was gone, Digby sat down near his box. Scarborough stood at one end of the room, eyeing him, and considering whether or not it would be worth while to indulge himself in the satisfaction of attacking him, and compelling him to give up some of the contents of his box.

Spiller, meantime, also, was playing with a ball, while he reflected how he might most easily obtain the object of his wishes, and get hold of the eatables he doubted not the new boy had brought. Still, as he felt sure that Newland must have warned Digby against him, he knew that he must exert the utmost circumspection and caution. Once more he glided up to Digby, and sat down near him, taking out his knife, and shaping a piece of soft pine into a boat.

“You are not fond of this sort of thing?—it is too sedentary for you, I have no doubt,” he observed. “It suits me, as I am not fond of games. I shall be glad to make you a little vessel some day. Perhaps you have got some tools, now, in your box. I could do it much better with them than with a knife.”

Digby very nearly laughed in Spiller’s face. As to tools, he had never even possessed a hammer; and besides, his eyes having been opened to his companion’s character, the object of his remarks were perfectly evident, and he had resolved not to be humbugged by him. However, he said, “Thank you;” for Digby never forgot to be polite even when he lost his temper, which was not often. “But, to tell you the truth, I do not care much about models and little things. I like sailing in a real vessel, or pulling in a real boat, or swimming, or riding; and, therefore, any such thing would be thrown away on me. Still, if you do anything for me when I ask you, I shall be very glad to repay you with a piece of cake, or some jam, or anything I may have which suits your fancy.”

This was plain speaking; but Spiller was in no way offended. His wages had been settled, and now he had to consider how he might most conveniently win them. Still his mouth watered for the sweet things; and he wished that he could get paid beforehand.

Digby felt inclined to go to his box, to cut a piece of cake, and to throw it to him, as people sometimes do a penny to an importunate beggar, whom, in their hearts, they believe to be an impostor; but he restrained himself.

Just then, Paul Newland, Farnham, and three or four more boys, of whom, though they were younger than himself, Spiller had an especial dread, made their appearance at the door of the play-room. He knew that his chance of getting anything just then out of Digby was gone, so he sneaked away to a distance, where he sat down to watch their proceedings.

“I have arranged everything,” said Newland. “I first gave your message to Bouverie. He is much obliged, but cannot join our party. Then I got Farnham and the other fellows to keep guard while you open your box: and Bouverie told me that if anybody interferes with you, one of us is to run and let him know, and that he will come to your assistance.”

“He is a right capital fellow, then,” exclaimed Digby. “It is all the better that there should be a few bullies and blackguards, that the good qualities of others may be the better discovered.”

Paul answered that he thought Digby’s philosophy was very good in theory; but that practically, he would rather dispense both with bullies and blackguards, as he was constantly a sufferer from them.

At length, all arrangements being made, Digby’s box of treasures was opened, and found to contain even more good things than even he or any of his friends had anticipated. Everybody at Bloxholme who could think of what boys liked best, had made some suggestion which had been adopted, and the wonder was, that so much had been stowed away in so small a space. Every crevice had been filled with little and big pots of jam, and marmalade, and honey, a tongue, a Dutch cheese, chocolate-paste, anchovies, a pie without gravy, and a fine plum-cake were only some of the eatables,—then there was a hammer and nails, and gimlets, and screws, and a hasp-knife, and a writing-case, and a number of other useful things; enough, as Paul declared, to enable him to set up house by himself, if he wished.

They had only time to put back about two-thirds of the things, which were all they could get into the box, the rest having to be distributed between Newland’s and Farnham’s boxes, before the bell rang for tea.

One of the party, William Ranger, Digby heard him called, was easily persuaded to stay away from tea, to watch that no burglary was attempted during their absence.

Tea was quickly over; the bottles were filled, and the bread-and-butter stowed away in their pockets, and then, more hungry than ever, they hurried back to the play-room.

Ranger told them that he had placed himself on a bench, pretending to be fast asleep, and that scarcely had they gone, than Spiller glided into the room, and went up to the well-filled box. He had begun to work away at the lock, when up he had jumped and sung out—

“You had better not.”

Without making any answer to this, Spiller had sneaked away again. In another minute, who should come in but the bully Scarborough, with a hammer in his hand. He walked straight up to the box, and finding that it was locked, was about to strike it with all his might, when Ranger, though trembling for the consequences to his bones, again cried—

“You had better not.”

The words acted like magic, even on the notorious bully, and he betook himself out of the room as fast as he could, having also, probably, lost his share of the provisions in the tea-room.

The supper-party were now able to assemble in peace and tolerable quiet; and a very merry party they were. The supper service was not exactly uniform, for each person had brought his own plate; some were of wood, and others of earthenware, or iron, or tin, while cups differed as much as did knives, and forks, and spoons. The pie, and the tongue, and the cheese, and the cake, and the jams, were all pronounced excellent, and though all the party eat as much as they wanted, helped out with their own bread-and-butter, it was agreed that there was enough for two or three more feasts, helped out a little, perhaps, with some of the contents of the cake-man’s basket. The beverages were, however, of a nature almost too simple for dishes so highly flavoured; the strongest was ginger-beer, the others were lemonade, cold tea, milk-and-water, and water alone. It were well if none of them had ever indulged in anything stronger.

It would be absurd to say that the way in which Digby dispersed the eatables in his box did not contribute to make him popular; at the same time, they would not have done so unless his own personal qualities had been calculated to win the regard of his schoolfellows. Ever cheerful, honest and upright, and bold and fearless, he quickly gained the kindly feeling of all the better boys in the school. With the others, he almost instinctively avoided associating. One of his greatest annoyances was Tommy Bray, who seemed never to lose an opportunity of trying to put him out of temper.

Digby, as he had promised, wrote very frequently to Kate. He had not altogether a satisfactory account to give of the school; still, he was happy—very jolly, he described himself—and there were plenty of fellows he liked, more or less, and he was learning a number of new games, and he was getting on very fairly with his lessons. Kate wrote even oftener to him, and told him all she was doing. Among other things, she said that she was learning French, and it would be so nice to be able to talk with him, and that she had persuaded papa to let him learn if he wished it, and so that he must, and she had enclosed the necessary written permission.

Digby had seldom differed with Kate in any of her propositions, so, in a fatal moment for his peace, he took up the order, and was at once placed in Monsieur Guillaume’s junior class.

The French master was highly pleased, and complimented him much on the wisdom of his resolution. All went very well at first; he managed to get through the rudiments about as well as the ordinary run of boys, but his advance after this was very slow, as Newland used to tell him, it was all goose-step with him. Somehow or other he could not manage to twist his thoroughly English mouth, so as properly to pronounce the French words. In vain the master made him repeat them over and over again. He knew the meaning of a good number of phrases and words, but when he came to express himself, Monsieur Guillaume vowed that he could not understand a word he said.

“That is because he speaks in one way, and I speak in another, I suppose,” observed Digby. “But I don’t see why my way is not the best; it is the English way, and I should be ashamed of myself if I did not consider everything English better than anything French.”

There was a twinkle in Digby’s eyes as he said this which showed that he was not altogether very serious.

“You remind me, Heathcote, of a story my father tells,” observed Newland. “An old shipmate of his, a Master in the Navy, was taken prisoner by the French early in the war, and had to remain at Verdun for several years. At last he was liberated, and was very soon again afloat. It was necessary, on the occasion of some expedition being dispatched, to send an officer who could speak French. The Captain knowing that the worthy Master had been many years in France, sent for him to take the command of it, explaining the reason why he had done so.

“‘I speak French, do you say, sir?’ he exclaimed. ‘No, sir; I am thankful to say that I never learned a word more of their lingo than I could possibly help. I, a true-born, patriotic Englishman! I should have felt that I was disgracing myself if I had.’”

“I am not so bad as that,” said Digby. “I should like to learn if I could; but I have no aptitude for languages, I suppose.”

Monsieur Guillaume had, however, resolved that his boys should not only learn, but speak French; and all his pupils were ordered to speak French at certain hours, either in the playground or anywhere else, except when they were up saying their lessons. To compel the boys to talk, several marks were distributed to those who spoke best; and they were to give them to whatever boys they found speaking English. Those who had them at the end of the day had a task of several lines of French poetry to learn by heart, an occupation Digby especially hated. Still the decree had gone forth, and Digby was continually having an odious piece of wood, with “French Mark” burnt on it, slipped quietly into his hands. Nine times out of ten, Tommy Bray was the person to give it him. How Tommy so often became possessed of it seemed a mystery, for he spoke French with more ease than most of the rest, and was not likely to have been caught, thoughtlessly, talking English.

Paul at length found that he would go up to a fellow he knew had got the mark, and address him in English, when, of course, it was given to him. He would then not try to pass it till the evening, when he would continually hover about Digby till he found him tripping. At last Digby, in desperation, would get hold of one of the marks early in the day, and keeping it in his pocket, give, as he said, free play to his native tongue. Of course, the system did not increase his affection for French, or for Monsieur Guillaume, or Tommy Bray, in particular; yet, after all, it was a less annoyance than many to which he and some of the best boys were subjected by the masters.

Mr Sanford’s illness increased, till he was unable to appear at all in the schoolroom; and yet, as he still retained his post as head-master, points were supposed to be referred to him which never were so referred; and various grievances which sprung up remained, day after day, unredressed.

Mr Yates became more pompous and dictatorial than ever, and not only took to caning, but assumed the power of flogging, which even Mr Sanford had long disused.

Mr Tugman, too, bullied more than ever; he pulled and boxed the boys’ ears, and hit them over the shoulders and knuckles with a cane, which he always kept by his side.

Monsieur Guillaume imitated his example; and Mr Moore, the second master, was the only one who continued to treat the boys in the quiet, gentlemanly way he had always done.

One of the punishments Mr Yates had invented was to lock up a culprit in a dark room for several hours together, without food. This was especially hated; and some of the boys declared that they would sooner leave than submit to it. As it proved, it was calculated to produce very bad effects in the school. These punishments, and the unusual harshness of the masters, instead of introducing more order and regularity into the school, had a very different effect, and never had it been so disorganised and in so unsatisfactory a condition.

This state of things had begun to grow up before Digby’s arrival. He, of course, did not, at first, discover it, and was not of a disposition to trouble himself much about the politics either of the school or of the nation at large. In a few months he found himself holding not only a good position in the school, but looked upon as a leader in many games, and in all expeditions and amusements.

Spring was advancing, and, as the days were long, the boys were allowed, according to an established custom, to go out after dinner, on half-holidays, and to make excursions to a distance. They were obliged, however, to say where they were going, and to report themselves on their return, when they were expected to give an account of their proceedings. In the summer, when cricket had come in, the privilege was seldom taken advantage of, as most of the boys spent their time in the cricket-field. Several, however, even then, who did not care about cricket, would get away from it; some to fish, others, who had a fancy for the study of natural history, to collect insects and other creatures; and some, unhappily, and the number was increasing, to assemble in spots where they were not likely to be observed; then they brought from the nearest public-house pipes, and tobacco, and beer, and often spirits, and they would spend the whole afternoon smoking, and drinking, and talking, as they called it, like men. Often, miserable, ignorant fools, they talked on subjects which no gentleman, no Christian man, worthy of the name, would even touch on.

Digby knew of these assemblings, and of the orgies which took place at them, but had resisted all the invitations he received to join them. Of course, he scarcely saw the evil in its true light, likely to result from them; health injured; habits of intemperance gained; the mind contaminated and debased with vicious ideas; and time, which ought to be spent either in health and strength-gaining exercise, or in study and preparation for the real business of life, squandered.

Bouverie, whose good opinion Digby had gained, spoke to him on the subject.

“I tall you this, Heathcote,” he said, “when I was a little chap, I knew of a good number of big fellows who carried on much as these are doing. They thought themselves very fine fellows, and so did I. Had I not had a friend, who warned me to keep free from them, I might have done the same. There were about a dozen of them; the youngest was only two or three years older than I was. They all grew up; some went into the navy, others the army, and others abroad, in different capacities. Out of the whole number, four only are now alive; and of those four, one was dismissed from the navy, and another from the army, for drunkenness, and conduct unbecoming an officer and a gentleman; a third is a confirmed invalid, with a broken constitution; and one only, whom I meet occasionally, has given up his bad practices; and he never fails to say, that he hopes I do not imitate the bad example he set me, as I may be sure that the momentary satisfaction, I may fancy I should obtain, would make but a poor amends for all the suffering and wretchedness of mind and body I should be sure to reap in the end, and which he had gone through. It never occurred to me that a little smoking and drinking, and merely loose conversation, could do a fellow much harm. One might, I thought, easily give up the first, and, of course, with grave people and with ladies, one wouldn’t talk loosely. But from what my friend told me, and from what I found out myself, I now know the consequences are sure to be bad. With regard to drinking, I tell you how it is. Beer, spirits, and wine are stimulants, and excite the lining of the stomach into which they are poured. Nothing so quickly acquires a bad habit as the stomach, because it has not got reason to guide it, and is, besides, full of sensitive organs. When once it is stimulated—that is, excited—it wants to be excited again; and so one says, I must give it a little more drink. If it has been excited by brandy, or rum, or gin, it generally longs for the same thing. It acts on the mind, remember, much more powerfully than the mind acts on it. If it gave pain at once, people would not drink; but it excites in a pleasant way, and the excitement goes on increasing till the brain is confused, and a person does not know what he is about. When the excitement goes off, while the nerves are returning to nearly their former state, then comes the pain. These nerves, understand, run all the way from the coats of the stomach up into the brain. They do not return quite to their former state, at all events, for a long time, and so have a longing for more excitement; and thus if a person can get spirits, or wine, or beer, he pours some down his throat to gratify them. The more these sensitive nerves are excited, the more stimulating liquid they desire; and thus, acting through the brain, the more they make their owner wish for. So he goes on increasing the frequency of the times in which he gratifies them, and the quantity of liquor he pours down, because that which at first gratified them will do so no longer. This goes on till a man becomes what is called a confirmed drunkard. The younger a person is, the more sensitive are all his organs, and therefore the more likely he is to establish an irritable state of stomach, if he stimulates it in any way. Now, these fellows don’t actually get drunk, but their stomachs will not long be content with the quantity of liquor they pour into them; and so they will go on increasing till they not only get drunk, but become miserable drunkards, on whom no one will depend, and who will very soon sink into early graves, loathed and despised by those who once cared most for them. There, Heathcote, I have told you something I know about the subject, not in a very learned way, but it is the truth. I might tell you a great deal more. Smoking, I own, is not nearly so bad; but common tobacco irritates the lining or coats of the stomach, and makes it wish for drink; and so I object to it. And I’ll tell you what, also, bad conversation, such as those fellows indulge in, irritates and excites the mind, and so acting on the body, excites all the lower and grosser passions, and keeps out pure and ennobling thoughts. You must understand, Digby, that the mind cannot stand still. I am afraid that it has a tendency to becoming debased; and it requires all a person’s resolution, energy, ay, and prayers too, my boy, to soar upwards to the condition it is capable of enjoying. The only safe course is to keep out all bad thoughts, or even light thoughts, and to resist every bad propensity from the very first, and to keep away from all temptations, from all examples, from everything, indeed, which may encourage them. I can tell you that so pernicious, so terrible are the results of the habits in which those fellows indulge, that I would far rather see my younger brother in his grave than know that he had become their companion, and was running the risk of being contaminated by them. There, Heathcote, I will not talk any more about the matter now. Perhaps I have said even more now than you can understand. Trust me, however, that it is the advice I would give my youngest brother, or any boy in whom I might feel a deep interest.”

These remarks, whether entirely understood or not at the time, did make a deep impression on Digby’s mind; and he thanked Bouverie for speaking so unreservedly to him. “But how did the other fellows, of whom you were speaking, die?” asked Digby. “Perhaps they had reformed, or would have reformed, had they lived.”

“What they might have done no mortal can venture to say,” answered Bouverie, gravely. “They had not reformed, but, on the contrary, had become worse and worse, and one and all of them died miserably. The deaths of some were laid to the climates to which they went; but had their constitutions not been completely weakened, they might easily have withstood the attacks of the climate. Two died from excessive drinking, another was killed in a drunken brawl, and a fourth broke his neck when unconscious of what he was about, while two more died miserably, horribly. I need not tell you now; but they had their own vicious propensities alone to blame.”

“I believe all you have told me, and how I wish that you would speak to others in the way you have done to me,” exclaimed Digby. “What shall we do when you go, Bouverie?” As he spoke, the tears came into his eyes.

“Remember what I have said to you; and let the right-thinking boys keep as much as possible to themselves,” answered Bouverie (he was going at the end of the half). “I will let you know where I am, and you must write to me and let me know how things go on, and I will write to you, and give you my advice. I shall depend a good deal upon you, remember. Already many fellows look to you as a leader; you must do your best to keep that position, not only by your daring and activity, but by your moral conduct, by your steadiness and general good behaviour. As a proof of it, Farnham and others have been arranging a game of ‘Follow-my-leader’ for to-morrow, across the country somewhere; and, after discussing a number of fellows to act as leader, some much older than you are, they unanimously fixed on you.”

Digby could not be but pleased at this, especially from the importance Bouverie attached to the circumstance. That very evening, Farnham, Newland, Ranger, and several other fellows came up to him.

“Heathcote, the weather is still cool, and we have all been talking of a grand Follow-my-leader run;” began Newland.

“Sibley, who was one of our best leaders, is lame, and can’t run, and Cooper won’t, and the fellows say that Hume, and Freeland, and Rolls, and Elmore don’t give sport enough, and funk to go over difficult places, and can’t jump half the brooks about us, and so it was agreed that the chances are you would make a better leader than any of them.”

“That’s not exactly it, Newland,” interposed Farnham; “you know that when some one asked you to lead, you said, that from the way Heathcote had followed the last time we had a run, and from the capital manner in which he plays all the games he learns, that you were certain that he would prove about the best and most plucky leader we have had in our time. Then, Heathcote, say you will accept the office, and settle the matter.”

“I can’t make a speech, but I will undertake to do my best; and all I ask is, that if I tumble into a ditch and can’t get out by myself, somebody will help me,” answered Digby. “How many will join, do you think?”

“Twenty, at least,” said Farnham. “Good sport is expected; because they all say a plucky fellow like you is certain to lead into new and difficult places.”

“As I said before, I’ll do my best, and just think over to-night the line of country I will take,” said Digby. “I know it pretty well by this time, but I will consult you two fellows about it when I have formed a plan, and see if you approve of it.”

So it was settled.

“We’ll just take care, though,” he added, “lest that little sneak, Tommy Bray, does not manage to slip his vile French mark into my hand the last thing. The only safe plan will be to hold my tongue altogether; then he can’t say I am talking English or bad French.”

The rest undertook to keep a watch over Tommy, and to draw him away should he be found near Digby.

The precaution was not useless, for he was very soon afterwards seen hovering about, his little sharp eyes twinkling with malice, as if he had made sure of his victim. The rest, however, sung out “Johnny Jackass, Johnny Jackass,”—a name which had lately been bestowed on him, while others “he-hawed—he-hawed” in concert, and in a way which prevented him from fixing on any of the party with whom, from their being in the French class, he could leave the mark. Besides, had he given it to one of them, he would have been prevented handing it to Digby, which it was his object to do. First one addressed him—not in very good French, certainly,—then another; and the others pretended to be talking English a little way off; but by the time he got up to them they were either making dumb show, or chattering away in what was considered French. Then he would suddenly turn back to Digby, but would find him poring over a book, and as dumb as an adder. Thus the evening slipped away; and after the bell rang for prayers, the mark could not be passed. It was known that Bray did not really get any imposition for having the mark, and thus all escaped.

Digby, very naturally, could scarcely sleep at first going to bed for thinking of what he would do the next day. He resolved, at all events, that he would show he was worthy of the honour done him. Each boy was furnished with a strong ash leaping-pole, about ten feet long, and this added very much to the excitement and interest of the sport, because by their means wide and deep streams could easily be crossed, walls scaled, and difficult hedges got through. At last Digby recollected having taken a walk over a wildish part of the country, three or four weeks before this; and on thinking over the impediments to a direct course across it, he resolved that that should be the line he would follow. This done, he fell asleep.

Chapter Fourteen.

A Grand Game of “Follow my Leader”—Digby Leader—Farmer Growler proves far better than he looks—Arrival of Julian Langley—a conspiracy hatched.

The next morning broke with the promise of a very fine day, and as the sun rose, the weather improved. Digby was early on foot, and set to work at once on his lessons, that he might run no chance of being turned back, and having to keep in to do any task which might be set him, and which he fancied Monsieur Guillaume or Mr Tugman would be too happy to impose. Both tried hard to find him tripping, but entirely failed. School was over. Dinner was rapidly got through, and Digby and his followers hurried out to prepare for their adventures. They all had on their cricketing dresses of white flannel, with dark blue jackets over them—light blue ribbons were on their hats, and short streamers of the same colour at the upper end of their poles. Altogether they looked very neat and fit for work. As they were dressed in flannel, and all their clothes would wash, they did not dread the consequences of a tumble into a muddy ditch or a deep stream. Digby was distinguished as leader by having a red and white ribbon added to the blue streamer at the end of his pole. They all assembled in the playground ready for the start. Scarborough looked at them with an envious eye, and would have liked to have spoiled their sport—so would Spiller, for no one had asked him to join; but the appearance of Bouverie, who had come to see the start, prevented them from indulging in their bad feelings.

“All ready,” shouted Digby. “Well, then, away we go.”

A gate in the side wall of the playground led into some fields. Out of this they all filed, Digby leading and flourishing his pole above his head. From the moment his followers got outside the gate they were bound to do exactly as he did. Now he planted his pole in the ground and leaped as far as it would carry him—now he took a hop, skip, and a jump—now an eccentric turn on one side or the other—now he bolted through a hedge, and ran at full speed along a road till a practicable gap appeared in another hedge with a field on the right: into this he leaped, and made his way towards a high mound whence a fine view could be obtained of all the country round. A broad ditch intervened—that everybody knew. There was a plank bridge some way down, and it was a question whether he was going to make for it, but he had no such intention. He reached its sedgy margin, and planting his pole firmly in the centre, he sprang forward and cleared it with a couple of feet to spare on the other side. One after the other followed. Some, the bigger boys especially, leaped as far as he did. Paul Newland cleared it, and a very good leap he made for a boy of his size. One little fellow, however, John Nott, who always wanted to do things, but seldom found his nerves in a proper condition when it came to the point, planted his pole, began the leap, but trembled when half way over, and before his feet had touched the bank down he slipped, and into the soft mud he went. William Ranger, who had purposely brought up the rear that he might help any who got into scrapes, though he said that he did so to whip up stragglers, saw what had happened, and leaping across somewhat out of his turn, hauled up the mud-bespattered little fellow to the green turf.

“There, roll yourself on the turf, Notty, and then, on your legs once more, follow the rest.” He exclaimed when he had performed this act of kindnesss, “Tally ho! tally ho!”

Away all the party went once more, till they all stood on the high mound, flourishing their poles and enjoying the balmy coolness of the early spring air, scented with numberless flowers of summer. Snowdrops and daffodils had disappeared, but primroses, cowslips, and violets covered the grassy fields and meadows in rich profusion. Wood anemones were carpeting with their delicate and white pink blossoms the leaf-covered ground in every wood and sheltered copse; and the delicate blossoms of the stellaria were shining forth, amid herbage of every description on all the banks and hedges, like stars in the dark sky. The glossy blossoms of the celandine, too, in every damper spot enamelled the turf; and the bright yellow flowers of the large water ranunculus garnished the sides of the streams and rivulets which flowed below them. Sweetly, too, and cheerfully the birds sang on every bush and tree-top with many varied notes. The cuckoo sent forth his unmistakeable sounds, also, from many a neighbouring hedge, always calling loudly, and yet seeming to be so far off,—while high above their heads was heard the joyous note of the skylark, as he rose upwards into the blue sky, as if never intending to return again to earth. Varied, likewise, was the landscape. There were hills and downs in the distance—wide fields, sloping here and there, in which the corn was just springing up—rich green meadows, on which the cattle was enjoying the most luxurious of repasts. There were woods, too, and hazel copses on the hill-sides; and sparkling streams and ponds which looked as if they must be full of fish, and wide ditches full of tall sedges and flowering rushes, and many other water-plants, some few of which were already coming into bloom. Here and there might be seen small villages or hamlets, farmhouses, and neat cottages with rustic porches, over which the honeysuckle or clematis had been taught to climb; pretty little gardens—every inch of them cultivated—though the habitations only of the poorest labourers. The boys stood some time looking at it, and almost unconsciously drinking in its beauties. Digby had a feeling that he loved such a scene dearly—perhaps he scarcely knew why it was. He had no inclination for some minutes to dart down again into the valley to proceed on the course he had marked out. No one seemed to wish to hurry him either. He looked and looked—gazing round on every side.

“Yes, this is England, dear old England,” he cried. “Old England for ever. Wherever we go, boys, never let us forget Old England, or what she is like.”

“No; nor that we are Englishmen,” added Ranger.

“Old England against the world in arms! Old England for ever!” shouted Digby.

And that shout was repeated loudly, enthusiastically by all those true English boys, as they stood on that hill-top; and never were those words, thus spoken in season, forgotten, nor did the sound of that hearty shout ever die away altogether on the ears of those who repeated and heard it. Had there been thousands and thousands of other English boys within hearing, they, too, would have repeated it with equal good-will. Oh, may English boys never forget those lines of our immortal poet:—

“Come the three corners of the world in arms,

And we shall shock them: nought shall make us rue

If England to itself do rest but true.”

King John.

“After all, I am sure there is no place like the country, and no country like England,” cried Digby, waving his pole. “But away we go once more, boys, with just another jolly shout for the land we all love—Hurra! hurra! hurra!”

All repeated the words, and down the hill dashed Digby, followed closely by his companions, and in another moment he was forcing his way up a steep bank, and through a hedge which few would have thought of attempting. He got through it, though, and the rest followed more easily. Probably the farmer who owned the field would rather they had taken a longer way round; but certainly it did not occur to any of them that they were doing any harm; hedges are so evidently made to be got through, somehow or other, by boys, if not by cows. On they went, along the edge of the field—for wheat was coming up in it, and Digby knew that they might do harm by trampling over that. There was, of course, a gate by which they might have got out of the field, but Digby scorned gates, and it was not in the direction he was taking. There was another bank, though, with a still thicker hedge on the top of it than that they had previously passed through. Up the bank dashed Digby; but, even with the aid of his pole, he could scarcely find footing; to get over the hedge seemed impossible. Strenuous were the efforts he made, though, and numerous the times he and his followers had to jump down the bank again. Foiled he was determined not to be. Casting his eyes on either side, they fell on a young beech tree, one of whose glossy branches hung, he fancied, within reach of the top of the bank. Along the bottom of the bank he ran; he climbed up it once more, but though he sprung as high as he could, he could not reach the branch; in an instant his pole was planted firmly against the branch; up it he swarmed, and sat perched in the tree. The pole was now hauled up, and the end placed on the opposite side of the hedge; down it he went, and found himself on the side of a wide piece of moorland, yellow with the bloom of the fern, or furze. The shouts of his followers showed him how much they appreciated the feat. A broad trench was still to be crossed, full of water.

“Not very deep, though,” he thought to himself. “Never mind; here goes.”

Down the bank he slid, and, feeling with his pole, attempted to cross; but the water would, he found, even then, be up to his mouth, and perhaps deeper still further on. The weather was not yet warm enough to make a swim pleasant; so he had to scramble along by the side of the bank. At last, he came to the end of the water, and then he managed to get up the perpendicular side of a gravel bank, and, hurrying on, reached a high gravel mound.

Paul Newland had closely followed him; he made up by resolution and sagacity for what he wanted in strength.

The two stood together watching the rest getting over. Some very nearly tumbled into the pool; and they had to shout to warn them of their danger. Farnham soon came up to the mound; but they did not begin to move till Ranger shouted out that all were safely over. Then Digby once more set off among the heather, and furze, and scattered pine-trees. The unevenness of the ground afforded an abundant variety in the run. Sometimes they came to deep gravel-pits, down which Digby plunged, skirting along the pools which filled their bottoms, and then climbing up their crumbling banks on the opposite side. The piece of common was soon passed; and then a copse-wood, filled with brakes and briars, had to be passed through. Dauntlessly, in spite of thorns and the numberless scratches they inflicted, Digby led the way. Shrieks and shouts of laughter burst from the boys as they rushed on, thrusting the boughs aside, and often letting them spring back in the face of those who followed. All was taken in good part; they were in too good spirits to lose their tempers. Once more they were in a cultivated field; it was in a sheltered position, and the wheat was much advanced.

“Look out, Heathcote; old Growler’s farm is not far off, and I shouldn’t be surprised but what the field belongs to him,” shouted Farnham.

Digby was keeping along the extreme border of the field, where no wheat was growing, so he knew that they could do no harm; and he had no intention of cutting across it. On he went, therefore, till he saw under the hedge a leafy arch over a drain, and he thought that he could pass through it.

“The sooner we are out of old Growler’s property, perhaps, the better,” he shouted; “follow me.”

As he spoke, trailing his pole, he darted through the hole. It was a somewhat difficult feat; and he did not exactly know where he should find himself when he was through. He popped up his head, and found a heavy hand clapped on his shoulder.

“Hillo, young one; what have you been after?” said the man who had captured him, with a gruff voice. “Why, how many on you are there?” he added, as he watched one boy after the other emerge from the hole. “When will there be an end of you? You seems for all the world like young ferrets. Pretty mischief you’ve been doing, I doubt not, in my field of young corn. Oh, you think you’re going on, do you? Stop, stop, my young masters. I’m going to give you a sound good hiding, every one on you, or else you clubs together, and pays for the damage you have done my field.”

“We have done no damage whatever,” answered Digby. “We went in at a gap, we kept along the edge on the grass, and we came out at this hole, as you have seen.”

“I don’t believe thee, young ’un,” growled the farmer, angrily. “Don’t you tell me that you didn’t go straight across the young corn. I know what boys is made of, I should think.”

“I say that I would not tell you a falsehood to save myself from a dozen such thrashings as you would venture to give me,” exclaimed Digby, looking up boldly in his face. “Strike away, if you like; but, remember, you do it at your peril. I have told you the truth.”

The stout old farmer held him at arm’s-length, and gazed at him attentively.

“I do believe if I ever seed an honest English face thee has got it, and I believes every word thee says,” exclaimed the farmer, in quite a different tone to that in which he had before spoken. “There, now, I only wanted to frighten thee all a bit; for I thought thee had been doing a careless thing, and been trampling down my corn; but I sees I was mistaken—so just come all on you to my farm, it’s just close at hand here, and there’s a glass of home-made beer and some bread and cheese, or a cup of sweet milk and some cake, I’ll warrant my missus has got, for each of you.”

“We are playing follow-my-leader, Mr Growler; so if he goes we all must go, remember,” cried one of the boys.

“That’s just what I wants, young ’un,” answered the farmer, good-naturedly. “So come along, master—you’ll not repent it.”

So once more seizing Digby by the shoulder he hauled him off, without any vehement opposition, towards a comfortable looking farmhouse, a few fields away from where they then were. The farmer was better than his word, and bread and cheese and cake, and honey and preserves, and fresh milk and cider, and beer and gooseberry wine, all, as the farmer’s wife assured them, made by herself at home, were placed in abundance before them. They did justice to the provisions, but to their credit they drank very slightly of the fermented liquors. The farmer and his wife pressed them to partake of everything set before them. Really it was, as the good dame observed, a pleasant sight to see the twenty boys, all in health and spirits, their cheeks glowing with the exercise they had been taking, sitting round the large well-scrubbed oak table in the farmhouse kitchen, and the huge cheeses and equally large loaves of pure home-made bread, not sickly white, but with an honest brown tinge, showing that all the best part of the flour was there, and no admixture of alum or bone-dust. Then how the beer frothed, and smelt of honest malt and hops. The profusion of honest food was pleasant, and still pleasanter the hearty good-will with which it was given. The dame wanted to do some rashers of bacon and to poach them some eggs, but they all declined her kindness, assuring her that if they eat more they could never get through the work they had before them.

“Remember, my boys, I shall be main glad to see any of you whenever you comes this way, and can give me a look in,” said Farmer Growler, as they rose to continue their run, and Digby was offering to shake hands with him.

The farmer took his hand and wrung it heartily.

“I wasn’t inclined to think over well of the youngsters of Grangewood there; but since I have seen you, I tell you frankly, I likes some on you very much. Good-bye, good-bye.”

“We might have said the same of our new friend,” observed Digby, as they got beyond hearing. “After having known that honest, good-natured fellow, rough as his outside seemed, I shall be inclined to think better of some of the farmers I know, whom I’ve always fancied to be rather sulky, bearish fellows. We won’t forget to pay him a visit another day, and it will be pleasant if we can think of something to carry to him or his wife. But we must make up for lost time, and go ahead faster than before, or we shall not get back till dark.”

Away they all went; their meal—for neither was it luncheon, dinner, nor tea—in no way impeded their progress. On they ran faster than ever; nothing stopped them. At last they came out near a village. Right through it they went, much to the astonishment of the inhabitants, who hurried out of their cottages, to see the young gentlemen running like mad down the street. A meadow was on one side. Over a paling and a widish ditch Digby jumped, and along the meadow he ran, knowing full well that a broadish stream was to be found at the bottom of it. By this time a number of spectators had collected.

“It must be done,” thought Digby; “follow who can.”

He planted his pole in the middle of the stream and cleared it with a bound—shouts from the villagers showing their admiration of the feat.

Most of the rest went over in good style. Poor little Notty very nearly tumbled in, but generous Ranger went over first and stood by to catch him; and on they all went once more in line, and were soon out of sight of the village and its vociferous inhabitants, as Newland called them. Other streams were in their course. They came to some swampy ground, and Digby very nearly let them into a quagmire, where they would all have stuck, when he espied some stones to his left, and landed on a causeway which led across it. That stream-leaping was a fine exercise for the nerves and strength, and agility too, and required no little practice. A hill now appeared before them. They breasted it boldly, as some of them did years afterwards other hills when crowned with fierce enemies, showering down bullets and round-shot on their heads. The parish church, with a lofty and beautiful tower, stood there. It had been all along Digby’s aim to reach it. The view from the summit he knew was beautiful—no more extensive prospect was to be found in all the country round. The tower was undergoing repair, so the door was open. In went Digby, and up the steps he ran—round and round and round he went, as he ascended the well-worn circular stair—the voices of his followers sounding in various tones behind him. Near the top was a window—from it hung a stout rope, which his quick eye saw was well secured. He reached the top, where there was a platform large enough, for the tower was square, to contain all the party. Soon they all assembled there. If the view from the hill was sufficient to inspirit them, this was still more calculated to do so. It did, and such a cheer was raised as perhaps had not been heard from the old tower top for many a year. There is good hope for England when her boys can cheer right lustily and honestly, as did Digby Heathcote and his friends. For some time they stood there drinking in unconsciously the beauty of the scene, not troubling themselves with details however, and imbibing, too, greater love than ever for their native land. Suddenly Digby recollected that he ought to be moving.

“On, on,” he shouted, and down the steps he dashed—not altogether, though. He stopped at the belfry and sprang to the window, from which hung the rope he had observed. Heaving down his pole, he grasped the rope, and, to the surprise and almost horror of his companions, he threw his legs over and down he glided; not very rapidly, though, but quietly, as if it was a matter of every-day occurrence, looking up and trying out, “Let those only follow who are certain they can do it. I forgive those who cannot.”

Farnham, Ranger, Newland, and others looked over, and doubted whether or not they would follow. They had a regard for their necks—it would not be pleasant to break them, and yet Digby performed the feat so easily, and it would be a disgrace if no one attempted it. Ranger did not hesitate long—he only waited till Digby reached the ground in safety, to grasp the rope and to follow him down. The rest shouted when they saw him gliding down. He was, as he deserved to be, a general favourite. Soon he was seen standing alongside Digby. Farnham and then Newland came, and three more; but the remainder could not bring themselves to make the venture. Indeed, Digby and Ranger entreated them not to do so; for though they stood underneath to catch any who might fall, they all felt that the risk was great. Digby, more especially, had scarcely reached the ground than he regretted having tempted others to follow his example.

“If any of them should be killed, or seriously hurt themselves, how dreadful it would be. I should never forgive myself,” he observed to Ranger.

All were at length assembled at the foot of the tower; and Digby having flourished his pole, once more started off as leader of the party, on their return towards home. He had arranged a different route to that by which they had come, away to the right; a portion of it being over a high chalky ridge. They had a steep hill-side to climb, but well and actively they did it; and, at the top, they were rewarded by the fresh health-inspiring breeze they met in their faces. For a mile or more Digby kept the summit of the ridge—a smooth, green surface, which appeared to afford but little variety to the leader’s movements; but here Digby equally showed his talent for his office, never for a minute together was he in the same attitude. Now his pole was poised on high as an Indian dart, or javelin; now it was held as a lance; now he was flourishing it round his head; now he made a sudden leap forward with it; now he hopped; now he skipped; now he went round and round, spinning, but yet advancing. All these, and a variety of other eccentric movements were seen from the valley below, and created the greatest astonishment, and, in some instances, consternation, for the figures of the boys, seen against the evening sky, as they followed one after the other, in regular succession, appeared magnified to a considerable degree; and many wondered what extraordinary beings they could be. They were very much amused, some days afterwards, on hearing of the strange sights the people had seen on the ridge on that very evening, and how they passed by. The remainder of the leaps they took, the streams they crossed, and the duckings some of them got, need not further be described. They got back in time for tea, which on Saturdays, in summer, was always later than at other times.

Digby got very much complimented for the way in which he had led.

“It’s the best run we have ever had, old fellow,” exclaimed Ranger and others. “Yes, indeed it was; and the plucky way in which you got down from the top of Whitcombe Church tower was very fine. It’s not surprising some of us funked to follow. We must have another run like it next week, and we must get you to be leader again. Remember, you think over what course you will take, so as to give us plenty of sport.”

Digby, naturally gratified at all these compliments, promised that he would prepare for another run on the following Saturday.

The authorities, however, it appeared, had taken a different view of the sport to that which those had who had engaged in it. The descent from the top of Whitcombe tower was looked upon with unmitigated horror; and it was proposed to take steps for the prevention of any such dangerous adventures in future. Little, however, was poor Mr Sanford aware of how much worse proceedings were taking place much nearer home, and of the far greater dangers to which many of the boys were exposed during those long spring evenings, when they were allowed to wander forth beyond the supervision of their masters.

The Monday after this noted run, Digby was passing through the hall, when the front-door bell rang, and Susan went to open it, just as she had done the day of his arrival. He likewise stopped at the end of the passage to see who was coming. A fly was at the door, and in front of it stood Rubbins, the fat butler at Milford Priory, who was at that moment helping out of it no less a person than Julian Langley.

Julian was looking very sheepish and downcast, and very much inclined to cry; but the moment he saw Digby, who could not help coming forward, his countenance brightened up.

“Ah, Digby, this is pleasant, to have a friend to meet one, and to tell one all about the school,” he exclaimed. “I did not know I was coming to your school. Now I don’t mind. What sort of a place is it? Many fast fellows, eh? Any fun to be had? Tell me all about it; come, quick. You look jolly enough, let me tell you. Why, you are nearly as big as I am.” So Julian ran on, much in his old style.

Although Digby knew perfectly well what he had been, and how much mischief he had led him into, yet he could not help looking upon him as an old friend and companion, and as such he received him, feeling really very glad to see him. They had not much time to talk then, for Rubbins having got all his luggage and things out of the fly, and shaken hands with him in a somewhat familiar and patronising manner, delivered him over formally to Susan, to be carried before Mr Sanford.

“Won’t you wish to see master, sir?” asked Susan, who did not understand exactly who Mr Rubbins was.

“Oh, no; no, thank you,” answered that gentleman, with a slight sneer in the tone of his voice. “The young one knows well enough how to take care of himself, I guess.”

Susan, from these words, at once understood who Mr Rubbins was, and formed a tolerably correct opinion of the character of the young gentleman, which she did not fail to express to Mrs Pike.

Digby had to leave Julian, who was now taken before Mr Sanford; but he promised to wait for him at the end of the passage.

Mr Sanford was not altogether satisfied with his new pupil. Julian spoke in an off-hand way of his former career, and the education he had received; and then forthwith mentioned his friendship with Digby Heathcote.

“He will show me all about the school, sir, and put me up to its ways. All I want is to know them, and I dare say that I shall get on very well with the other fellows,” said Julian, with consummate assurance. “Digby and I, you see, sir, are like brothers almost—we have been so much together, and think so exactly alike.”

Now Mr Sanford, from what he had heard of Digby, had formed a favourable opinion of him; and therefore, taking Julian at his word, he was bound to form the same of him. He knew enough, however, of the world to be aware that the very worst way of judging of persons is to take them at their own estimate; and so Julian did not find himself quite so highly esteemed as he might have wished. Mr Sanford, however, rang the bell, and desired that Master Heathcote might be sent to him.

Digby very quickly made his appearance; and Mr Sanford was at once inclined to doubt Julian’s assertion that they were acquainted, till Digby explained that they had just before met.

“Very well, Heathcote, introduce him to the other boys; and I hope I shall hear a good account of him from the masters,” said Mr Sanford. “But remember, by the by, that you do not run the risk of breaking your own neck, and that of your companions, by slipping down from the top of church towers. I must take measures to prevent such a proceeding in future; and have begged Mrs Pike and Mr Yates to see to it. Now go, and be good boys.”

Away ran Digby and Julian. The boys were in the playground, so Digby at once took his old friend there to introduce him. He was resolved to give him the chance of a good start; so he took him up only to the best fellows, intending to warn him of the characters of the others. This ought to have been a very great advantage to Julian.

Farnham, Ranger, Newland, received him, for Digby’s sake, very kindly and cordially; and even Bouverie showed that he wished to be civil to him, and did not address him in the bantering way in which big fellows are apt to speak to those younger than themselves.

Julian, however, took it into his head that all this was owing to his own merits, and was not proportionably grateful to Digby. Although warned by Digby, from the first, of the characters of Spiller, Johnny Bray, Scarborough, and others, he at once showed that he had a hankering to become acquainted with them. Spiller, consequent, very soon got round him, and became the possessor of various articles in his box, as well as of some slices of his cake, and a pot or two of jam. Scarborough was not long in falling foul of him.

Digby was about to rush to his rescue, and calling on Ranger and Farnham to assist; when what was his surprise to hear Julian say—

“Please don’t hit me, Scarborough, and I will give you a pot of jam and some marmalade, and will send home for some more, if you want it.”

“Well, hand out the grub, young one, and I will let you off this time,” answered the bully. “Remember, though, I won’t stand any nonsense. You’ve promised to get me what I want, and I intend to keep you up to your word.”

Julian sneaked off to his play-box, to get the eatables; and Digby turned away with disgust.

“The idea of buying off a thrashing from a big bully,” he exclaimed, stamping with his feet in very vexation. “It is a thoroughly un-English, cowardly proceeding. Besides, it will only make the bully attack him more readily when he wants anything out of him. As he looks upon him as my friend, he wants to revenge himself on him, as he dares not attack me again while Bouverie remains.”

Boys at school very soon find their own level. Julian rapidly sunk to his. He would have had a better chance of retaining the friendship of Farnham, Ranger, and the good set, had he been sent to sleep in their room; but, unfortunately, there was no vacant bed there, and he, consequently, was put into a room with Spiller, and some of the worst fellows. All the advantage, therefore, which he gained in the day, from associating with Digby and his friends, was undone in the evening by the loose conversation of his bedroom companions.

“I wanted to have had a jolly feast, such as you had, Digby, the fellows tell me, and which, it seems, gained you so many first-rate friends,” said Julian, one day soon after his arrival, in a melancholy tone. “But do you know, what with that brute, Scarborough, and that sneaky chap, Spiller, and a host of others, I haven’t got a single thing left. I don’t think you benefited much by me, either.”

“Oh, never mind that; but I did not suppose my feasts gave me friends,” answered Digby. “Perhaps it might have been so; but then, when I think of it, Bouverie would accept nothing, and some of the best fellows took very little, and indeed, generally put in their own share of grub.”

“Ah, still they knew that you were a fellow who was always likely to have plenty of good things,” argued Julian. “I must see about getting some more things from the Priory; it won’t do to be looking down in the world.”

Poor, miserable Julian had evidently no notion of any other bond of union between people; it should not be called friendship, though he so called it, but interest, what one may get from the other. He was to be pitied certainly; but not for a moment exonerated. He had been miserably instructed at the first, there was no doubt about that; but then he had gone to Mr Nugent’s, where he had every opportunity of learning what was right. The truth, the right was set clearly before him, but he deliberately refused to accept it. The laws of God and man, his duties in life, were clearly explained to him; he had a good example set him; he was kept as much as possible out of temptation to do wrong; still, as has been seen, he contrived to do it. Now he came where he had evidently the choice between good companions and bad, and he deliberately chose the bad.

So it will be with all those whose eyes may fall on these pages. If they abandon the straight and narrow, and perhaps difficult, path of right, and enter into the broad, and seemingly easy, course of evil, they do so with their eyes open, in spite of warnings, in spite of the whisperings of conscience, in spite of thousands of examples of the destructive results of the life they are pursuing; and they will in the end be unable to offer the slightest excuse for themselves; they will have to acknowledge they brought down all their misery and wretchedness on their own heads, that their punishment was just.

The next Saturday came, and when lessons were over, Mr Yates ascended the head-master’s desk, and informed the school that leave to go out was stopped, in consequence of certain proceedings which had come to Mr Sanford’s knowledge; but more than that he did not consider it just then necessary to explain.

This announcement, though received in silence, created the greatest vexation, and anger, and indignation among all the boys. Some thought the prohibition arose from one cause, some from another. Digby and his friends, who had played the game of Follow-my-leader on the previous Saturday, thought that it was owing to something they had done on that occasion. Some farmer, less good-natured than Mr Growler, might have complained about them; perhaps it was owing to their exploit in the church tower; others thought that it was owing to something which had occurred in the village; others, owing to a fight which had taken place between one of their boys and a country lad; and perhaps Scarborough, and Spiller, and their set might have suspected that their half-holiday practices were known, and that all the school was being punished on that account. One thing was clear, on comparing notes, that a very considerable number of misdemeanours were committed every Saturday; and that, altogether, they were not punished without cause. Those, however, as is usually the case, who were the most guilty, were the most furious.

Scarborough declared loudly that he would pot stand it; that, in spite of all the masters, he for one would go out as usual; so said a number of other fellows of his stamp.

Digby, and Farnham, and Newland did not like it; they thought themselves very unjustly treated; and of course that made them indignant. They talked of doing all sorts of things: they would scale the walls; they would take their usual expedition, with leave or without leave.

“I’ll tell you what I’ll do,” exclaimed Farnham, who was always rather vehement when he fancied himself unjustly treated, “I’ll write home, and beg to be taken away altogether, unless we have our proper liberty. After dinner, I’ll go straight up to Mr Sanford, and ask him why we are all kept in because some other fellows have done what is wrong; and then I’ll undertake to guarantee that if he will allow them to go out, they will all behave as he could wish in every way. If he still refuses, then I will frankly tell him that I will write home, and complain, and that others are determined to do the same.”

Farnham’s proposal was very much applauded by nearly all the moderate party, a few only advocating a quiet run through the country for an hour or so, just to show that they would maintain their rights.

The dinner-bell rang. They all went in; and no one ate a worse dinner in consequence of the perturbed state of their minds. They still, however, continued, in low voices, talking the matter over; and the masters and Mrs Pike saw that something was evidently wrong. The weather, however, summarily settled the matter for them. The sky had been for some time clouding over, and before they had left the dinner-table, the rain began to descend in torrents, so that it was impossible for any one of them to make any complaint of not being allowed to go out on that day. Harder and harder came down the rain, till it was evident that it was going to be a settled pouring afternoon. Although, in one respect, this was an advantage, as it enabled the better disposed to calm their spirits, and to think quietly over what they had proposed to do, yet it, at the same time, allowed the rest to brood over their fancied wrongs, and to concoct a variety of schemes of vengeance.

Julian Langley was one of the most indignant, and most ready to join any of the plans of the extreme party. He had come to a school where he understood there was plenty of liberty and gentlemanly treatment, and he found, he said, neither one nor the other. He had read of some fellows at a large school getting up a grand rebellion, barring out the masters, and standing a siege of several days, till their terms were complied with. The idea was caught up by others. It was grand in the extreme, if not novel. Scarborough and some of the bigger fellows were delighted with it. Julian undertook to win over Heathcote and his set.

“They must not be left out, certainly,” observed Scarborough. “They are plucky fellows, and would be powerful allies; but I suspect that you will have some difficulty in managing them.”

“Let me alone for that,” answered Julian, with a self-satisfied tone. “I know how to touch up my old friend, Digby Heathcote, in the right place. He is well primed already, and only wants the spark to set him off.”

There was certainly far less noise and disturbance that Saturday afternoon than there had been for a long time. On the Sunday, also, and the following days, the masters observed that the boys behaved even better than usual. An event which proved to be of considerable importance occurred on Monday. Bouverie, who had been counselling patience and submission, was suddenly summoned home to attend the sick bed of his father: he had time only to pack up and be off. He sent, however, for Farnham, and urged him not to do anything rashly, though he could not enlighten him as to the reason of the prohibition so much complained of. Strange to say, Digby was more pleased with Julian for two or three days than he had been since he came to the school—he was constantly with him, submitting to his opinion, and speaking so very sensibly on many matters.

“I’ll tell you what it is, Digby,” said Julian at last, “if all the fellows will sink their quarrels and disputes and unite heart and hand, we shall carry the day and gain our rights. For my own part, I do not care much about the matter; I am not going to be here long, so I argue for the sake of others more than for myself. Just, therefore, come and hear what Knowles and that clever fellow, Blake, has got to say. Depend on it they will show you that they are in the right.”

In a fatal moment Digby consented to join a conference of those who called themselves the leaders of the school, to decide what should be done in case they were still denied the liberty they demanded.

Chapter Fifteen.

A Rebellion Proposed—Plans for Carrying on the War—The Weakest Find that they have to Pay the Piper—Commencement of Hostilities—Barring out.

The Saturday arrived which the boys at Grangewood expected would prove so big with events. It was a fine warm day—a great contrast to the previous Saturday. There appeared not the slightest reason why they should be kept in. As the school hours drew to a close everybody was on the tiptoe of expectation. At last half-past twelve came, and Mr Yates ascended the head-master’s desk. “Boys,” he said, in his usual disagreeable tone, “you were informed last week that you were not to go out beyond the playground. The same prohibition at present exists.”

No sooner were the words uttered than a low groan was heard from one end of the schoolroom to the other. It rose higher and higher, till it burst into something which sounded very like a loud roar of anger.

“Mr Tugman, bring me up here some of the boys who are making that hideous noise,” shouted Mr Yates. “Monsieur Guillaume, can you catch some of them? Mr Moore, is no one making a noise near you?”

Whenever one of the masters approached, the boys were found crying, with their handkerchiefs to their eyes, and saying, “Oh dear! oh dear! we mustn’t go out; we mustn’t go out.”

This continued till the dinner-bell rang; for Mr Yates would not dismiss them, as was usual when school was over.

“You may go into dinner, boys,” he sang out at last, fancying that he had gained the day.

Dinner passed over very quietly, however, and everybody eat even more than usual. Slices of bread and meat were also stowed away in the pockets of those who were sitting at a distance from Mrs Pike or any of the masters. Their intention was to lay in all the provisions of which they could possibly possess themselves. Digby had had a hamper of cake and tongues, and cheese and preserves, for which he was indebted to representations made by John Pratt to Mrs Carter, backed up by a petition from Kate. So numberless were the contents, and so liberal was the supply, that it seemed almost inexhaustible—sufficient, Digby and some of his friends considered, to last the whole school for many days. They were not well practised in commissariat arrangements or they would not have thought so. Other fellows, as it happened, also had hampers, which usually arrived about the middle of the half, to prevent their spirits sinking till the return of the holidays. All these things were collected in the play-room, as were the slices of bread and meat carried off from the dining-room. When, however, Scarborough and some of the heads of the rebellion came to examine the amount of provisions collected, they pronounced them totally inadequate for the purpose of enabling them to hold out till their grievances were redressed.

“Where, too, is the liquor?—where is the water? Is there any tea and sugar?” they asked. “We should die of thirst.” They declared that it was absolutely necessary that a party should be told off to procure the necessary stores.

It then became a question as to who should go. Scarborough and Spiller had no fancy to run any risk for the good of others, nor indeed had Julian Langley, or Tommy Bray—indeed, a very sharp look-out was kept on all Master Tommy’s movements lest he should sneak off and betray them. Water, it was suggested, might easily be collected in the water-jugs and basins, which could be brought down from the rooms, and an order was accordingly issued that the water in all the rooms should be preserved with the greatest economy. Then fuel was to be found for the fire, and kettles to boil the water, and saucepans to boil potatoes and to make stews, for they had no wish to undergo more hardships than they could help. With regard to the important point of procuring provisions, it was proposed that lots should be drawn, and that ten fellows, on whom they fell, should go out at night to obtain the supplies. Tea and sugar was loudly demanded by some: ale and ginger-beer and soda-water by others.

Scarborough and two or three of his intimates, managed the drawing of the lots: they fell in a very extraordinary manner on Digby, Farnham, Ranger, Newland, and others of the most steady boys, at the same time the most spirited and likely to carry out what they might undertake.

“It is, indeed, fortunate we fellows are altogether, because we can thoroughly trust each other,” remarked Digby, unsuspicious of any trick.

If Farnham did think unfair play had been used, he did not deign to say so. He had consented to draw lots, and as some one would have had to go, he was ready to run the risk.

The next thing to be done was to collect the funds to purchase the stores. Scarborough, and some of the other big fellows, went round and insisted on all those they could coerce emptying their pockets and their purses and contributing the greater part of their wealth to the common store. If a fellow had five shillings, he was told he must give four; if he had half-a-crown, he had to give up two shillings. Digby, Ranger, and their party contributed nearly ten shillings each. When, however, inquiries were made as to what Scarborough and some of the other big fellows were going to give, it was found that he had only a few shillings in his purse; he said that he could only put in eighteen-pence. He wanted the rest to buy tobacco, he asserted; which was very likely. Spiller, turning his pockets inside out, with a melancholy countenance, said he positively had nothing; but that he was not ashamed, as he was certain the advantage his wits would afford his companions would make ample amends for his want of tin. He, however, was certain that his friend, Julian Langley, who had so lately come from home, and had, as yet, no opportunity of spending his money, would be flush of cash.

“A fine idea!” exclaimed Scarborough, very much in the voice with which a Knight Templar of old would have addressed an unfortunate Jew whom he had got into his power. “Come, Langley, my man, we look to you for supplying the sinews of war; what have you got?”

Julian hummed and hawed not a little, and hesitated; but had at last to confess that he had got four pounds.

“Then three pounds is the least sum you can hand out,” said Scarborough. “We might justly ask for ten shillings more, but we won’t for the present; we shall know to whom to apply if more is wanted.”

Julian had most reluctantly to draw forth the amount from his purse, and heartily he wished that no rebellion had been proposed. He had to learn the truth of a proverb, which runs to the effect, that in cases such as the present, “Whoever may dance, the weak and the silly ones have invariably to pay the piper.”

“But when are we to begin the rebellion? when are we to commence barring out?” asked Digby, rising from his seat. “I thought that we were to set to work at once.”

“We admire your zeal and courage, Heathcote,” answered Scarborough, who had invariably spoken very politely to him since the lesson he had received.

It need scarcely be said that the bully looked forward to taking his revenge before long, now that Bouverie had gone.

“Your zeal and courage is great,” he repeated; “but discretion is also of importance. We have now got a half-holiday, and to-morrow is Sunday, when we shall have to do no lessons; therefore it would be folly to shut ourselves up during that time. The provisions you are to procure cannot be got in before this evening. The difficulty will be to get them in; but we must manage it thus. You must all bring as much as you can; some must be packed in hampers, and directed to different fellows, as if it had come from home. Then the tradesmen must bring others in parcels; and I know a fellow who will, for a bribe, pretend to be a cake-man, and will bring in all sorts of things in his baskets.”

Digby’s feelings, as did those of his friends, revolted somewhat from these proposals; but they had entered into the undertaking, and they thought that they were in honour bound to go on with it.

“But how are we to get out without being seen?” he asked.

“I have thought about that, too,” answered Scarborough, with a condescending smile. “We are to get up a grand game of hoops—that makes as much noise and confusion as anything. Football would, be better, if it had been the right time of the year, and we had grass to play on; now it might create suspicion. We must get the side gate open, and as we all press about it, so as to stop up the view of it from the house, you fellows are to slip out. The rest is easy. Hudson, and Jones, and Ware will supply you with what we want; they will do anything for money. Here, we have made out lists of what we want, and the different ways in which the things are to be sent in. It must all be collected in this room by to-night; if things come to-morrow, suspicion may be created. You understand the plan, now, all of you? By the bye, all the play-boxes, which have locks and keys, must be emptied, to hold the things, and the keys must be delivered over to our committee, which, you will understand, is called ‘The Committee of Safety.’ It is for the good of the cause—we must sacrifice everything to that. No one exactly would like a dictator, nor do I; so I hope all will agree that we have acted for the best.”

Digby and Farnham were not quite satisfied when they found that this committee of safety consisted of Scarborough, Spiller, and three other fellows, called Ton, Smee, and Capron, their constant associates, and very nearly as great bullies and bad characters as Scarborough. However, it was too late to recede.

The foraging party were now provided with their lists, and with certain sums to pay for the things they were to get. Whether all the money collected was given to them they could not tell. Each of them, however, wisely made a note of what he received.

This was a piece of worldly wisdom my readers will do well to imitate through life—be exact in all money transactions. Put down at once all sums received and paid away, with the date of the transaction, and the name of the person to whom the sum was paid, or from whom received. It may give a little trouble at the time, but will save a great deal in the end.

The afternoon was drawing on; they all hurried out into the playground, having got hold of every hoop to be found. They divided into two parties, and were to charge each other from one end of the ground to the other. The foragers had hoops, also, but they were to throw down theirs, and to make their escape at the signal agreed on.

Digby’s heart beat eagerly. Go he would, but still he would very much rather not have gone. He did not fear punishment, but he had hitherto been looked upon as a well-behaved boy, and he did not wish to lose that character.

The two parties drew up on either end of the ground.

“Charge!” shouted Scarborough. Away they went, rattling along, till they met in the middle. Many hoops were overthrown; the rest of the boys, with loud shouts, rushed on to the end, wheeling their hoops round, to prepare for another charge. Those whose hoops had been knocked down assembled on one side, close to the side wicket. Spiller was there, and so were all the foraging party. Spiller had some tools in his hands. The next encounter of the hoops took place exactly in a line with that spot; and though several other boys went up to it, their numbers did not appear to have increased. All that afternoon the game of hoops went on, the boys knocking away with their sticks and shouting at the top of their voices; till poor Mr Sanford’s shattered nerves were almost completely unstrung.

At length, the voice of a man, who said he was a cake-man, was heard outside; and Spiller was dispatched, with a humble request to Mrs Pike for the key of the wicket, to allow him to enter.

In an incautious moment, influenced by the idea of saving her bread-and-butter, Mrs Pike gave up the key.

“I’ll soon be back with it, marm,” said Spiller, in his blandest tone.

The cake-man’s basket was soon emptied; but it appeared that he had another one outside, and the contents of that disappeared with equal rapidity. Pockets, and pocket-handkerchiefs, and hats, were quickly filled, and the things carried off to the play-room.

The foraging party had been out, and came in, one by one, in the rear of the cake-man, heavily laden. The expected hampers also arrived. They always put Mrs Pike in good humour. A very large one was for Scarborough, who never had had one before. They were eagerly pounced on by him and the boys, and carried off into the play-room.

The masters congratulated themselves altogether on the good behaviour of the boys.

Tommy Bray, however, managed to elude the vigilance of those watching him, and got off to Monsieur Guillaume’s room, to give him a hint of what was to occur; but the French master had gone to London for three days, and Tommy dared not tell anybody else, lest his name, as the informer, should afterwards transpire.

Night came, and all went to their rooms. Never, however, had Digby been more unhappy and less satisfied with himself since he came to the school. He prayed, but he felt that his prayers were hollow. He was not doing his duty to the best of his power. Probably several of his friends felt as he did, but they did not speak of their feelings to each other.

Sunday came; they went, as usual, to church. Poor Mr Sanford was too ill to go.

“And we are preparing a terrible annoyance for him to-morrow,” thought Digby.

They walked out afterwards, in close order, with Mr Yates at their head, and Mr Tugman, who brought up the rear, watching that no one wandered on either side. They went again to church in the afternoon; and all the rest of the time was occupied in talking over their plans for the following day. They were to get up an hour before anybody was likely to be astir in the house, and assemble, with their jugs and basins of water, in the play-room. All the schoolroom shutters were to be brought into the play-room, as well as all valuables from the desks. All the books were to be collected, either to serve as missiles, or to be burned; that was not quite settled. Meantime, a party were to pay a visit to the coal-cellar and wood-yard, and to bring in a supply of coals. There were other minor arrangements, into which it is not necessary to enter.

On Sunday night, the boys went quietly to bed. At half-past four, one or two awoke, and they roused up the rest. All were soon on foot.

“I say, Newland, don’t you feel as if you were going into a battle?” said Digby.

“Just as I can fancy soldiers feel,” answered Paul.

“One satisfaction is that the row must soon begin,” said Digby. “I hate having to wait for anything of the sort.”

They spoke in whispers. They were ordered to take their pillows with them to serve as shields, if necessary, and to carry their shoes in their pockets. They all very quickly slipped downstairs. Digby and Newland, with four others, found themselves again told off to go and fetch coals and wood, an expedition of some considerable hazard. However, they none of them flinched, though, as Digby said, he felt very much as if he was committing larceny. Each carried a pillowcase, into which it was intended to put the coals or the faggots. It was broad daylight. They had several passages to traverse, and what was worse, some of the servants’ rooms to pass near. On they went however.

“It must be done, though,” whispered Digby to Newland.

They were afraid of the noise they must make in turning the keys, withdrawing the bolts, and lifting the latches. The last door was reached; they succeeded in opening it, and into the coal-yard they hurried. It did not take them long to put as much coal into their pillow-cases as they could carry. Those directed to carry faggots had more bulky loads, but not so heavy. They forgot to close the door as they returned laden with their booty.

As they went along the passage they heard Susan calling to one of her fellow-servants, “Jane, Jane, don’t you hear footsteps?—is anybody ill?”

“I hope it isn’t robbers,” answered Jane. “Oh, dear! oh, dear!”

“Oh, nonsense; I’ll just throw on my gown and go and see.”

Now though these were not very terrible words, and uttered only by poor weak women, whom boys are apt to despise sometimes, they put the band of heroes in a great fright.

On they hurried as fast as their legs could carry them, expecting every moment to see Mr Tugman, or, perhaps, Mr Yates himself, descending the staircase to bar their progress.

“There is some one, surely,” cried Newland. “I’ll not run, though. I’ll go and face him, whoever he is.”

“I will go with you,” exclaimed Digby.

It was, however, only Ranger, who had come out to reconnoitre, and to help them along, if they required aid. They told him that the alarm was already given; so they all ran on as fast as they could into the play-room. They took the precaution of locking the schoolroom door, and of piling up some forms and desks against it, so that they might have time to make further arrangements while that was being forced.

The play-room presented a very unusual appearance when Digby looked round it. It was full of boys. The windows were barred, and shutters were nailed up against them. On one side of the fireplace was a heap of coals—on another, a pile of faggots and potatoes. Near, stood several hampers full of provisions; jugs and basins of water stood on the shelves, while all the boxes were full of eatables. Indeed, it was evident that it would take a long time to starve the garrison into submission. The first thing to be done was effectually to bar the door. There were bolts and locks, and they might easily be broken open. Spiller, who was the engineer in this department, had provided several bars, and these he screwed on across the door, so that it would have been necessary almost to knock the wall down before it could be opened.

Digby had naturally a military eye; he was looking round for weak points.

“They may be getting down the chimney,” he observed.

“Oh, then, we will light a fire and smoke them out,” answered Scarborough.

A fire was accordingly lighted.

“I suppose we are all here; but let us call the names over, and see if there are any skulkers,” said Scarborough.

This was done. Tommy Bray was the only boy missing.

“He’ll have the pleasure of breakfasting with Mrs Pike, the young jackanapes, betraying all our secrets, and having no lessons to do. He does not think of the woeful thrashing he will get.”

They heard the getting-up bell ring as usual, and then they waited, and waited, expecting some one to come to the door. No one came, however. The prayer bell rang as usual, and then, to their surprise, the breakfast-bell. This was very astonishing. They had good reason to know that it was the breakfast-bell for they were all getting very hungry. There was a general shout for breakfast. They soon had boiling water, and tea was made, and they had plenty of sugar; but some of the heroes complained much that they had no milk.

“Would you have wished to have had a cow shut up here, and hay to feed her?” asked Newland, laughing.

They all made a very hearty and luxurious breakfast—their early rising, and the excitement they had gone through, gave them appetites. Besides, they had an unusual variety of all sorts of nice things. Digby’s basket was in great requisition; and Scarborough, and Spiller, and others, who seemed to think everything common property, nearly half emptied it.

“At such times as these we don’t stand on ceremony, my good fellow. A little more of that capital marmalade, if you please,” said Scarborough.

Poor Digby could not very well refuse; at the same time he did not see exactly why the bully should eat up his marmalade.

The breakfast set was composed of very heterogeneous materials; plates were decidedly scarce, and the tea was drunk out of tin cups, and mugs, and pannikins, while some of the little fellows had to content themselves with ink-glasses, which gave rather a strong flavour to their beverage. The weather itself was warm, and the fire, and the number of boys shut up in the room, increased the heat till the closeness became very unpleasant; but they were afraid of opening the windows to let in any air, lest some of the masters might find their way in also at the same spot. The only light they had was through a few round holes in the upper part of the shutters.

When breakfast was over they began to consider what they should do. It was much too hot to play any active games. Some of the younger fellows proposed high-cockolorum and leap-frog; but they made so much dust and noise that it was not very pleasant work even to themselves, and the bigger fellows ordered them to desist, and sent a shower of books at their heads to enforce the order. Hop-scotch met with a like fate. A few tried marbles, but there was scarcely light for the purpose, and ring-taw was quickly abandoned. Others endeavoured to read amusing books to pass the time, but the dim light which fell on the page scarcely enabled them to distinguish the letters; and, besides, they found all sorts of tricks played them by those who had no literary turn, and always objected to see one of their companions take up a book. Digby persevered with the “Swiss Family Robinson,” which he had not had time to look into since the evening of his arrival, and finished it in spite of the heat and the variety of interruptions he underwent. When Digby read a work of fiction he read heartily, with his whole mind in the book, and nothing made him so savage as to be interrupted, and called back into the commonplace work of every-day life. A considerable number of fellows put their heads on their pillows in corners, and on benches, and went to sleep.

Thus the morning passed away. How different was all this calm and quiet to the fierce onslaught they had expected. They had fancied that the masters would have been thundering at the door with battering-rams, or climbing up at the windows and endeavouring to force their way in. Some even fancied that they would have appeared with muskets and pistols, and fired in upon them, or, if not, hurled stones in on their heads. Then they had vividly pictured the way in which they would have sheltered themselves with their pillows, and hurled back their lexicons, and grammars, and graduses, and delectuses, and other books, at the heads of their assailants. All that would have been very fine, and exciting, and delightful. Who would have cared for the bruises and blows they would have received? Black eyes, and even broken limbs, would have been things to have gloried in in so noble a cause. But this quiet, this perfect ignoring their very existence, was very trying. Not even a message sent to them; not a request to know what they wanted, or to beg them to return to their duty, was perplexing in the extreme. Some proposed that somebody should go out and reconnoitre; but who was to go was the question.

“It is very easy to say go,” observed Paul Newland; “but who is to go, I should like to know. Will Scarborough, then? He ought to go, I am sure. We have too long been made catspaws of in this matter; and though I do not counsel giving in, I say that some of the big fellows should bear the risk and expense, which they have hitherto not done.”

Paul had by some means or other discovered how things had been managed, and was resolved to speak out plainly. Scarborough looked daggers at him, and would have knocked him down had he dared.

“I have one thing to say,” observed the bully; “I recommend you fellows not to quarrel among yourselves. For my own part, I wish to be at peace with all the world, and am now going to have a pipe. Who will join me?”

Several big fellows, as well as Spiller and Julian Langley, said they would, and soon the room was filled with tobacco smoke, which not a little increased its unpleasantness.

“Swipes, swipes!” sung out Scarborough in a short time, and from some secret recess bottles of ale and porter were produced, the contents rapidly disappearing down their throats. Then they sang, and insisted on all the other fellows coming round and singing in turn. Probably they would have made them drink also, but that they wished to preserve the liquor for themselves.

There were about a dozen fellows thus occupied; at of them, with the exception of Julian Langley and Spiller, great, big, hulking lads, and the two latter were forward in vice and knowledge of what is bad in the world. Dinner-hour came. As if to mock them, the dinner-bell rang as usual. Those who were not smoking and drinking began to get very hungry, and to cry out for food. They only, however, got abuse from Scarborough, who had now thrown off all disguise, and assumed the dictatorship.

“If anybody touches anything, I’ll knock him down,” he cried out, with a fierce voice. “Wait till your elders think it is time to dine. Do you fancy that we are to keep, in the free and independent republic we have established, the vulgar dinner-hour of school-time. We’ll dine by and by, and you shall have some rashers of bacon to toast, and some herrings to fry, for your amusement.”

How indignant did Digby feel at hearing these words. Was it for this he had made such sacrifices?—lost a good name; acted a part he knew to be wrong? He had to learn that such is invariably the fate of those who join a bad cause, or consent to unite themselves with unprincipled men, even in a cause which they fancy may be right. Still he did not wish to raise a rebellion in the camp, and he determined to bear his hunger till it pleased the dictator to allow him to appease it.

The bells went on ringing with the greatest regularity. The dinner-hour had long passed; now the bell rang to summon them into school. Tea-time came. Digby and many other fellows had been asleep. They jumped up; they were ravenous. They insisted on having food.

Scarborough and his companions were still smoking and boozing on. He growled out, “That they must wait his pleasure.”

“I for one will not,” cried Digby, grown desperate. “Who wishes to join me? Here is my hamper. I have a right to the contents of that, at all events.”

The bully became furious at finding his authority thus openly defied; and rising from his seat, made an attempt to punish the bold rebel; but the beer he had imbibed had considerably affected his brain, and before he could reach him, down he came on his nose.

Julian, and Spiller, and the rest of his companions, seemed to think it a very good joke, and laughed heartily. But Digby and others turned him round, unloosed his neckerchief, and threw water in his face, in the hopes of reviving him.

“Oh, let him alone,” cried out Spiller. “He’ll come to by and by, never fear.”

Digby, however, did fear very much that he would not, for he was almost black in the face, and looked very horrid.

“If he should die now, how dreadful it would be,” observed Newland, in a low voice, full of awe.

They chafed his hands, and continued bathing his temples, keeping his head up, till he gave signs of returning animation.

“Oh, I think he will recover now,” exclaimed Digby, joyfully. So they put a pillow under his head, and watched him at a distance, till the natural colour came back to his face. Had he been alone with his half-tipsy friends, he would, too probably, have died. Not till he was apparently out of danger did the fuelling of hunger return; and then they got out their hampers and boxes, and set to work with right good will. They had plenty of good things; and it never occurred to them that it would be necessary to go upon short allowance, if they were to hold out for any length of time.

In the evening, there was a great cry out for tea; and though the beer-drinkers at first opposed the motion, the majority carried it. The fire was lighted, and large quantities of liquid—some said it was only sugar and water—was swallowed; and bread, and ham, and tongue, and jam and other preserves, were consumed.

Night came at last. Most of the fellows were very sleepy; but it was agreed that it would be necessary to keep guard, or they might be taken by surprise. Digby found that he was one of those selected, if not for a post of danger and honour, of great discomfort, and that he and three others were to sit up half the night to keep watch, while the rest slept. He suggested that they should be divided into proper watches; but a big fellow, Gray, who called himself Scarborough’s lieutenant, replied that he would not allow their arrangements to be interfered with.

“If I ever again join a rebellion at school, I shall deserve to be whipped for my folly, even more than for my disobedience,” thought Digby.

At last, all the fellows lay down. Digby and his companions walked about, and whistled, and sung, and tried to keep themselves awake by every means in their power; but it was very hard work. They had a few candles, but could only venture to burn one at a time; so that the light looked very dim and melancholy in the dense air of the large room.

“What donkeys we all are,” thought Digby, as he looked at the forms of his schoolfellows scattered about over the floor, many of them snoring, others talking in their sleep, and others tumbling about, evidently not enjoying quiet slumbers. At last, he lay down, but it was some time, even then, in consequence of the excitement he had undergone, and the hot and close atmosphere, ere he could go to sleep. Never, also, during his previous life, had his slumbers been so disturbed and uncomfortable.

Chapter Sixteen.

A Siege without Besiegers—heroism of Garrison—General Pike and the Army of Observation—Garrison Yields at Discretion—A New Schoolmaster, and great improvements in the school.

The morning at last came. Digby sat up and rubbed his eyes. At first he thought that he was in the smugglers’ cave; then on board the lugger, hurrying to her destruction; then in the sea-worn cavern into which he had been at last cast. At last he remembered where he was. All he had gone through on the above-mentioned occasion was trying enough, but he had not himself to blame. His present rather ridiculous discomfort he had been at least instrumental in bringing on himself. He tried to go to sleep again, for he had no pleasant thoughts to keep him awake; so he dozed on till the the usual loud-sounding bell rang to call the boys up. That awoke him effectually, though some of the boys seemed to have a satisfaction in continuing to lie down in spite of the bell. Then the first school-bell rang, and the breakfast-bell, and the second school-bell—indeed, the day passed exactly as the previous one had done. No one came near them that they were aware of, nor were they able to hold the slightest communication with anybody without. Scarborough drank more beer than he had done the day before, and was more tyrannical than ever. He and his friends smoked and drank all day, and, they said, made themselves perfectly happy; but it was dreadfully dull work for all the rest. Oh, how they wished that matters could be brought to a satisfactory conclusion. They were not allowed to have dinner till late, as before. They managed to do pretty well at it, but at tea-time bread began to run short. They had laid in a smaller supply of that than of anything else. The night passed in thorough discomfort, but with no interruption from without. The next morning they were obliged to breakfast on biscuits and sweetcakes; they had potatoes, but they could not manage to cook enough of them properly; and at dinner they were very badly off for some plain article of food to eat with their pies and ham, and similar rich dishes. At tea they were still worse off; for though jam, and honey, and cheese, and tongue are all very good things with bread, they do not make a good mixture without some of the staff of life.

Still the more heroic declared that it would be a disgrace to yield for such a trifle; indeed, it was difficult to say to whom they should yield; for unless they had opened the door and sneaked out, there was no other course for them to pursue than to stay where they were. So they had another night to spend on the bare boards, without changing their clothes, or washing their hands and faces. They had to breakfast on ham, jam and honey, or bits of pie. Fortunate were those who found some scraps of plum-cake. Even Scarborough’s tobacco was running short, and the beer was nearly expended. This would have been fortunate in most respects; but the prospect of having to go without it made him more savage than ever.

“Never fear, old fellow,” said Julian, touching him on the shoulder; “I am up to a thing or two—look here!”

He showed him a couple of bottles of gin.

“There’s comfort for you.”

The wretched fellow’s eyes glistened. What was the comfort offered? To steep his senses in forgetfulness; to make himself like a brute. He did not think of that, though. The gin bottles were soon concealed, and Scarborough was again in better spirits. There was not much dispute about the time of dinner that day, as there was very little to eat. Those who could get them, had to chew the hard tops, and the roots of tongues, and the knuckles of hams, and the rind of cheese, and to finish off with honey and marmalade; but even those who generally liked sweet things the best had very little fancy for them now. The water, too, had become very mawkish and vapid, and there was scarcely any tea left; what remained was used up that evening. Still no one proposed giving in. The bigger fellows dared not; the little ones did not know what to do; and the more daring still lived on in hopes of an assault being made on their stronghold, when they might have some excuse for yielding with honour, but to be starved into submission was most derogatory to their dignity. That night was the most unpleasant of any. Many of the fellows were very sick; bad air, no exercise, and a mixture of salt ham and sweet jam tended to disturb the economy of their insides. Several of the little fellows began to cry bitterly, and got books sent at their heads in consequence by Scarborough, whenever he woke up and heard them. The next morning the last drop of water in the jugs and basins was expended, the potatoes were all baked or boiled, and every scrap of ham, or tongue, or cheeseparing was consumed. Hunger not only stared them in the face, but was actually attacking their stomachs. Few before knew what very uncomfortable sensations it caused—how it could pinch; how sick and how low-spirited it could make them feel. Even Digby, Ranger, and Newland began to think that means must be taken to put an end to that state of things. Had they known who was the general commanding the forces opposed to them, they would not have held out so long. Not poor Mr Sanford; he was very ill, and knew nothing about the matter. Not Mr Yates; he had left the school, so had Monsieur Guillaume. The general was no other than Mrs Pike, and her whole army was represented by Susan, who was furnished with the garden steps, by means of which she was enabled to inspect at her convenience the proceedings of the heroic garrison. General Pike’s spy and informant of the resources of the enemy was little Tommy Bray, who, as his reward, had as many muffins and cakes for breakfast and tea as he could eat, and a large supply of pudding for dinner. Through him General Pike knew the exact amount of the money collected and the provisions purchased with it; and with this data to go on, she sat down and calculated the exact time these provisions were likely to last. She thus knew perfectly well that by Thursday morning the garrison must yield at discretion, and she had arranged her plans accordingly. Susan, on returning from her daily reconnaissance, assured her that the garrison were not suffering from fever, or from any dangerous ailment, but only that they generally looked very stupid and dull, and that she was very certain that by the afternoon they would be too happy to yield to any terms she might choose to dictate.

“They have no fire, marm; and they don’t seem to have a morsel of anything to eat for breakfast,” said Susan.

Mrs Pike was not very hard-hearted, but she knew that a little starvation would do none of them much harm.

“We will wait till about an hour before dinner-time, and then we will go and see what they have got to say for themselves,” she observed, rubbing her nose, which was a habit of hers when she was meditating on any subject. “By that hour Dr Graham will be here, and it is as well that he should receive the young gentlemen’s submission.”

Long and serious consultations were now held within the garrison. With the exception of Scarborough and his immediate companions, or his council, as he called them, all were unanimous that if terms were offered they must yield to them. Paul Newland, especially, was very strenuous on this point. “We have been great donkeys, of that there cannot be the slightest doubt; but we shall be still greater if we keep ourselves shut up here a moment longer than we can help,” he observed. “We have spent our money, we have made ourselves thoroughly uncomfortable, we have lost many a jolly good game of play, and we have obtained for ourselves a no very enviable character in the eyes of our masters, while we shall all of us go home with black marks against our names.”

“But we have been fighting for a great principle. We must remember that our honours were concerned,” answered Digby.

“Fighting! We haven’t fought at all,” returned Newland. “A great principle! I have been thinking over that point also. Our great principle should be obedience; that is one of the things we were sent to school to learn. I forget when I found it out, but I now clearly remember it, and in adhering to that, depend on it our honours were involved much more than in insisting on going out when, for some very good reason probably, Mr Sanford thought fit to keep us in. All I can say is, that I wish he was well, and could have us up and flog us all round, and so settle the matter off-hand. I certainly don’t like the thoughts of yielding to old Yates.”

A few acknowledged the justice of these opinions. It was not to be expected that many should do so. The last sentiment was reciprocated by all.

“The sooner, then, we make preparations for opening the door the better,” observed Farnham.

They possessed themselves of Spiller’s tools. That worthy, with Julian Langley, Scarborough, and a few others, were sitting up in a corner, puffing away slowly at their clay pipes, and sipping away at something which they did not wish the rest to see. They were too stupified to observe what was being done. The bars across the doors were removed; their strength had never even been tried. Then Farnham took down a shutter, and in desperation threw open the windows to let some fresh air in. Oh, how delicious and sweet it was, compared to the poisonous atmosphere they had been so long breathing.

“I, for one, vote that we all march out in order, and walk up and down in the playground till some one comes to know what we want,” exclaimed Digby, as if a bright idea had struck him. “Or, I will tell you what, I don’t mind going with a flag of truce straight up to Mr Sanford, to tell him our grievances, and to ask what terms he will give us.”

“Capital! grand! spirited!” shouted most of the fellows—at least they moaned out, for they were not in a condition to shout.

Not a moment was allowed him to recede from his offer. The largest and the least dirty white pocket-handkerchief they could find was immediately fastened on to the end of a broomstick. There was a little water remaining, in which Digby’s hands and face were washed. His hair was combed with the only pocket comb to be found in the army, and his clothes were brushed with the broom above spoken of, and his shirt-collar smoothed down as much as was practicable. Independently of his spirit and discretion, he certainly looked fatter and less pale than any of the rest, and was therefore the fittest envoy that could have been selected to give the enemy a favourable opinion of the garrison. They were, of course, not aware that Susan knew perfectly well all about them.

Digby was all ready, with his flag in his hand. He only waited for the door to be opened.

“Come,” exclaimed Ranger, “Heathcote may go on ahead as a herald, but I do feel that it will be a crying shame and disgrace if we let him go alone. We ought all to fall in, and march out into the playground to support him if necessary. As for those boozing fellows up there in the corner, they have deceived and cheated us, that is very evident. We are not bound to them; they may follow if they like.”

Perhaps Ranger was not quite right in this, though Scarborough and his set certainly did not deserve that terms should be kept with them.

The thoughts of fresh air and exercise, and the hope of bringing their present uncomfortable condition to a termination, made the great mass, without a moment’s further consideration, yield to the proposal; and, falling in together, the moment the door was opened and Digby had gone forth, they hurried out after him.

No one was in the schoolroom, but it looked as if it had been swept, the desks scraped and polished, and everything put in good order.

Out into the playground they marched, following Digby so closely that he appeared to be at their head. Ranger, Farnham, Newland, and his other chief friends kept directly behind him.

They had just reached the playground, and were facing the glass door opening from the house into it, when the door was opened, and a tall, very gentlemanly, youngish-looking man appeared at it, with Mr Moore, their favourite master, standing behind him. The stranger advanced towards them,—

“I am glad to meet you here, young gentlemen,” he said, in a very harmonious voice. “I understand that you have for some days past shut yourselves up in your play-room, in consequence, it is supposed, of your being dissatisfied with some arrangements which were made regarding you. My name is Dr Graham. I am now the master of this school, Mr Sanford having yielded his authority, with the sanction of your parents, into my hands. I shall at all times willingly listen to any complaints you have to make. Let me know the grievance which caused you to shut yourselves up as you have lately done.”

Digby, in a manly and straightforward way, told him exactly why they had thus acted.

“It was done at my request,” said Dr Graham. “I found, on inquiry, that most reprehensible practices took place on these occasions, and as I have a number of pupils of my own who will soon become the companions of some of you, I wished to stop all liberty till I could arrange how to deal with the culprits. My object, understand, is to have a school of happy, Christian, gentlemanly boys. There is no reason why all should not be very happy and contented; and I am resolved not to allow those of whom I have hopes of becoming so to suffer for those of whom I can have but very slight or no hope at all. Mr Moore, are these all the boys?”

“No, Sir, there are several absent, who, I fear, must be justly placed in the last category,” answered Mr Moore.

“Where are they, then?” asked Dr Graham, looking at Digby.

“In the play-room, Sir,” he answered, feeling as if he was acting a treacherous part towards them; but truly he could have said only what he did.

“We will go there at once, and see the state of affairs,” said the Doctor. It is possible he might have guessed, though, from Susan’s information. “Follow me, young gentlemen.”

Guided by Mr Moore, he went direct to the play-room.

What was the consternation of the wretched tipplers when, looking up, they found themselves deserted by their companions, and saw a stranger, with one of their masters, at the door. Scarborough tried to get up, after gazing round at them in a stupid, idiotic way, but fell forward on his face; while the rest sat still, stupidly glaring up at him and Mr Moore. At last, when they attempted to rise, they fell down as Scarborough had done.

“I shall have little difficulty in settling how to deal with those miserable fellows,” said the Doctor, pointing scornfully at them. “They are, I conclude, from what Mrs Pike tells me, the heads and instigators of this most sagaciously conducted and commendable rebellion. Happily, I am not bound to keep any boy with whose character I am not satisfied. Mr Moore, I must request you to take down the names of those I see in that corner of the room. I wish also to know those of the young gentlemen who met me openly in the playground, and especially of their leader, with the flag of truce. I accept it as a sign that they are sorry for what has occurred, and grant a full amnesty to all those who have followed it.”

The boys, on hearing these words, spoken in a thoroughly kind, frank manner, gave vent to their feelings in a loud hearty shout. The expressions touched all their better feelings.

“Long live Dr Graham!” cried Digby.

“May he long be our master, and we be his obedient attentive pupils!” added Newland, who had the happy knack of giving the right turn to a sentiment.

The cry was taken up by the rest of the boys, and the Doctor turned round and said, smiling, “Thank you; I am well satisfied. I feel sure that we shall always be good friends. Now go up into your rooms and get ready for dinner.”

The basins and jugs were carried upstairs, hands and faces were washed, and clothes changed, and when the dinner-bell rang, they went down into the dining-room, where Mrs Pike received them with a smile as if nothing had happened, and all declared that they never had had so good a dinner at the school—certainly, never had they been more hungry. And thus the mighty rebellion was concluded. Dr Graham had not promised that they should go out on a Saturday, so that they had gained nothing whatever by their movement.

Only Mr Moore and Mrs Pike superintended at dinner. The other three masters, they found, had gone.

“Before we separate,” said Mrs Pike, standing up when she had served out the last helping of pudding, “I have a few words to say to you. I am very sorry that you spent three days so unpleasantly as you must have done this week, because Mr Sanford had intended granting you, in consequence of his illness, half-holidays every day, and but slight tasks in the morning, till the arrival of Dr Graham, who has for some time arranged to take charge of the school. He had charged me to do my best to find you amusement. On Monday I had ordered carriages to take you to a pic-nic in Fairley Wood; Tuesday, a famous conjuror was to have come; and on Wednesday you were to have had a grand tea in the garden here, and fireworks afterwards. However, perhaps you thought yourselves better employed. All I can say is, that I am sorry for what has occurred, but intend to forget all about it; though, as those who win may laugh, I might be allowed, if I chose, to make fun of you.”

“Sold again—admirably sold!” exclaimed Farnham to Digby, as they walked into the playground. They were not much inclined to play, though, for never had they felt more weary and sleepy. Though the fresh air revived them, they heartily wished for bed-time.

It was soon whispered about that Doctor Graham had resolved on expelling Scarborough and all his set. Everybody acknowledged the justice of this decision, and rejoiced at it. The only one of the party who was allowed to remain was Julian Langley, in consequence of his having only so lately come to the school.

“Dr Graham,” repeated Digby, after he and his companions had been discussing the merits of their new master, “why, that is the very name of the master of the school to which Arthur Haviland was going. I wonder where he comes from. All I can say is, that he seems a first-rate man, and sensible and kind, and so Arthur said his master was.”

Two days after this, Dr Graham announced that the pupils from his former school were about to arrive. In the evening, four carriages full of them drew up at the door. Digby looked eagerly out, and there, sure enough, in the very first was Arthur Haviland. How delighted were the two friends to see each other. The surprise was mutual, for neither of them were certain that they were to meet. The Doctor, knowing how certain any change of this sort was to unsettle boys’ minds, had not told them till the last moment the arrangements which had been made. The two sets of schoolboys became acquainted with each other with great rapidity. The Doctor had won the hearts of nearly all his new pupils by his clemency and urbanity, while what was still more satisfactory, all his old ones spoke in the warmest terms of him.

A new system was at once inaugurated. A first master, a very gentlemanly man and a good scholar, took the place of the little-loved Mr Yates; Mr Moore kept his post as second master; the third, who took the place of the ill-conditioned Mr Tugman, was a very nice, quiet-looking lad, with whom at first the boys thought they could do anything; but they very soon found that beneath that calm countenance there dwelt a most determined spirit; that he had lately left a first-rate public school, where he had been praeposter of his house, and that he was thoroughly up to all the ways and dodges of boys. He had been for a short time at one of the Universities, which his want of means had compelled him to leave, and thus he had become an usher for the sake of saving money to take him there again. He worked hard himself, and he was determined that those under him should work hard also. The writing-master was also a gentleman, for Dr Graham felt the importance of having a good example set, even in minute points, to those whom he wished to see turn out gentlemen in every respect. He had explained to Mrs Pike his wish that all the provisioning and household arrangements should be established on the most liberal footing. I want the boys to have as much and as pleasant food as they would have at home, so that they may have no cause to regret coming here, because they are no longer to have the nice things to which they have been accustomed. Teacups and saucers, and spoons, and plates, and knives, were introduced at breakfast and tea, so that the boys might spread their own bread with butter, or honey, or marmalade. At dinner, too, the usual arrangements of a gentleman’s dining table were introduced—plated spoons and forks, and glass tumblers—and there were fruit tarts and puddings, and vegetables; indeed, an abundance of such things as were in season.

“These may appear trifles, Mrs Pike,” observed the Doctor, when that thrifty housewife ventured to expostulate with him; “but they have a considerable effect on boys. I doubt whether they will very much increase your weekly bills, and I am certain that they will assist to give the lads gentlemanly tastes, and assist me very considerably in managing them. It is, believe me, much easier to govern a school of gentlemanly boys than one full of those of an opposite character. My great wish is, to be able to place perfect confidence in their words. They will then require much less supervision and much less constraint. I explain this, because I think that you will aid in establishing those principles.”

“That I will, sir,” answered Mrs Pike, who was a very sensible woman, and saw at once the superiority of the Doctor’s system over that which had hitherto prevailed.

In a short time a marked difference was observed in the school, and the boys were generally infinitely happier and more contented. At the same time there were still grumblers and dissatisfied ones.

“It is all very well—a new broom sweeps clean,” said they. “Wait a little; we shall soon get back into our old ways.”

They discovered, however, that the new broom went on sweeping cleaner and cleaner, till only the bad had excuse for grumbling, because they found it difficult to indulge in their malpractices. Of course there were bad ones, even though Scarborough and his set had been expelled. Some of those the Doctor brought with him were bad, and some of those who were already in the school were so, and they very soon found each other out.

Julian Langley had plenty of companions, but still he tried very hard to win back Digby’s friendship. Had Arthur Haviland not been there he might have succeeded; but Arthur had gained a perfect insight into Julian’s character, and considered him a very dangerous companion for Digby. Julian very soon discovered now much Arthur disliked him, and determined to have his revenge.

From the time of Dr Graham’s arrival the whole system of the school was completely changed. There was a much stricter supervision, at the same time that there was much more real liberty. Bullying—that is to say, glaring tyranny and cruelty—was almost entirely put a stop to; only the would-be bullies and the very bad ones any longer could in any way complain. The Saturday excursions were once more allowed; but the boys were especially charged not to trespass, or to do any damage; and they had to pass their words that they would adhere strictly to the rules laid down. A monitorial system was established. Six boys of different ages were selected, for their general good conduct, discretion, temper, and acknowledged high principles, to act as monitors. They had a number of privileges as a recompense for the onerous duties with which they were entrusted, and which they were never known to neglect. When any distant excursion was made, one of the monitors was obliged to accompany the party, and to give a full account of all their proceedings. One of the other boys was also frequently called on to do the same. On all half-holidays they might obtain leave to go out where they liked, provided every two hours they came back and reported themselves, so that no one could go to any great distance; nor could, as before, an ill-conditioned fellow like Scarborough spend his time in smoking and drinking without being found out. Digby liked the change excessively; he was constantly with Arthur Haviland, and benefited much by his companionship; for, in truth, a high-principled boy has great power in influencing his friends and associates for good. Julian sneered, but sneered in vain, and at last ceased to try and tempt Digby to join him in his malpractices. Still Digby found it very difficult to keep altogether aloof from his former associate; there had been no cause of quarrel between them, nothing that he could well allege to separate them; and even the occasional remarks which Julian let fall, and the knowledge of the mode in which he spent his time, did harm, and might have had a serious effect on him, as it had undoubtedly on some of his other schoolfellows.

Chapter Seventeen.

Conclusion.

In a well-ordered school there is naturally less scope for adventure than in an ill-conducted one—such as Grangewood had become during poor Mr Sanford’s illness.

Dr Graham was strict and regular, but the boys were far happier than they had ever been before. He encouraged games of every description, and all sorts of athletic exercises. He had gymnastic poles erected; a large swimming-place made, into which a stream of clear water, hitherto of little use, was conducted. He had also some boats built, and launched on a large lake in the neighbourhood, which became the constant resort of the boys during the half-holidays in summer. He did not allow them to boat, however, till they had learned to swim well, not only without their clothes, but in them. They were instructed also by an old sailor, who lived near Grangewood, not only in rowing, but in sailing a boat. Here Digby, from the knowledge he had gained from Toby Tubb, found himself superior to nearly all the other fellows.

He soon gained as much popularity among the boys who had come with Dr Graham as among his former companions. This might have been a dangerous circumstance, had it not been for the good counsels of Arthur Haviland, who, whenever he could do so judiciously, entreated him not to assume on the popularity he was gaining.

“If you do, my dear Digby,” said Arthur, “I shall almost wish that such a fellow as you describe Scarborough to be was here to bully you a little every now and then. I am certain a long course of prosperity is injurious to every one, unless he is reminded on how slight a tenure he holds it, and learns both to appreciate and be grateful for it.”

Hard as this lesson was to learn, Digby acknowledged its importance, and did his best not to let pride get the better of him. Julian Langley, not intentionally, perhaps, was continually trying to counteract the good advice which Arthur gave him. Finding that he himself was sinking down in the estimation of his schoolfellows, he thought that he might help himself up again by clinging closer than he had for some time done to Digby. He had found that it did not answer to attempt to lead him directly to do what was wrong; so in order to regain his confidence, he set to work to flatter him in every way he could think of. He was continually saying, “My dear Digby, you know a popular fellow like you can do anything. I wonder you read so hard; you have talents enough to help you without that. Besides, what does an English country gentleman want with reading?”

Digby was not altogether insensible to flattery; and though he did not trust Julian, he did not exert himself to shake him off so completely as it would have been wise for him to have done.

Dr Graham was not influenced by any narrow-minded, foolish prejudices, and he took care that so strict a supervision should be exercised over the boys from one end of the twenty-four hours to the other, that no glaring malpractices could exist long undetected. Altogether, when the end of the half came, and Digby went home once more for his holidays, he gave so favourable a report of the school, that, supported in it as he was by Arthur Haviland, Mr and Mrs Heathcote resolved to send Gusty back with him. He had now, he felt, a very important responsibility thrown upon him, and he resolved to fulfil it to the utmost of his power.

Except for the sake of being with his parents and sisters, he could not help confessing that he liked school as much as home, and in high spirits, with little Gusty under his charge, he returned to Grangewood. They had not been there long before Julian Langley made a dead set at Gusty, as if he wished to establish himself as his protector and counsellor. At first Digby scarcely perceived this; then, when he at length saw Julian frequently doing something or other for Gusty, he thought it was very kind in him to take so much pains about the little fellow. It did not occur to him, indeed, that Julian was doing his brother any harm, till one day Gusty made use of some expressions and uttered some sentiments which he felt sure must have been learned from Julian. Happily, his eyes were at once opened, and he felt that, if he would save his brother from the contaminating influence of his own former companion, he must withdraw him at once from his society. He knew enough of human nature to be aware that if he at once denounced Julian as a dangerous character, Gusty would, as the moth is to the candle, very likely be attracted towards him, and he would probably have answered—“Why may I not talk to him? He is a friend of yours, I thought, and you don’t seem to fancy that he can do you harm.”

In his difficulty he went to Arthur Haviland, who undertook to speak to Gusty, and to warn him against Julian.

Arthur did so at once. He was one of those people who feel that if a thing is to be done, the sooner it is done the better.

Gusty cried at first, and seemed very unhappy, but at last acknowledged that Julian had invited him to join some expedition or other, but that he had not promised, because he thought that it was not quite right, but that he feared he should, notwithstanding this, have ultimately done so.

“I will not ask you what it is,” said Arthur; “but promise me that you will not be tempted to have anything to do with the matter.”

Gusty easily promised this, and Arthur was thankful that he had not delayed speaking.

Gusty slept in his brother’s room. Two nights after this, another boy in the same room was seen to leave it with his shoes in his hands. Digby was awake, but said nothing. He saw Gusty lift up his head. The other boy as he passed him whispered, “little Sneak,” and went on.

Gusty answered, “I am not; you had better stay.” But his advice was unheeded.

Digby could not conceive what was going to happen, but felt very glad that Gusty had refused to join the expedition, or meeting, or whatever it was which was taking place. He tried to keep awake to speak to Hanson, the boy who had gone out, to ascertain what he had been doing, and he was sorry that he had not attempted to stop him by dissuading him from doing what he had proposed. At last, however, he fell asleep, and as he did not awake till the bell rang, he had not time, after he was dressed, to speak to Hanson. The second bell rang, and the boys hurried into school.

After prayers Dr Graham stood up in his desk, looking very grave.

“I had wished,” he said, “to abolish flogging in the school; but while any of the boys are guilty not only of ungentlemanly but dishonest conduct, I must retain the custom, as I fear that it is the only punishment which they are likely to dread. I regret to say that seven boys, of different ages, were guilty, last night, of going out of the house, and of robbing the orchard of a neighbour. He saw them, counted their numbers, traced them back here. He believes that he will be able to identify some of them. Instead of severely punishing them on the spot, as they deserved, he came here this morning and told me of the circumstance, that I may deal with them as I judge right. Those who were engaged in this notable exploit come forward and let me know what you have to say for yourselves.”

The Doctor ceased. There was a pause, then a slight shuffling of feet, and six boys left their desks, and slowly, and with evident reluctance, walked up to the Doctor.

“I understood that there were seven. I hope the seventh will soon make his appearance.”

The seventh, however, did not come up. The Doctor then asked the six who pleaded guilty what induced them to commit the crime.

One said, because he liked apples; another replied, because he had been asked by others; but four of them confessed that they did it simply because they liked the excitement and danger of the exploit.

“I believe that you have all told me the truth,” answered the Doctor. “One I shall flog, to teach him that he must not allow his appetite to tempt him to commit a crime; the next, that he must not consent to do what is wrong because another asks him; and the other four, because they evidently require to have it impressed on their minds that taking that which does not belong to them is a crime both in the sight of God and man. After breakfast, you six come into my room. And now I wish the seventh culprit to come forward. I have given him time to consider what he will do.”

No one moved.

“Julian Langley, why do you not come forward?” said the Doctor, in a stern voice.

“Sir, I know nothing about it,” answered Julian, in a sharp, quick voice.

“Whose shoe is this?” asked the Doctor. “Come here, sir, and tell me.”

Julian was now compelled to come forward. He walked with an unabashed air up to the Doctor’s desk, casting a look either of triumph or scorn at the boys who had confessed their crime.

“If that is my shoe, somebody may have dropped it, wherever it was found,” he observed, coolly.

“Did anybody carry away this knife, with your name engraved on it?” asked the Doctor; “and how was it that you had only one shoe by your bedside this morning, the fellow of this one, covered with mud of the same colour?”

“Really, sir, those are difficult questions to answer just at present,” replied Julian; “all I can say is, that I cannot account for the circumstances you speak of.”

“I would fain not believe you guilty of a direct falsehood, and I must, therefore, conclude that the seventh thief who stole Mr Ladgrove’s apples is yet to be found,” said the Doctor, gravely. “But mark me, Julian Langley, I especially charge these six boys, if they have any respect for truth and honesty, and I also charge the rest of the school, not to speak to you, not to hold any communication with you, for at least a month to come, if they know you to be guilty of the crime which you now deny. I fix a month, because I hope during that time, if you are guilty, and are so punished, you will repent of the crime of stealing, as also of that of falsehood. Now, sir, go back to your seat.”

The six boys who were to be flogged sat by themselves, and did not approach, or even look at, Julian Langley. Digby greatly feared that Julian was guilty. He watched them anxiously. Hanson was one of them. How grateful he felt that Gusty was not, and he resolved to watch over him with greater care than he had before done.

After breakfast, the boys went to the Doctor’s room to be flogged. They came back into school looking very unhappy, as boys are apt to do who have been thus castigated. The play hours came round, not one of them went near Julian. He approached one of them after the other, but they all, even little Hanson, walked away from him. Others besides Digby were watching what would take place.

At length Arthur Haviland, Digby, Ranger, Newland and others called a council, and agreed to inquire into the matter. Although the guilty boys considered themselves in honour bound not to confess to any of the masters, yet when questioned directly by their own companions, they at once owned that Julian Langley had not only been with them, but was actually the very instigator of the expedition. The consequence was, that Julian was sent strictly to Coventry by the whole school.

During that whole month not a boy spoke to him. Every one knew him to be guilty. He tried to get them to speak to him, and constantly spoke to fellows, but no one would answer him. The Doctor considered that he was sufficiently punished, and those who had been flogged said that they would a hundred times rather be flogged and get it over, than undergo the punishment he had endured. He did not, however, appear to feel the disgrace, or the complete loss of his character. As soon as the month was over, he spoke to every one, and tried to enter into conversation with all who would talk to him. The Doctor, of course, knew all that had occurred, and though he hoped that Julian would have been sufficiently punished, he kept a very watchful eye over him.

At last the holidays again came round, and the Squire asked his boys if they would like to invite Julian Langley to spend some of the time with them.

“Oh, no, no,” answered Digby, “on no account. I am sure Kate does not like him; nor do I as I used to do, and he is not a good companion for Gusty.”

Digby was quite surprised how rapidly the holidays came round and round. Home was very pleasant, but so was school, and it was difficult to say at which the time passed the quickest. It had been intended that Digby should be sent to Eton, but Squire Heathcote was so pleased with Dr Graham’s system, and the progress his boys made in every way, that he resolved to let them remain on at Grangewood.

“People say that boys ought to be sent to public schools to get their pride knocked out of them, to be taught manners, and to make acquaintances who are likely to be useful to them in their future life,” observed the Squire. “Now, I may honestly boast that my boys have no pride to be knocked out of them, their manners are good, and I hope that they will make their own way without having to depend on others.”

So Digby and Gusty remained on at Grangewood, Dr Graham did his utmost to merit the confidence placed in him. He devoted all his time and thoughts not only to the mental instruction of his boys, but to making them religious, and happy, and healthy, and true gentlemen, in the fullest sense of the word. Julian Langley did not long remain at the school. After the occurrence before described he had lost all influence, as well as respect, in the school. Still he contrived to lead some of the other boys into mischief, and was, at length, guilty of acts which induced the Doctor finally to expel him. Digby continued steadily and honestly to do his duty. He became very popular with the masters as well as with his companions—even Mrs Pike acknowledged that she little thought when he first came that he would turn out so well. He was one of the chief leaders at all games and sports, and few surpassed him in any of their athletic exercises, at the same time that no one read harder, or made better progress than he did. At length he rose to be the head of the school; and then, after a year spent partly with Mr Nugent, and partly travelling with Arthur Haviland abroad, he went to Cambridge, where Arthur already was. Here, though one of the most active boating and cricketing men, he read steadily and perseveringly, and finally, very much to his own surprise, when he took his degree, came out as a wrangler, though not so high up in the list as his friend Arthur Haviland had been the year before. (Note: a wrangler is a person at Cambridge University who has passed their finals in Mathematics with First Class Honours.) During the long vacation, just before his last term, he was reading with Mr Nugent, when, one evening, a knock was heard at the door, and the maid-servant came in to say that a person wished to see the Rector. Mr Nugent went out, and there he saw a stout, but pale-faced, ragged, altogether disreputable-looking young man.

“What is it you want with me?” asked Mr Nugent, looking hard at him.

“What, don’t even you know me?” asked the stranger, in a hoarse tone.

Again the Rector scanned his features. “No, indeed I do not,” he answered. “I think that you must be labouring under some mistake or other.”

“Indeed I am not,” answered the stranger. “I know you, Mr Nugent, perfectly, and you once knew me. If I was to tell you my name you might be astonished, perhaps, for I was once a pupil of yours. My name is Julian Langley.”

“Julian Langley!” exclaimed Mr Nugent, starting up. “Are you brought to this miserable condition? But would not your father—would not your friends assist you?”

“My father has discarded me, and I have no friends—no one who cares for me,” answered Julian, bitterly. “I am suffering from hunger and thirst, and am but half clothed, as you see. I must die if I am not relieved. Will you help me?”

“I will. Come in; you shall have food at once,” answered Mr Nugent. “You will find an old friend here who will afford you, I know, his sincerest sympathy, my nephew, Digby Heathcote.”

“He will afford me his supercilious pity and contempt,” muttered Julian.

“No, no, no,” said Mr Nugent, kindly; “come in.”

“Beggars must not be choosers,” answered Julian, gruffly, following Mr Nugent into the study.

Digby, till Mr Nugent mentioned his name, did not recognise Julian. The moment he did, he sprang up, and putting out his hand pressed it warmly; but Julian, turning away his head, received the greeting with coldness and indifference.

“And how is it that you come to us in such a plight?” asked Mr Nugent, after supper had been placed on the table, and Julian had done ample justice to it. “I inquire, pray understand, not for simple curiosity, but that I may the better be able to help you.”

“Thank you,” answered Julian, filling a tumbler half full of brandy from a spirit-case which stood on the table, and tossing off the contents. “Oh, I have gone through all sorts of wonderful adventures. I have been out in Spain, fighting for the Constitutionalists against Don Carlos, but I got more kicks than half-pence there; and then I was shipwrecked; and, finally, I have been leading a somewhat vagabond life about England. I turned actor for a time, but the characters given me were not very exalted, and I quarrelled with the manager, who was a brute, and left the company. Not a very lucid account of myself; but, at all events, here I am without a farthing in my purse, or rather, without even a purse to put a farthing in if I had one.” And with a look of despair he turned his pockets inside out, and leant back in his chair.

Both Mr Nugent and Digby were silent. They felt sure that his own misconduct had brought him to his present condition, and yet they were unwilling to hint to him that such was the case. In the meantime he once more leaned forward, and again helped himself largely from the spirit-case. Mr Nugent and Digby looked at each other. They had no difficulty in guessing the cause of his present condition. Some conversation ensued with the unhappy young man, but they could scarcely hope that they were eliciting the truth from him. There was no bed for him in the house. He said that he infinitely preferred sleeping at the inn. Against his better judgment, perhaps, as he was leaving the house, Mr Nugent kindly put a five-pound note into his hand. The next day he did not appear, and Digby set off into the town to look for him. He was told that he was at the inn, in his room. He found him with a spirit bottle by his side, sitting on the floor, and perfectly unconscious. Digby, begging the people of the house, who were but too well accustomed to such events, to put him to bed, left the place, feeling that he could then do nothing for him. The next day, when Digby went back to the inn, the landlord said that he had left it altogether, because he had refused to supply him with more liquor. Digby, determining to make another attempt to rescue him from destruction, on inquiry, found that he had gone on to a neighbouring town. There he followed him, and there he found him in the same condition as before, having spent the whole of Mr Nugent’s liberal gift. Digby waited till he had recovered his senses, spoke to him earnestly and kindly, entreating him to abandon his evil courses. At last Julian said that he had one aunt who would, he knew, could he reach her house, try and reconcile him to his father, and that he had resolved firmly to reform. Digby instantly offered him ten pounds, urging him to set off without delay to his relative’s house.

Thus the former friends, who had started together in life with such equal advantages, parted.

Digby in vain waited to hear from Julian. He never reached his relative’s house. Nearly a year after that, Digby heard of his death in a hospital, of delirium tremens, a most horrible complaint, brought on by excessive drinking.

A couple of years after Arthur Haviland left College, the papers announced his marriage with Katharine, third daughter of Digby Heathcote, Esq, of Bloxholme, etc.

“I am truly thankful that my dear, dear little sister Kate has married so excellent a fellow,” wrote Digby to an old friend, when speaking of the event. “What a contrast to that wretched being, Julian Langley, whom my father and his had once intended for her. I have known Arthur for a number of years. He is, and he always was as a boy, a thoroughly high-principled, honourable fellow, a sincere, pious Christian, and as kind-hearted, sensible, and judicious as any person I have ever met. I am convinced of the truth of the saying that ‘the boy is the father of the man.’ I have had many proofs of it in my experience, and I should always strongly recommend my friends to reflect what their friends were as boys before they introduce them to their families, and especially to their sisters, whose jealous guardians they should ever endeavour to prove.”

No one laboured harder to prepare the triumphal arches to welcome Miss Kate, as he called her, on her first visit to Bloxholme after the event mentioned above, than did John Pratt, and curious were the presents he had prepared for her, most of which might have suited her early tastes, but certainly not her present ones. Among other things were two young kittens, a litter of ferrets, four pigeons, a flitch of bacon—this was given, as he said, in advance—a puppy, and a nest of young owlets. He continues as active as ever, and the constant attendant on Digby in all rural sports whenever the young heir pays a visit to his home.

Toby Tubb, though grown somewhat fatter, still follows his calling on the river; and Digby, whenever he goes to Osberton in the summer, seldom fails to take a pull or a sail in his boat.

Though the companions of his boyhood are scattered far and wide over the face of the globe, he keeps up a frequent correspondence with many of them, and he has the satisfaction of finding that his honest, courageous, straightforward character has secured that sincere friendship and respect which neither distance nor time lessens or alters.

May all the readers of Digby Heathcote’s early life endeavour to deserve and maintain the same character; and if his example induces any to imitate it who might otherwise have taken a different course, the author will be truly glad that he committed this history to paper.

The End.

William H G Kingston

"Ernest Bracebridge"

Chapter One.

The School, the Master, and his Boys.

It was a half-holiday. One of our fellows who had lately taken his degree and passed as Senior Wrangler had asked it for us. He had just come down for a few hours to see the Doctor and the old place. How we cheered him! How proudly the Doctor looked at him! What a great man we thought him! He was a great man! for he had won a great victory,—not only over his fellow-men, not only over his books, by compelling them to give up the knowledge they contained,—but over his love of pleasure; over a tendency to indolence; over his temper and passions; and now Henry Martin was able to commence the earnest struggle of life with the consciousness, which of itself gives strength, that he had obtained the most important of all victories—that over self.

There he stood, surrounded by some of the bigger boys who had been at school with him; a pleasant smile on his countenance as he looked about him on the old familiar scenes. Then he shook hands with the fellows standing near him, and we all cheered again louder than ever. He thanked us, and said that he hoped he should often meet many of us in the world, and that he should always look back with pleasure to the days he had spent in that place. At last he once more waved his hand and went back into the house.

The instant dinner was over, out we all rushed into the playground. Those were happy times when, directly after it, we could stand on our heads, play high-cock-o’lorum, or hang by our heels from the cross-bars of our gymnastic poles without the slightest inconvenience.

Our school was a good one; I ought to speak well of it. I have, indeed, a very small opinion of a boy who does not think highly and speak highly of his own school, and feel thoroughly identified with it, provided it is a good one. Our school, at all events, was first-rate, and so was our master. We were proud of him, and believed firmly that there were very few men in England, or in the world, for that matter, who were equal to him. He won the affections of all of us, and as it seemed, with wonderful ease. How he did it we did not trouble ourselves to consider. I have since, however, often thought over the subject, and have had no difficulty in guessing the cause of his influence. He was a ripe scholar, and thoroughly understood what he professed to teach: then he was always just, and although he was strict, and could be very severe on occasions, he was one of the kindest-hearted men I ever met. We all thought so; and boys are not bad judges of their elders. He was a tall, fine man, with a florid complexion. His eyes were large and clear, and full of intelligence and expression. And then his voice!—how rich and mellow it sounded when he exerted it. His smile, too, was particularly pleasing; and, old as he was, at least as we thought him, he entered heartily into many of our games and amusements; and it was a fine thing to see him stand up with a bat in his hand, and send the ball flying over the hedge into the other field. He had been a great cricketer at College, and had generally been one of the eleven when any University match was played, so we heard; and that made him encourage all sorts of sports and pastimes. He pulled a capital oar; and we heard that he had been very great at football, though he had long since given up playing: indeed, I doubt if there was any game which he had not played well, and could not still play better than most people, had he chosen. Such was Doctor Carr—the Doctor, as we called him—of Grafton Hall.

Grafton Hall was a fine old place, situated on a healthy spot, and surrounded by good-sized grounds: indeed, no place could be more admirably fitted for a first-rate gentleman’s school.

The house was a large Elizabethan building, with a number of good-sized airy rooms, and passages, and staircases. The hall served, for what it was originally intended, as a dining-hall.

The Doctor had built a wing, in which was situated our school-room, and a lofty, well-ventilated room it was. We had several lecture-rooms besides; and then the large old courtyard served as a capital playground in wet weather, as well as a racket-court; and in one corner of it we had our gymnasium, which was one of the many capital things belonging to the school.

A fine wide glade in the park, which had been thoroughly drained, served us as a magnificent cricket-ground; and there was, not far from it, a good-sized pond, through which ran a stream of clear water, where we bathed in the summer. It was kept clean and free from weeds, and even in the deepest parts we could, on a sunny day, see the bright pebbles shining at the bottom.

I need not now give a further description of the dear old place. We were most of us as fond of it as if it had been our father’s property. I do not mean to say that it was a perfect paradise. I do not fancy such a place exists in the world; and if it did, I must own that schoolboys are not, as a rule, much like angels. Still the Doctor did his best to make it a happy place, and an abode fit for boys of refined minds and gentlemanly habits and ideas. It was generally our own faults if anything went wrong.

When a new boy arrived, the Doctor took him into the school-room, and lecture-rooms, and dining-hall, and through the sleeping-rooms, and playground, and gardens; indeed, all round the place.

“Now, my lad,” he used to say, “you will remark that everything is well arranged, and clean, and neat. I trust to your honour to refrain from injuring anything in any way, and to do your best to keep the place in the good order in which you see it.”

On no occasion had he ever to speak again on the subject; for we all took a pride in the handsome, gentlemanly appearance of the house and grounds, and effectually prevented any mischievously inclined boy from injuring them. All the other arrangements of the establishment were equally good with those I have described.

The Doctor’s wife was a first-rate person; so kind, and gentle, and considerate. We were all very fond of her; and so we were of the good matron, Mrs Smith, who kept all the people under her in such excellent order.

The ushers, too, were all very good in their way, for the Doctor seldom made a mistake in selecting them. They were good scholars and gentlemen, and generally entered with zest into most of our sports and games. But it is time that I should return to that memorable half-holiday.

The Doctor had not long before erected a gymnasium, which was at this time all the rage among us. We never grew tired of practising on it. The moment we came out of the dining-hall the greater number of us assembled round it.

Some swarmed up the poles; others the ropes which hung from the bars above; several performed various exercises on the parallel bars; while four seized the ropes which hung from a long perpendicular pole, and were soon seen, with giant strides, rotating round it, till they scarcely touched the ground with their feet.

Numbers were likewise hanging on to the horizontal bar; sitting on it, swinging by it, circling it, kicking it, hanging to it by the legs or the feet, performing, indeed, more movements than I can well describe.

There were also several wooden horses, or rather logs of wood on legs, on which the boys were mounting and dismounting, vaulting on to them, leaping along them or over them, kneeling on them, jumping off them, and, indeed, going through a variety of movements which might give them confidence on horseback.

Several swings were in full action. Very few boys were sitting on them; most of them were standing upright; some were holding on with two hands, others only with one; some standing on one foot, and holding on by one rope; others leaning with perfect composure against one rope; but all were moving rapidly in one way or another; indeed, the effect to a person unaccustomed to the scene must have been very curious.

One of the most active fellows we had at that time was Richard Blackall. He was not quite the cock of the school, though, for his size, he was very strong; but at all gymnastic feats he beat nearly everybody. His chief rival was Miles Lemon, who could perform most of the exercises he could, and did some of them better. Lemon was not so strong as Blackall, but he had a more correct eye, and a calmer temper; both very important qualifications, especially in most athletic exercises. He was, in consequence, a better cricketer, and a still better fencer. Even at the broadsword exercise, although at first it might appear that Blackall was far superior to Miles, the latter had more than once given proof that it was hard work for any one to gain a victory over him.

Blackall’s great fault was a strong inclination to bully. He was a tyrant, and utterly indifferent to the feelings of others. If he wanted a thing done, he did not consider what trouble and annoyance it might give others, but, confiding in his strength, he made all the smaller boys do what he wanted. If they refused, he thrashed them till they promised to obey him. He was a great talker, and a never-ceasing boaster of what he had done, and of what he could do and would do. As he certainly could do many of the things he talked about, it was believed that he could do everything. Some believed in him, but others did not. Such a person was, however, sure to have a number of followers and ardent admirers, who quoted him on all occasions,—stuck by him through thick or thin, right or wrong, and looked upon him as one of the finest fellows in existence.

Among the most constant of his followers was Robert Dawson—Bobby Dawson he was always called. He was not a badly inclined little fellow, but he had no confidence in himself, and, consequently, wanted to lean on somebody else. Unfortunately he chose Blackall as his supporter.

Among the smaller boys who aspired to be considered something above the common was Tommy Bouldon. He was a determined, independent little fellow. He was very active, and could perform more feats of activity than any other boy of his size. He was a fair cricketer, and was sometimes chosen by some of the bigger fellows to play in their matches. This made Tommy rather cocky at times; but he was a good-natured chap, and managed to live on good terms with everybody.

Tommy, like Blackall, was rather apt to boast of what he had done, or he purposed doing; but in one respect he was different;—he never exaggerated in his descriptions of his past exploits, and seldom failed to perform whatever he undertook to do.

The boys I have described were among the many who were exercising away with all their might and main on the gymnastic poles.

Blackall was going up a ladder hand over hand, without using his feet, while Lemon was swarming up a pole. When they reached the top, giddy as was the height, they crossed each other and descended, one by the pole and the other by the rope, head foremost; then, without stopping, each climbed on some horizontal bars.

Lemon first hung by his hands to the bar he had seized, and then he drew himself up until his chest touched the bar; then, lowering himself, he passed one of his feet through his hands, and hitched his knee over the bar; then he swung backwards, and came up sitting on the bar with one leg; it was easy enough to draw the other leg after him. Throwing himself off, he caught the bar again by his hands, and curled his body over it.

“That’s all very fine,” exclaimed Blackall, who had been sitting on a bar observing him; “but, old fellow, can you do this?”

Blackall, as he spoke, threw himself off the bar, grasping it with both hands; then he passed the left knee through the right arm, so as to let the knee rest in the elbow; then he passed the right knee over the instep of the left foot, and letting go his left hand, he grasped his right foot with it. Thus he hung, suspended by his right hand, and coiled up like a ball. After hanging thus for a couple of minutes, he caught the bar by his other hand, and, uncoiling himself, brought his feet between his arms and allowed them to drop till they nearly touched the ground. Then he turned back the same way. Once more lifting himself up, he threw his legs over the bar, and dropping straight down, hung by his bent knees, with his head towards the ground. A little fellow passing at the moment, he called him, and lifted him off the ground; a feat which called forth the loud applause of all his admirers. This excited him to further efforts, and he was induced to continue still longer when he found that Lemon did not seem inclined to vie with him.

While the exercises I have described were going forward, the Doctor made his appearance at the door of the yard, accompanied by a boy who looked curiously round at what was taking place. After waiting a minute or so, the Doctor led him on through the grounds.

“I wonder who that chap is!” observed Tommy Bouldon. “He looks a regular-built sawney.”

“Oh, don’t you know? He’s the new fellow,” answered Bobby Dawson. “I heard something about him from Sandon, who lives in the same county, ten or a dozen miles from his father’s house. The families visit,—that is to say, the elders go and stay at each other’s houses,—but Sandon has never met this fellow himself, so he could only tell me what he had heard. One thing he knows for certain, that he has never been at school before, so he must be a regular muff, don’t you see. His father is a sort of philosopher—brings up his children unlike anybody else; makes them learn all about insects and flowers, and birds and beasts, and astronomy, and teaches them to do all sorts of things besides, but nothing that is of any use in the world that I know of. Now I’ll wager young Hopeful has never played football or cricket in his life, and couldn’t if he was to try. Those sort of fellows, in my opinion, are only fit to keep tame rabbits and silkworms.”

Master Bobby did not exactly define to what sort of character he alluded; and it is possible he might have been mistaken as to his opinion of the new boy.

“Well, I agree with you,” observed Tommy Bouldon, drawing himself up to his full height of three feet seven inches, and looking very consequential. “I hate those home-bred, missy, milk-and-water chaps. It is a pity they should ever come to school at all. They are more fit to be turned into nursery-maids, and to look after their little brothers and sisters.”

This sally of wit drew forth a shout of laughter from Bobby Dawson, who forthwith settled in his mind that he would precious soon take the shine out of the new boy.

“But, I say, what is the fellow’s name?” asked Tommy.

“Oh, didn’t I tell you?” answered Bobby. “It’s Bracebridge; his Christian name is—let me see, I heard it, I know it’s one of your fancy romantic mamma’s pet-boy names—just what young ladies put in little children’s story-books. Oh, I have it now—Ernest—Ernest Bracebridge.”

“I don’t see that that is so very much out of the way either,” observed Bouldon; “I’ve known two or three Ernests who were not bad sorts of fellows. There was Ernest Hyde, who was a capital cricketer, and Ernest Eastgate, who was one of the best runners I ever met; still from what you tell me, I fully expect that this Ernest Bracebridge will turn out no great shakes.”

While the lads were speaking, the subject of their remarks returned to the playground. An unprejudiced person would certainly not have designated him as a muff. He was an active, well-built boy, of between twelve and thirteen years old. He had light-brown hair, curling slightly, with a fair complexion and a good colour. His mouth showed a good deal of firmness, and he had clear honest eyes, with no little amount of humour in them. He was dressed in a dark-blue jacket, white trousers, and a cloth cap. Dawson and Bouldon eyed him narrowly. What they thought of him, after a nearer scrutiny, they did not say. He stood at a little distance from the gymnasium, watching with very evident interest the exercises of the boys. He had, it seemed, when he first came in with the Doctor, been attracted with what he had seen, and had come back again as soon as he was at liberty. He drew nearer and nearer as he gained more and more confidence, till he got close up to where Dawson and Bouldon were swinging lazily on some cross-bars. Blackall was at that moment playing off some of his most difficult feats, such as I have already described.

“I say, young fellow, can you do anything like that?” said Tommy, addressing Ernest, and pointing at Blackall. “Dawson here swears there isn’t another fellow in England who can come up to him.”

“I beg your pardon, did you speak to me?” asked Ernest, looking at Tommy as if he considered the question had not been put in the most civil way.

“Yes, of course, young one, I did. There’s no one behind you, is there?” answered Tommy. “What’s more, too, I expect an answer.”

“Perhaps I might, with a little practice,” answered the new boy carelessly. “I’m rather fond of athletic exercises.”

“I’ll be content to see you get up that pole, young ’un,” observed Tommy, putting his tongue in his cheek. “Take care you don’t burn your fingers as you come down.”

“I’ll try, if I may,” replied the new boy quietly.

He advanced towards the pole, but another boy got hold of it—rather a bungler he seemed; so Ernest left him to puff and blow by himself in his vain efforts at getting up, and went on to one of the swinging ropes. He seized it well above his head, and pressing his knees and feet against it, steadily drew himself up, to the surprise of Bouldon and Dawson and several other lookers-on, till he reached the lofty cross-bar. Was he coming down again? No. He sprang up and ran along the beam with fearless steps till he came to the part into which the top of the pole was fixed. Most of the boys thought that he would come down by the ladder; but, stooping down, he swung himself on to the pole and slid down head first to the ground. There he stood, looking as cool and unconcerned as if he had not moved from the spot. The feat he had performed, though not difficult, was one which neither Dawson nor Bouldon had yet attempted. It raised him wonderfully in the opinion of those young gentlemen.

“Very well, young one,” exclaimed Tommy in a patronising tone. “I did not think you’d have done it half as well. However, I suppose it’s the trick you have practised. You couldn’t do, now, what that big fellow there, Blackall, is about?”

“Oh, yes,” said Ernest quietly. “I can kick the bar, or swing on it, or circle it, or do the grasshopper, or hang by my legs, or make a true lover’s knot, or pass through my arms, or hang by my feet. You fancy that I am boasting, but the fact is this, my father won’t let us do anything imperfectly. If we do it at all, he says, we must do it well.”

“Oh, I dare say that’s all right, young one,” observed Tommy, turning away with Dawson. “I see how it is. He has been coached well up in gymnastics, but when he comes to play cricket or football it will be a very different affair. A fellow may learn one thing or so at home very well, but he soon breaks down when he comes to practice work.”

A few only of the boys had remarked Ernest’s performances. Most of them were too much engaged in their own exercises to think of him. He felt rather solitary when left to himself, and wished that Dawson and Bouldon would have stopped to talk to him, not that he particularly admired their manners. He was well prepared, however, to meet all sorts of characters. School and its inner life had been described to him by his father with faithful accuracy.

Although at the time few, if any, private schools were to be found superior to Grafton Hall, Ernest did not expect to find it as happy a place as his own home, much less a paradise. A number of little boys were playing a game of ring-taw in a corner of the yard. Ernest walked up to them. No one took any notice of him, but went on with their game. “Knuckle down,” was the cry. A sturdy little fellow, with a well-bronzed hand, was peppering away, knocking marble after marble out of the ring with his taw, and bid fair to win all that remained. Ernest had long ago given up marbles himself, but he did not pretend to forget how to play with them. He thought that if he offered to join them it might serve as an introduction.

“If you will let me, I shall like to play with you,” he said quietly, catching the eye of the sturdy player.

“With all my heart,” was the answer.

“Thank you. But I must buy a taw and some marbles,” said Ernest. “I did not think of bringing any.”

“Oh, I will lend you some,” answered the boy. “Here, this taw is a prime one; it will win you half the marbles in the ring if you play well.”

Ernest thanked his new friend, and took the taw and a dozen marbles with a smile. He was amused at finding himself about to play marbles with some boys most of whom were so much younger than himself. His new friend had cleared the ring, and a fresh game was about to begin. He put down eight of his marbles, and, as there were several players, a large number were collected. The first player had shot out four or five marbles, when his taw remaining in the ring, he had to put them all back and go out. Ernest was kneeling down to take his turn, when Blackall, tired of his gymnastic exercises, came sauntering by.

“What are you about there, you fellows? I’ll join you,” he exclaimed. “How many down? Eight. Oh, very well.”

Without more ado he was stooping down to shooting from the offing, when Ernest observed that he had taken his turn.

“Who are you, I should like to know, you little upstart?” cried Blackall, eyeing the new-comer with great disdain. “Get out of my way, or I will kick you over.”

“Indeed I shall not,” exclaimed Ernest, who had never been spoken to in that style before, but whose whole spirit rose instantly in rebellion against anything like tyranny or injustice. Without speaking further, he stooped down and shot his taw with considerable effect along the edges of the ring of marbles. It knocked out several, and stopped a little way outside.

“Didn’t you hear me?” exclaimed Blackall furiously. “Get out of my way, I say.”

Ernest did not move, but took his taw and again fired, with the same effect as before. Blackall’s fury was now at its highest pitch. He rushed at Ernest, and lifting him with his foot sent him spinning along the ground. Ernest was not hurt, so he got up and said, “I wonder you can treat a stranger so. However, the time will come when you will not dare to do it.”

“Shame! shame!” shouted several of the little fellows, snatching up their marbles and running away, for they were accustomed to be treated in that way by Blackall.

Ernest was left with his first acquaintance standing by his side, while the bully walked on, observing—

“Very well; you’ll catch it another time, let me promise you.”

“That’s right!” exclaimed Ernest’s companion. “I’m glad you treated him so. It’s the only way. If I was bigger I would, but he thrashes me so unmercifully whenever I stick up against him that I’ve got rather sick of opposing him.”

“Help me,” said Ernest, “and we’ll see what can be done.”

The other boy put out his hand, and pressing that of the new-comer, said, “I will.” The compact was then and there sealed, not to be broken; and the boys felt that they understood each other.

“What is your name?” said Ernest. “It is curious that I should not know it, and yet I feel as if I was a friend of yours.”

“My name is John Buttar,” answered the boy. “I have heard yours. You are to be in our room, for the matron told me a new boy was coming to-day, though I little thought what sort of a fellow he was to be. But come along, I’ll show you round the bounds. We may not go outside for the next three weeks, for some of the big fellows got into a row, and we have been kept in ever since.”

So Johnny Butter, as he was called, ran on. He let Ernest into the politics of the school, and gave him a great deal of valuable information.

Ernest listened attentively, and asked several questions on important points, all of which Buttar answered in a satisfactory way.

“This is a very jolly place altogether, you see,” he remarked; “what is wrong is generally owing to our own faults, or rather to that of the big fellows. For instance, the Doctor knows nothing of the bullying which goes forward; if he knew what sort of a fellow Blackall is he would very soon send him to the right-about, I suspect. We might tell of him, of course, but that would never do, so he goes on and gets worse and worse. The only way is to set up against him as you did to-day. If everybody did that we should soon put him down.”

Ernest was very much interested in all he saw. Notwithstanding the example he had just had, he thought that it might be a very good sort of place. Buttar introduced him to several boys, who, he said, were very nice fellows; so that before many hours had passed Ernest found himself with a considerable number of acquaintances, and even Dawson and Bouldon condescended to speak rationally to him.

A number of boys having collected, a game of Prisoners’ Base was proposed. Ernest did not know the rules of the game, but he quickly learnt them, and soon got as much excited as any one. His new friend John Buttar was captain on one side, while Tommy Bouldon was leader of the opposite party. Each chose ten followers. A hedge formed their base, two plots being marked out close to it, one of which was occupied by each party. Two circles were formed, about a hundred yards off, for prisons.

“Chevy, chevy, chevy!” shouted Buttar, rushing out.

Bouldon gave chase after him. They were looked upon as cocks of their set, and the chase was exciting. Bouldon was very nearly catching Buttar, when Ernest darted out to his rescue. Now, Tommy, you must put your best leg foremost or you will be caught to a certainty. What twisting and turning, what dodging there was. Now Bouldon had almost caught up Buttar, but the latter, stooping down, was off again under his very hands, and turning suddenly, was off once more behind his back.

“’Ware the new boy; ’ware young Bracebridge,” was the shout from Bouldon’s side.

Tommy was in hot chase after Buttar, and there seemed every probability of his catching him. On hearing the cry, he looked over his shoulder and saw Ernest close to him. He had now to think of his own safety. From what he had observed of the new boy, he saw, that though he was a new boy, and had never been at school before, he was not to be despised. He had therefore to imitate Buttar’s tactics, and to dodge away from his pursuer.

Ernest had evidently been accustomed chiefly to run straight forward; he was very fleet of foot, but had not practised the art of twisting and turning. Another boy of Bouldon’s side now ran out in pursuit of Ernest, who, having executed his purpose of rescuing Buttar, returned in triumph to his base, while one of his side ran out, and, touching the boy who had gone out against him, carried him off to the prison.

Several others were taken; Bouldon at length was caught, so was Buttar, but he was quickly rescued by Ernest, whose side was at length victorious, having committed every one of the others to prison.

Ernest, who had contributed very largely to this success, pronounced it a capital game. He gained also a good deal of credit by the way he had played it, especially when it was known that it was for the first time, and that he had never been at school before. The way in which his companions treated him put him in very good spirits, and he became sufficiently satisfied with himself and with everything around him. He felt that he could do a number of things, but he was diffident from not knowing of what value they might be considered by other boys. He had heard that some savages despised the purest pearls, while they set a high value on bits of glittering glass, and so he thought that some of his accomplishments might be very little thought of by other boys. However, by the time the tea-bell rang, he had fully established himself in the good opinions of most of the younger boys; even two or three of the elder ones pronounced him to be a plucky little chap.

The evening was spent in a fine large hall which had been fitted up for playing. Before each breaking-up a platform was raised at one end, and speeches were delivered from it, and more than once it had been fitted up as a theatre, and the boys had got up, with some effect, some well-selected plays. There were some tables and desks at one end, and rows of shelves on which were placed boxes and baskets, and cages with birds and tame mice, and indeed all sorts of small pets. A few of the quieter boys went in that direction, but the greater number began to play a variety of noisy games.

“I say, who’s for a game of high-cock-o’lorum?” exclaimed Bouldon.

“I, I, I,” answered several voices.

“Come along, Bracebridge, try your hand at it.”

Ernest declined at first, for he did not much admire having a number of fellows jumping over his head and sitting on his shoulders, but Tommy pressed him so hard that at last he consented to try. His side was to leap.

“Go on, go on!” shouted Buttar.

Ernest had for some time practised vaulting; he ran, measuring his distance, and sprang over the heads of all the boys right up to the wall.

“Bravo!” cried Buttar, delighted, “you’ll do, I see; there’s no fear of you now.”

Ernest felt much pleased by the praise bestowed on him by his new friend, and turning round he waved to the other boys to come on. The last boy failed, and his side had to go under. He proved as staunch, however, with two heavy boys on his shoulders, as any of the most practised players, and his side were much oftener riders than horses.

“I say, though, you don’t mean to say, Bracebridge, that you have never been to school before?” said Buttar, as they were summoned away to their bedrooms. “I should have thought, from the way you do things, that you were an old boy.”

Ernest assured him that he had never been in any school whatever, and that he had associated very little with any boys, except his own brothers.

“I’ll tell you how it is,” he continued; “my father says we should do everything on principle. He has made us practise all sorts of athletic exercises, and shown us how we can make the best use of our muscles and bones. The balls of the foot and toes are given us, for instance, as pads from which we may spring, and on which we may alight, but clumsy fellows will attempt to leap from their heels or jump down on them; however, I’ll tell you what I know about the matter another time. He has us taught to row and swim, and climb and ride. He says that they are essential accomplishments for people who have to knock about the world, as all of us will have to do. He has always told us that we must labour before we can be fed; it is the lot of humanity. If we by any chance neglected to do what he ordered, we had to go without our dinner or breakfast, as the case might be; so you see we have learned to depend a good deal upon ourselves, and to feel that if we do not try our best to get on, no one else will help us.”

“Oh, yes! I understand now why you are so different to most new boys,” answered Buttar. “Well, your father is a sensible man, there’s no doubt of it. I got on pretty well when I first came, much from the same reason. My mother never let us have our own way, always gave us plenty to do, and taught us to take care of ourselves without our nurses continually running after us. Now I have seen big fellows come here, who cried if they were hit, were always eating cakes and sweet things, and sung out when they went to bed for the maid-servant to put on their night-caps; these sort of fellows are seldom worth much, either in school or out of it. They fudge their lessons and shirk their work at play; regular do-nothing Molly Milksops, I call them.”

And the two boys laughed heartily at the picture Buttar had so well drawn.

Off each room was a washing-place, well supplied with running water, and a bath for those boys who could not bathe in the pond. Ernest’s bed was pointed out to him. Approaching it, he knelt down, and while most of the boys were washing, said his prayers. Only one boy in a shrill voice cried out in the middle of them, Amen. When Ernest rose up he looked round to try and discover who had used the expression. All were silent, and pretended to be busily employed in getting into bed; two or three were chuckling as if something witty had been said.

“I will not ask who said, Amen,” remarked Ernest in a serious voice. “But remember, school-fellows, you are mocking, not a poor worm like me, but God Almighty, our Maker.” Saying this, he placed his head on his pillow.

“A very odd fellow,” observed two or three of the boys; “I wonder how he will turn out.”

Chapter Two.

Ernest’s First Days at School.

The next morning, when he got up, Ernest was told, after prayers, to take his seat on a vacant bench at the bottom of the school, till the Doctor had time to examine him. He felt rather nervous about his examination, for he had been led to suppose it a very awful affair. At last the Doctor called him up and asked him what books he had read. Ernest ran through a long list; Sir Walter Scott’s novels, and Locke on the Human Understanding, were among them. The Doctor smiled as he enumerated them.

“I fear that they will not stand you in good stead here, my man; the books I mean are Greek and Latin books. What have you read of them?”

“None, sir, right through. I know a great number of words, and can put them together, and papa and I sometimes talk Latin and Greek together, just as easily as we do French and German and Italian.”

“I have no doubt that you will do in the end,” observed Doctor Carr. “I make a rule, however, to put boys who have not read certain books in the class in which those books are about to be read, and let them work their way up. I reserve the power of removing a boy up as rapidly as I think fit, so that if you are diligent I have no doubt that you will rapidly rise in the school.”

Ernest thanked the Doctor, and in the forenoon went up with his new class. He felt rather ashamed at finding himself among so many little boys, and still more at the bungling, hesitating way in which they said their lessons. They were just beginning Caesar. He found that he could quickly turn it into English, but he took his dictionary that he might ascertain the exact meaning of each word. The Doctor called up his class that day, though he generally heard only the upper classes. Ernest began at the bottom, but before the lesson was over he had won his way to the top of the class.

“Very good indeed, Bracebridge,” said the Doctor with an approving smile; “you may read as much Caesar as you like every day. I will beg Mr Johnson to hear you, and when you have got through it you shall be moved into the next class.”

Many of the boys thought this a very odd sort of reward, and were much surprised to hear Ernest thank the Doctor for his kindness. They would have considered it a greater reward to be excused altogether from their lessons. Much more surprised were they to find Ernest working away day after day at his Caesar, and translating as much as Mr Johnson had time to listen to. He read on so clearly and fluently that most of the boys declared that he must have known all about it before. A few felt jealous of him, and tried to interrupt him; but he went steadily working on, pretending to take no notice of these petty annoyances launched at him. In the course of a fortnight he was out of the class and placed in the next above it. This he got through in less than a month, and now he found himself in the same with Buttar, Dawson, and Bouldon. They welcomed him very cordially, though they could not exactly understand how he managed so quickly to get among them. The two latter, however, were especially indignant when they discovered his style of doing his work.

“It’s against all school morality,” exclaimed Tommy, with a burst of virtuous anger. “How should we be ever able to get through half our lessons if we were to follow your plan? You must give it up, old fellow; it won’t do.”

“I am sorry that I cannot, to please you,” answered Ernest. “You see, I want to read through all these books, that I may get to higher ones which are more interesting; and then I want to get to College as soon as possible, that I may begin life. Our days in this world are too short to allow us to waste them. If I get through school twice as fast as any of you, I shall have gained so many years to my life. That is worth working for—is it not?”

“My notion is, that we should do as few lessons and amuse ourselves as much as we can,” answered Tom Bouldon. “When we are grown up there will be time enough to think of employing time; I do not see any use in looking forward to the future, which is so far off.”

“What are we sent into this world for, do you think?” asked Ernest.

“I’m sure I don’t know,” answered Bouldon.

“To spend the money which is left us, or to go into professions to make our fortunes,” observed Dawson.

“I should think rather to prepare for the future,” remarked Ernest. “So my father has always told me, and I am very sure that he is right. We are just sent into this world to prepare for another, and that preparation is to be made by doing our duty to the best of our power in that station of life in which we are placed. It is our duty when we are boys to prepare for being men, by training our minds and bodies, and by laying in as large a share of knowledge as we can obtain.”

“Oh, that’s what the saints say!” exclaimed Dawson, with a laugh. “We shall very soon christen you the saint, Bracebridge, if you talk in that way.”

“I don’t mind what you may call me,” said Ernest, quietly; “I only repeat what a sensible man has told me; I am very certain that he has only said what he knows to be the truth.”

Neither Dawson nor Bouldon would be convinced that Ernest was talking sense, but Buttar, who was listening, drank in every word he said. He had at first felt an inclination to patronise the new boy, but he now tacitly acknowledged him as his superior in most respects, except perhaps a small amount of the details of school knowledge.

Ernest, however, had been too carefully trained by his father to presume on this superiority. He, of course, could not help feeling that he did many things better than most of his companions, but then he was perfectly conscious that if they had possessed the advantages his father had given him, they would probably have done as well.

With the ushers he was a favourite, especially with his own master, who was under the impression that the rapid progress he made was owing to his instruction; while Doctor Carr soon perceived that he was likely to prove a credit to the school. Ernest, however, was not perfect, and he had trials which were probably in the end good for him. Some of the elder boys were jealous of the progress he made, and called him a conceited little puppy. Blackall, who was only in the third class, and had from the first taken a dislike to him, did not like to see him catching him up, as he called it. With mere brute force Ernest could not contend, so that he got many a cuff and kick from the ill-disposed among the elder boys, which he was obliged to take quietly, though he might have felt the inclination to resent the treatment he received.

At length he began to prefer the hours spent in school, because he was there certain of being free from the annoyances in the playground. The bigger boys did not condescend to play with hoops, but Ernest was very fond of all games played with them. Buttar and he were generally on one side, opposed to Dawson and Bouldon.

“Who’s for prisoners’ base?” exclaimed Buttar coming out from school into the playground with his hoop in his hand.

Plenty of boys were ready to join, and soon there was a tremendous clattering away with hoop-sticks and hoops, while Ernest was seen with a light thin hoop, dodging in noiselessly among them. His hoop-stick was as light as his hoop, which he never beat. He merely pressed the stick against it, and in an instant, by placing the stick on the top, could either stop or turn, while he kept it under the most perfect command. The sides were soon arranged. Out he darted with his swift hoop towards the enemy’s prison, which he circled round; and though Tom Bouldon was on the watch to catch him, he kept dodging about till another of his own side ran out, in the hope of knocking down Bouldon’s hoop. Bouldon was in honour bound to follow Ernest till he touched his hoop, or drove him back to his base. Ernest drove on his hoop to a considerable distance, with Tommy after him. Jones, one of Ernest’s side, pursued Tommy, Dawson pursued Jones, and Dawson, in his turn, was followed by Buttar, and so on, till every one playing was out with the double work of having to try and make a prisoner, and, at the same time, to escape from the boy pursuing him. To a spectator not knowing the game, it might have appeared as if all was confusion: but those playing knew exactly what they were about, and felt that all their energies and science were required to enable them to play well. Ernest’s great aim was to lead Bouldon into such a position that Jones might catch him. This he at last succeeded in doing, and Tommy and his hoop were sent into prison, and as no one was at the base, there he had every chance of remaining some time. Meantime, Ernest rushed to the base, to be ready to capture any one who might get back on the opposite side and endeavour to rescue Bouldon. He was joined speedily by Jones, who had only to look out so as to escape from Dawson. Dawson might have caught him, but, being himself pursued, he had to take care of his own safety. When Dawson saw that Jones had escaped him, he could with honour return to his camp; but his pursuer was nimble of foot, and had a light hoop, and just before he reached his base, he, or rather his hoop, was touched, and he had to take up his place in the prison. Thus the game continued with great animation, victory appearing now to lean to one side, now to the other; but on each occasion when their side got the worst of it, Ernest and Buttar made such well-directed efforts that they speedily restored the day. Now, all but three on their side were captured. Out sprung Ernest with his hoop, flying like the wind; and while his opponents were looking on at the rapidity of his movements, Buttar, who had thrown himself on the ground, as if exhausted, leaped up, and dashing along, had recovered a prisoner before any one could overtake him. Ernest in like manner regained another, and wheeling round as soon as he had entered the base, he was off again, and had sent an opponent to prison, and rescued another friend, without for a moment stopping. Sometimes he would tell Buttar exactly what he was going to do, and so well were his plans laid, that he seldom failed to accomplish his design. This gave him confidence in himself, and gained him the perfect confidence of his companions. At length Ernest and Buttar succeeded in putting every one of their opponents in prison, and loud shouts from their side proclaimed that they had won the well-contested victory. The game was over; the light hoops were laid aside, and Dawson proposed that they should play at English and French. Their chargers, as they called their heavy hoops, were brought out from the play-room, and the two parties, joined by a good many more, drew up on opposite sides of the field. Even some of the bigger fellows condescended to join in the game. It was generally supposed to depend more on strength than skill. The strongest hoops were used, and if a hoop was once down, the owner was obliged to retire from the field. Just as they were about to begin, Blackall passed by. Dawson instantly called to him—

“I say, Blackall—there’s a good fellow—do come and be our captain. Here’s my biggest hoop—it’s a stunner! Under your guidance it is sure to gain us the victory.”

“Well, I don’t mind helping you,” answered Blackall, carelessly, eyeing, however, Ernest and Buttar, for both of whom he had an especial dislike.

“That won’t do,” observed Buttar, who was one of the captains of his party. “Stay, I’ll get Lemon to join us. He won’t mind taking a hoop-stick to help us; and he, and you, and I, together with a few other good fellows and true, will be able to hold our own against Dawson and Tommy, even though they have Bully Blackall with them.”

Buttar soon found Miles Lemon, who, though he was reading an interesting book, jumped up with the most good-natured alacrity, and undertook to act as the leader of their party.

“Oh, you fellows were afraid to take care of yourselves!” exclaimed Blackall, when he saw Lemon and Buttar approaching. “Well, we will see what we can do.”

There were full thirty boys on each side—nearly half the school. None of the bigger boys, of course, condescended to play with hoops. Blackall and Lemon, indeed, made it understood that they only joined as leaders, and on no account for their own amusement, while there were a good many small boys who were considered too weak to take part in so rough a sport. The armies were drawn up in double line, one at each end of the gravel playground. At a signal given, they rushed forward to the deadly strife, some striking away at their heavy hoops with all their might, and using clubs rather than hoop-sticks. Ernest offered a great contrast to those heavy chargers. He entered the battle with his light hoop and hoop-stick, and when the signal was given, rushed forward in the van to commence the strife. On came Blackall, highly indignant to see a new boy taking the lead in so prominent a way. He struck his hoop with a force sufficient to overthrow not only Ernest’s hoop, but Ernest himself; but the young champion knew well what he was about. Instead of waiting for the blow, by a dexterous turn he brought the edge of his light hoop against the side of Blackall’s, which went reeling away among the following crowd, and was instantly upset. Ernest was in time to treat another hoop of the second line in the same fashion, and then he sprang on with a shout of victory to the end of the ground. Several times the two parties changed sides, and each time five or six hoops went down, sometimes more. It was a regular tournament, such as was fought by the knights of old, only hoops were used instead of horses, and hoop-sticks in lieu of lances; but the spirit which animated the breasts of the combatants was the same, and probably it was enjoyed as keenly. Blackall stood on one side, eyeing with revengeful feelings the success which attended Ernest wherever he moved. Backwards and forwards he went; and although constantly charged and marked out for destruction by the biggest fellows on the opposite side, always avoiding them, and seldom failing to strike down one or more hoops in every course. Blackall could not understand how it was. He was not aware what a well-practised eye, good nerves, and a firm will could accomplish. Ernest’s father had instilled into him the principle, that whatever is worth doing at all, is worth doing as well as it can be done. So, when he took a hoop in his hand, he considered how he could use it to the best advantage; and from the first, he never played with it without endeavouring to perfect himself in some method of turning it here or there, of stopping it suddenly, or of twirling it round.

A second time that day did Ernest’s party come off victorious. Some said that it was owing to Lemon having joined them: but Lemon himself confessed that he had not done half as much execution as had young Bracebridge. From that day Lemon noticed Ernest in a very marked way, and when he spoke to him treated him as an equal in age. Some of his first companions declared that, to a certainty, Bracebridge would be very much cocked up by the attention shown him; but they were mistaken, for he pursued the even tenor of his way without showing that he by any means thought himself superior to his companions.

The Easter holidays arrived. Those who lived near enough to the school went home; but as the boys were generally collected from widely separated parts of England, Scotland, and Ireland, the greater number remained. They had greater liberty than at any other time, and were allowed to make long excursions with one of the masters, or with some of the bigger boys who, from their good principles and steadiness, were considered fit to be entrusted with them. Lemon was high enough in the school to have that honour, and so Ernest and Buttar always endeavoured to belong to his party. Lemon was very glad to have them, as he found them more companionable than many of the bigger fellows, and he had no difficulty in keeping them in order. Tom Bouldon was also frequently of their party. He had tried others, but after some experience he found their society by far the most satisfactory. Blackall, although a bully, stood pretty well with the masters. He had cleverness sufficient to get through his lessons with credit, and he had sense enough to keep himself out of mischief generally. Doctor Carr now and then had uncomfortable feelings about him. He was not altogether satisfied with his plausible answers; nor did he like the expression of his countenance, that almost sure indicator of the mind within. Still the Doctor hoped that he might be mistaken, and did not forbid Blackall, who was appointed to the office by one of the masters, to take out a party of youngsters. Far better would it have been for the boys had they been kept shut up within the walls of the school-room on the finest days of the year than have been allowed to go out with such an associate. Blackall wanted to be considered a man, and he thought the sure way to become so was to imitate the vices and bad habits of men. Too well do I remember the poison he poured into the ears of his attentive and astonished hearers. About five miles off there was a village with a few small shops in it. One of them contained books and stationery, and cigars and snuff. It was much patronised by Blackall, not for the former, but for the latter articles. He thought it very manly not only to have his cigar-case, but his snuff-box. Lemon never failed to ridicule him to the other boys for his affectation of manliness. He did this to prevent them from following so pernicious an example.

“See that fellow, now, making a chimney of his mouth and a dust-hole of his nose,” observed Lemon, when one day he and his party passed him, with several of his companions, lying on the grass on a hill side, three or four miles from the school. Blackall had a huge cigar in his mouth, and a small boy sat near him, looking pale as death, and evidently suffering dreadfully.

“What’s the matter, Eden?” asked Lemon, kindly, as he passed him.

“Oh—oh! it’s that horrid tobacco! I thought I should like it; but I’m going to die—I know that I am. Oh dear! oh dear!” answered the little fellow.

“I hope that you are not going to die,” said Lemon; “but you will not get well sitting there in the hot sun. Jump up, and come with us. Bracebridge and Buttar and I will help you along. There’s a stream of clear cold water near here; a draught of that will do you much good. Think how pleasant it will be trickling down your throat, and putting out the fire which I know you feel burning within you.”

The picture that Lemon thus wisely drew was so attractive, that the little fellow got slowly up, and tried to walk along with him.

“Where are you going to take Eden to?” shouted Blackall, when he saw what was occurring.

“Out of mischief,” answered Lemon. “We are going to the seaside, and— some fresh air will do him good.”

“He is under my charge, and you have no business to take him away from me,” said Blackall.

Lemon had become much interested in poor little Eden, who was a promising boy, and who he saw would be ruined if left much in Blackall’s society. He therefore, like a true-hearted, conscientious person, resolved by all means to save him. He did not say, like some people, after a few slight efforts, “I have done my duty. I warned him of the consequences, and I am not called on to do any more.” When he wanted to draw a boy out of danger, he made him his friend; he worked and worked away; he talked to him; he showed him the inevitable result of his folly; he used arguments of all sorts; he worked on all the better feelings the boy might possess; and what was of still more avail, he did not trust to his own strength for success—he prayed earnestly at the Throne of Grace—at that Throne where such prayers are always gladly heard—that his efforts might avail: and others wondered, more than Lemon himself, how it was when Lemon took a fellow in hand that he always turned out so well. For this important object he struggled hard to obtain popularity in the school, and succeeded; for no boy of his age and size was so popular among all the right-thinking and well-disposed boys as he was. On this occasion he resolved not to leave Eden in Blackall’s power.

“If he wishes to come, I shall certainly allow him,” said Lemon.

“He was committed to my charge by Mr Ogilby, and you have no business to take him away,” cried Blackall, still leaning lazily on his arm, and continuing to smoke.

“To make him sick and wretched; to teach him to smoke and to drink beer and spirits, and to listen to your foul conversation—you reprobate!” answered Lemon calmly, as he stopped and faced Blackall.

“By God! I’ll thrash you for that as soundly as you ever were in your life,” exclaimed Blackall, taking his cigar out of his mouth, and rising to his feet.

Earnest’s heart rose to his mouth; Buttar clenched his fists tightly. Putting Eden behind them, they sprang to Lemon’s side, and looked defiantly at the approaching bully. None of the other boys of either party stirred. Blackall did not like the aspect of affairs. He knew that though, from his greater strength and weight, he could thrash Lemon, he could not hope at any time to gain an easy victory; and from what he had observed of Ernest, he suspected that if he did strike, he would strike very hard and sharp. Buttar also, when once he was attempting to thrash him, had given him such a hit in the eye that the mark had remained for a fortnight at least, to the no small satisfaction of those whom he had been accustomed to bully. He therefore stopped just before he got up to Lemon.

“Come,” he said, “I don’t want to quarrel. Let Eden remain, and I’ll cry pax.”

“Certainly not, Blackall, you’ve let Eden do what is forbidden; you are setting him a bad example. I shall therefore be glad to take him away from you. He wishes to accompany me, and I shall let him do so,” was the answer.

“Oh, you’re a puritanical saint, Lemon,—all the school knows that,” said Blackall with a sneer with which he hoped to cover his own retreat. He had been telling the fellows around him that he felt very seedy, and as he looked at the firm front of his three antagonists he had no fancy to commence a desperate fight with them.

“I wish to deserve the good opinion of my schoolfellows, and I do not believe that they will agree with you,” said Lemon. “If hating vice and despising the low practices in which you indulge will make me a saint, I am ready to acknowledge the impeachment, and I can only say that I hope the poor little fellows may see the hideousness of sin, and loathe it as much as they do the vile tobacco-leaves you give them to suck, and the spirits and beer which you teach them to drink. Stop! hear me out. There is nothing immoral in drinking a glass of beer or in smoking, but in our case they are both forbidden by the Doctor, whom we are bound to obey. Both become vices when carried to excess, as you, Blackall, carry them, and would teach your pitiable imitators to carry them; and I warn you and them that such practices can only bring you disgrace and misery at last.”

Lemon, without saying another word, turned on his heel, and, accompanied by his two sturdy supporters, was walking away.

“Do you mean to say that I drink?” shouted Blackall, with an oath, as soon as he could recover from the astonishment into which this unusual style of address had thrown him.

Lemon turned round, looked him full in the face, and said, “I do.” Then he went on the way he had been going. Blackall did not say another word, but staggered back to the bank on which he had been sitting, and endeavoured to re-light the end of the cigar he had dropped when he got up. He knew that Lemon had spoken the truth. Already he had that day stopped at more than one road-side ale-house and drunk several glasses of beer. “In vino-veritas,” is a true saying. Blackall when sober might pass for a very brave fellow: his true character came out when he was drunk, and he showed himself an arrant coward, as he had done on this occasion. The boys who remained with him looked very foolish, and some of them felt heartily ashamed of their leader. Some resolved to break from him altogether, but he had thrown his chains too firmly over others to allow them to hope or even to wish to get free from him. Lemon, Ernest, Buttar, and their companions continued their walk, carrying poor little Eden along with them. He confessed to having chewed a piece of the cigar and swallowed it, before he discovered that it was not intended to be eaten. Happily for him, he became violently sick, and then, having washed his face in a brook and taken a draught of cold water, he was able to enjoy the beautiful coast scenery the party ultimately reached.

“Is not this much better than sitting smoking and boozing with that thick-headed fellow, Blackall, and his set?” said Ernest, addressing young Eden.

“Indeed it is,” was the answer. “I’m sure if Lemon will let me come with him, I will gladly promise never to go out with Blackall any more.”

“Stick to that resolution, my boy,” replied Ernest. “I’ll undertake that Lemon will let you accompany him; and now let us go down on the beach. These sands look very tempting.”

The whole party were soon on the sands, strolling along and picking up the various marine curiosities they found in their way. Most of the party wondered at the odd-shaped things they picked up, but had not the slightest notion of their names, or even whether they were animal or vegetable. Ernest knew very little on the subject, though he had read a book or so about the wonders of the sea-shore; but Lemon was able to give his party nearly all the information they required. One of their number was called John Gregson. He was looked upon by the school generally as rather stupid. He seldom joined in any of their games; and when he did, played them very badly, unless they were such as required more judgment than practice. Now, however, he showed that he possessed some knowledge which the others did not. Ernest had picked up a roundish object with a hole through it, and partly covered with spines, which Tom Bouldon stoutly declared to be a fish’s egg.

“It must have been a very large fish, then,” observed Ernest. “Those prickles, too, are puzzling. Perhaps they grew after the egg was laid.”

The general opinion was that Gregson knew something about all sorts of out-of-the-way matters.

“I say, Gregson, this is a regular-built egg; isn’t it?” said Bouldon, as soon as he could be found. He was discovered up to his knees in a pool among the rocks, with a hammer and chisel in hand, working perseveringly under water.

“No; you first make a statement totally at variance with the truth, and then ask a question,” answered the young naturalist, looking up from his occupation, but apparently not well pleased at being interrupted. “That is the Echinus esculentus, or sea-urchin. Just let me finish knocking off this magnificent anemone, and I’ll tell you all about it.”

“Anemone! Oh, I know—one of those curious coloured sea-weedy things I’ve seen girls collect at watering-places,” observed Bouldon, whose knowledge of natural history was not very extensive. “I’d save you all that trouble; let me cut it off with my knife.”

“Not for the world; you’d kill it, to a certainty,” exclaimed Gregson. “See, I have knocked off a piece of the rock to which it is sticking, and I may now put it into my jar. Now I could cut off any portion of it, and the part cut off will turn into a new anemone, but if I were to injure the base the animal would quickly die. They belong to the class scientifically called Anthozoa or living flowers, because from their external appearance they seem to partake of the vegetable nature. Just look into that part of the pool which I have left undisturbed. See, there are two of them feeding. Look how they stretch out their long tentacles to catch hold of their food. Ah! that one has got hold of a tiny shrimp, and is tucking it into his hungry maw, which is just in the middle of its flower-like body. Is he not a handsome fellow? What beautiful colours he presents! Ah! I thought that I should see something else in the pool that you would think curious. Look down close. There are three or more little globular bodies floating about like balloons. The animal is the berve. It has ciliated bands round it, like the marks on a melon. What a beautiful iridescent light plays over them! They enable it to move over the water, while with its long tentacles it fishes for its food. At night those cilia shine with a phosphorescent light, and have a very beautiful appearance. Stop! oh, don’t go away without looking more particularly at this submarine forest. The woods of America in autumn do not present more gorgeous colours. That beautiful pink weed is the Delesseria sanguinea. Let us pull up some and take it with us to dry it. It will keep its colour for years and its smell for months. See, those are shrimps cruising in and about those delicate branches, and crabs crawling round their stems, and sandskippers darting about; ah, and there comes a goby! Did any of you ever see a goby? Look at him!—what bright eyes he has got! He is hardly bigger than a shrimp, but he is their deadly enemy. He eats up their eggs and the young shrimps, as well as sandhoppers, and indeed anything living which he can get into his big mouth. In his way he is just as terrific a fellow as the shark. He is very hardy, too, and will live in an aquarium with perfect contentment provided he can get enough to eat.”

“Well, I had no notion that so many curious things were to be found in a little pool of water,” observed Bouldon. “I’ve looked into hundreds, but never found anything that I know of.”

“Oh, I have not mentioned a quarter of the things to be found even in this pool,” answered Gregson. “Ah, look at that soldier-crab now! He has just come out from among the sea-weed with his stolen shell in which he has stowed away his soft tail. I’ll tell you all about him—”

“Not now, Greggy, thank you,” exclaimed Bouldon, who was getting somewhat tired of the naturalist’s accounts. When Gregson once began on his favourite subject he was never inclined to stop. Nor was that surprising, for no subject is more interesting and absorbing to those who once take it up—nothing affords more pure or unmixed delight.

“But I say, Greggy, you promised to tell us about this sea-egg, or whatever it is called,” said Buttar. “Come, I want to hear.”

“Well, look at this starfish,” answered Gregson, drawing a five-fingered jack from his jar. Then, taking the echinus in his hand,—“These two fellows are first cousins, very nearly related, though you may not be inclined to believe the fact. The thing you call an egg was as much a living being, capable of feeding itself and producing young, as this starfish. If I was to bend round the rays of the starfish and fill up the interior, I could produce an animal very like the echinus. Both of them have also a mouth at the lower part, and their internal structure is very similar. It is curious that as the echinus grows he continually sends forth a substance from the interior which simultaneously increases the sides of all the plates which form his shell, and thus he never finds his coat too small for him. The spines which appear so rigid when he is dead, he can move when alive in any direction, and they are an excellent substitute for feet; while he can put forth tentacles from the centre orifice, which serve him as hands. Did you ever see a starfish walk? Well, he can get very rapidly over the ground and up steep rocks. He can bend his body into any shape, and the lower surface is covered with vast numbers of tentacles, with which he can work his onward way; and it is extraordinary what long journeys he is able to accomplish by perseverance.”

Gregson wound up his lecture by promising to commence a salt-water aquarium, and most of his companions undertook to make another excursion with him for the purpose of conveying back a sufficient supply of salt-water and living curiosities to stock it. They all agreed that they had mightily enjoyed their day’s excursion. Ernest, for the first time since he had come to school, felt rather ashamed of himself that he knew so little about natural history, especially of the sea, and he resolved to take every opportunity of making himself acquainted with the subject. Just before they reached home they passed through the field where they had left Blackall and his party. Most of the boys had gone away; but they saw three or four collected together at the bank where the bully had been sitting. He was there; and his companions were bending over him endeavouring to rouse him up. Several empty porter bottles lay near, which plainly told what was the matter with him—he was helplessly tipsy. Lemon, and Ernest, and Buttar went forward to help to drag him along. He looked a picture of imbecility and brutishness. He knew none of them; and only grinned horribly when they spoke to him. Though they felt he richly deserved punishment, it was a point of honour to endeavour to save a school-fellow from disgrace, so they hauled him along and got him into his room and put to bed without meeting any of the masters or the matron—an undertaking they could not have performed except in the holidays. Nearly all his companions next day looked very wretched and complained of headaches—a pretty strong proof of the ill effects of drinking. Alas, how many youths have been hopelessly ruined by the example and counsels of a wretch like Blackall!—and how many, in consequence of habits such as his, have sunk into an early and unhonoured grave, after continuing for a time a trouble and shame to all belonging to them! Let masters and parents watch carefully against the first steps taken, often through folly and idleness, towards so vile a habit; and most earnestly do I pray that none of my young readers may be tempted to adopt so destructive a practice.

Chapter Three.

Our Grand Hare Hunt.

“Who’s for a jolly good game of hare and hounds?” exclaimed Tom Bouldon, rushing into the play-room, where a number of boys were assembled, soon after breakfast, on a lovely day during the Easter holidays. Nearly everybody replied, “I am, I, I, I.”

“That’s right; we couldn’t have finer weather, and it’s sure to last. I’ve been talking to young Bracebridge, and he has undertaken to do hare,” observed Bouldon. “I know what some of you will say: he’s a new fellow, and isn’t fit for the work; but there isn’t such a runner in the school. You see how he enters into all the games, though he has never played them before. I’ll bet he’ll make as good a hare as we’ve ever had, if not a better. That’s my opinion.”

This oration of Tommy’s had the desired effect. With but few dissentient voices, Ernest was elected to the honour of acting hare. Tommy hurried out to inform him of the fact. Ernest was not well prepared for the undertaking. He had only entered two or three times before into the sport, but still he sufficiently understood what was required of him, to feel that he should make a very creditable hare. He, however, thought that it would be more satisfactory if he was to consult with Bouldon and Buttar, as to what line of country he should take. They told him that if they knew, it would spoil their fun; so they went and found Lemon, who gladly undertook to give him his advice on the subject.

In the meantime, all hands were busily employed in making scent; that is, tearing into the smallest possible pieces all the bits of paper they could lay hands on. Ernest’s consultation with Lemon was soon over. Having put on his across-country boots, a short pair of loose trousers, and taken in his belt a hole or so, grasping a trusty stick in his hand, he set off by himself to have a look over the country.

The whole party of hounds numbered upwards of forty. There were some very good runners among them; and, what was of more consequence, several who knew the country thoroughly; so that Ernest knew that he must put forth all his energies. This, however, was what he took delight in doing.

No people but those who have played at hare and hounds, can fully appreciate the excitement, the interest, and the pleasure of the game; or the proud feeling of the hare, who finds that he is successfully baffling his pursuers when he is distancing them by the rapidity of his pace, or by the artfulness of his dodges; still all the time, whatever twists and turns he may make, knowing that he is bound to leave traces of his scent sufficiently strong to lead on the hounds.

The greater part of the day was consumed in preparations for the hunt. Everybody engaged looked out their easiest shoes, and their thickest worsted socks. Still a huntsman and a whipper-in were to be chosen: Buttar proposed asking Lemon, and Bouldon seconded the motion. But then it was suggested, that Ernest had consulted him as to the course he should pursue. One or two cried out for Blackall. “No, no; let us ask Lemon,” said Buttar again; “if he knows too much about the course Bracebridge is to take, he will not go; but if he thinks it is right, he will. We can always trust Lemon’s honour, you know.”

No one dissented from this opinion. Probably Lemon himself was scarcely aware how popular he really was; and certainly he would have been fully satisfied with the grounds on which his popularity was founded. At last, Lemon was met coming into the playground. Several voices assailed him with “Will you be huntsman?”

“Will you be huntsman, Lemon?”

“I must take time to consider; it is a serious undertaking,” he answered, laughing. “I will see what Tommy and Buttar have to say.”

They expressed their own opinions, and mentioned all that had been said. “Very well, I can take the part very conscientiously,” he added; “I merely advised Bracebridge in a general way, what course to take; and when he knows that I am to be huntsman, he will deviate sufficiently to prevent me from being able to follow him, unless I get hold of the scent.”

In the evening, when Ernest came back, he expressed his perfect readiness to have Lemon as huntsman. Bouldon was chosen as whipper-in.

“And I’ll try to be one of the fleetest hounds,” said Dawson, “since I’m neither hare, nor huntsman, nor whipper-in.”

Lemon possessed many qualifications for his office; and, among others, a capital horn, on which he could play very well. We always got up our games of hare and hounds in first-rate style. The huntsman, besides his horn, was furnished with a white flag, fastened to a staff shod with iron; while the whipper-in had a red flag. The hare had as large a bag as he could carry of white paper, torn into very small pieces. Frequently, too, the hounds dressed in blue or red caps and jackets, which gave the field a very animated appearance; far better in one respect than a real hunt with harriers, because we were certain that the hare was enjoying the fun as much as the hunters, and whether he was caught or escaped, would sit down afterwards to a capital dinner or tea with them, and “fight his battles o’er again.”

The morning for the hunt arrived. It broke, bright and beautiful! with just enough frost in the air to give it freshness and briskness.

The boys were up soon after daybreak, and had breakfast at once, that they might be ready to start at an early hour, and have the whole day before them. They assembled, just outside the school-grounds, in a small wood, which would conceal the hare from them, when he broke cover, and enable him to get a good start.

The hunt was to be longer than any that had ever been run, and as there was every probability that all the scent would be expended, it was arranged that Buttar should accompany Ernest to carry an additional bag of paper.

The huntsman sounded his horn cheerily, and all the hounds came pouring into the woodland glade, accompanied by the Doctor, who seemed as eager as any one to see the sport.

“Now, Buttar, are you all ready?” said Ernest, as they buckled up their waist-belts, and grasped their leaping-poles. “Too—too—too,” went the huntsman’s horn.

“Off hare, off hare,” cried the Doctor. “Ten minutes law will give you a fine start; you’ll make play with it—away, away!” He clapped his hands. Off flew Ernest and Buttar, fleet as greyhounds, and very unlike the timid hares they pretended to represent.

The Doctor held his watch in his hand. The hounds meantime were getting ready to start; one pressing before the other, taking a last look at shoe-strings, tightening in their belts, rubbing their hands, in their eagerness to rush out of the wood and commence the pursuit. They kept looking up at the Doctor’s countenance, to endeavour to ascertain by the expression it wore whether time was nearly up. Those who had watches were continually pulling them out for the same object. At last the Doctor was seen to put his into his pocket. Lemon gave a cheerful sound with his horn.

“Away, lads, away!” cried the Doctor, full of animation. The instant the order was issued, the hounds made a magnificent burst out of the wood, in full cry, led on by the huntsman, waving his flag, and followed by Tom Bouldon, as whipper-in; an office he performed most effectually. The Doctor stalked after them, enjoying the sport as much as anybody; and, I have no doubt, longing to enter more fully into it, and to run along with them.

Away went the pack, cheering each other on, across a field in which they had found the scent. At the bottom of it ran a rapid brook, as they all well knew. There were stepping-stones across it. It required a firm foot and a steady eye not to fall in. It was a clever dodge of the hare to gain time, for only one could cross at a time. There was scent on each stone, to show he had crossed. Two or three slipped in, but were speedily picked out again by their companions; and forming rapidly, continued the chase on the other side, up a long green lane, with high hedges on either side. They had to keep their eyes about them to ascertain whether he had gone through the hedge, or kept up the lane. On, on they went! at last a pathway, over a stile, appeared on the right, leading through a thick copse. They dashed into it, but soon found that the pathway had not been kept; and through briar and underwood they had to force a passage; now losing the scent, now catching it again; a wide, dry, sunny field lay before them; along it, and two or three others of a similar character they had to go; and then across another brook, over which, one after the other, they boldly leapt. Once more they were in a green lane, with deep cart ruts in it. Before them was a mud cottage, with thatched roof, and a small, fully cultivated garden, enclosed by rough palings, in front of it.

An old couple looked out, surprised at the noise. “Oh, they be the young gentlemen from Grafton Hall. What can they be after?” they observed to one another.

“I say, good dame, have you seen a couple of hares running along this way?” exclaimed Tom Bouldon, striking his staff into the ground, for the hounds had lost the scent.

“No; but we seed two young gentlemen a scampering along here, and up that there lane. Bees they demented? We didn’t like to stop them, though somehow we thought as how we ought.”

“Lucky you didn’t; they’d have kicked up a great row, let me tell you,” answered Tommy, laughing heartily. He had not time to say more. The shout of “Tally ho!” and the merry sound of the huntsman’s horn, put all the pack in motion. The lane led up hill, and then widened out on some wild open rounded downs, with here and there a white chalk-pit, showing the character of the soil. Up it they tore—for the scent was strong, and they were eager to make up for the time they had lost.

Every one was well warmed up now, and would have leaped across a chasm or down a precipice, or performed any other desperate achievement which they would not have attempted to do in their cooler moments. They breasted the steep downs in magnificent style. The scent led up some of the most difficult parts. For half a mile or more it led along the very summit of the ridge, but a fresh sweet breeze came playing around them, invigorating their muscles, and making them insensible to fatigue. The scent led over a high mound, along the edge of a chalk cliff. As they reached the summit, two figures were seen on the top of a similar height. All were of opinion that they were Ernest and Buttar. They looked scarcely half a mile off. The figures took off their caps, and waved them: this act dispelled all doubts on the subject. Some began to fear that they should catch the hares too easily, but Lemon assured them that there was no fear of that, and so they soon found. Down the steep they dashed, till he shouted to them to stop, and to turn off to the left. A long line of chalk cliffs intervened between them and the opposite height, and the scent led along their edge. Ernest and Buttar had, in the meantime, disappeared; after a run of a quarter of a mile, once more the scent was lost.

“Lost, lost!” shouted Lemon; and the hounds as they came up, went off in every direction to try and find it. In vain, for a long time, they hunted about, till a white spot was seen at the edge of the cliff, a little farther on. The cliff was here more practicable. They looked over; several pieces of paper appeared scattered on little green patches down the precipice. Fearlessly they began to descend, though to some people it would have been nervous work. The difficulty they found showed that Ernest and his companion had in no way lost ground, but had probably gained on them. Now they all reached a ledge, beyond which the descent seemed utterly impracticable. Still Ernest and Buttar evidently had got down.

“Where the hares have gone, we must follow,” cried Lemon, to encourage his party. “Hunt about for a path—where there’s a will there’s a way! Hurra, now!”

The hounds kept examining the ledge in every direction, and at a distance they must have looked like a swarm of ants, so busy did they appear. Still without success; and some of the more fainthearted declared that they should have to climb up the cliff again, and find some other way down, or give up the chase.

“No, no, nonsense,” said the huntsman. “There is a way down, and the way must be found.”

I must now go back to describe the progress of the hare and his friend.

I have read of “the hare and many friends,” but they were very unlike young Buttar; no one could desire a stouter or a stauncher friend. Before starting they had well laid their plans, and determined to give the hounds a good run. Ernest had provided himself with a good pocket compass, so that he could steer as direct a course as the ground would allow to the point he had selected to round before turning back towards home.

“Let us go along over the smooth ground at a good pace—we shall save time to spare when we come to the difficult places,” observed Ernest to Buttar, as they were waiting for the Doctor’s signal to start. It was given—and away they went; steady at first, but gradually increasing their speed as they found that they could easily draw breath. They met with no impediments in the way. They easily leaped the brooks they encountered. The old couple in Ashby-lane stared at them, and wondered where they could be going, leaving little bits of paper behind them. Then they came to Ashby-downs: it was hot work toiling up the steep side, with the hot sun striking down on them; but when they got to the summit, a fresh breeze and a clear blue air revived their strength, and they went along merrily, every now and then looking back to try and catch sight of the hounds, judiciously dropping their scent in places where it could be seen, and not blown away by the breeze. They had several points to attend to. They had been especially charged by the Doctor to avoid trespassing on any private ground; they had to select an interesting course, and one not too difficult, at the same time with every possible variety of country.

On they went, making good play over the short smooth turf of the downs. At last they came to the cliff. Buttar was for descending again, and crossing the ravine where it opened into the plain country.

“No, no,” said Ernest, “we shall increase our distance if we can manage to get down the highest part of the cliff. Let us try what we can do before we give it up.”

Down the cliff they began to descend. There were plenty of craggy, rugged spots, which facilitated their descent, but in most places there was only room for one person to descend at a time, so, as in the instance of the stepping-stones, their pursuers had to form in Indian file. They easily reached the ledge. Below it the way was, indeed, difficult. At the very end, however, Ernest observed several points of rock jutting out. By climbing up to them he saw that he could drop down on a broader ledge, well covered with soft turf, and could then descend under the very ledge on which they were standing.

Buttar agreed to make the attempt, feeling certain that Lemon would find that or some other means of overcoming the difficulty.

Ernest clutched the rock, and got along bravely, followed by Buttar. “Take care that you do not sprain your ankle as you drop,” cried the latter, as Ernest prepared to let go so as to descend to the ledge. He reached it in safety. He caught his companion in his arms so as to break his fall, and sprinkling some paper under the long ledge, they pursued their way. Once Buttar had to let down Ernest with their handkerchiefs tied together, while Ernest again caught him. Safely they reached the bottom, and away they went across valleys, over streams, and up hills, never once dreaming of fatigue.

I need not follow them in the whole of their course. They were much delighted, on reaching a high mound, to see the hounds in hot pursuit of them, and still more when all the pack were assembled on the ledge trying to find a way down.

“I hope none of them will come to grief,” said Buttar. “Do you know, I think that it would have been safer to have taken some other course: that is a difficult place.”

“The very reason I was glad to find it,” replied Ernest; “one of these days some of them may have a whole tribe of Red Indians or Caffres after them, and then they may be thankful that they learned how to get down a place of the sort. See! I think they are finding out the way. Let us push on.” They rose up into view, and waving their caps, on they went. Next they found a descent, down which they trotted quickly, and then another cliff appeared before them; at the top some fine views were to be obtained. They did not hesitate; up they climbed Fairway Tower was in sight; a wide valley full of streams and rather difficult country was, however, between them and it. They pushed on along the downs; then they descended another steep hill, and on reaching the plain a rapid wide stream was before them. Ernest had expected to come down near a bridge, which he proposed crossing. He and Buttar looked at the broad stream with a puzzled expression. They were not quite certain whether the bridge was to the right or left. They decided on taking the left, going down the stream. At last they met a countryman. They inquired of him about the bridge.

“Oh; ’tis the other way, lads,” he answered. “But, I say, young measters, bees you runnin’ away from school in such a hurry?”

“No, no,” answered Ernest, laughing. “We are running for the pleasure of making the school run after us. If we could get across the stream it may puzzle them to follow us. Can you show us any place where we may cross?”

“Yes; that I can,” was the answer. “There bees a place with a sort of an island loike in the middle. There’s a plank athwart one place, and a tree hangs over t’other. If ye be as active as ye looks, ye’ll make no odds a getting over.”

“Oh, thank you, thank you, my man, we shall be much obliged to you, and as your time is your money? here is what is your due,” answered Ernest, handing the countryman a small coin. “But lead on; we have no time to lose.”

“Noa, ma young ones, I’ll no take your money. It’s too much by half for just ten minutes’ work. Come along though, if ye bees in a hurry,” said the good-natured fellow, putting back the coin, and leading the way down the stream. “If so be when we gets wages, we never has them, ye know, till the work is done.” He trudged on with his arms swinging before him, getting quickly over the ground, though his legs did not appear to move half so fast as those of the young gentlemen. He did not utter a word all the time, but seemed to concentrate all his energies in getting over the ground as rapidly as he could. Ernest and Buttar ran on by his side, dropping the paper here and there sufficiently thick to indicate their course. At last they reached the spot mentioned by the countryman. He showed them a narrow plank, partly hid by bushes, by which they crossed to a green island surrounded by willows, which hung over into the stream.

“A grand place for fishing, this,” observed Buttar, as he looked into the dark, clear water which went whirling by in eddies, and here and there formed deep calm pools and little bays, in which they could not help feeling sure many a trout lay hid.

“No time to think about it, though,” answered Ernest. “We will come here, by all means, another day and try what we can do. Let us now see how we are to get across the river. Lay the scent thickly, that the hounds may not be in fault, or they may lose it altogether and give the chase up in despair.”

While they were speaking they were following the countryman through the reeds and grass, which was already high in that moist situation. He stopped at the base of a fine large willow, which they saw bent very much over the water, though the bushes prevented them from seeing how far. There were some notches in its trunk, and up these he climbed. They followed him closely, and saw him descend on the opposite bank by means of a knotted rope which hung from the end of one of the limbs. They were delighted with the plan.

“Capital!” exclaimed Buttar. “What fun it will be to have all the hounds come scrambling over the old trunk, and letting themselves down by the rope, one after the other.”

The countryman looked at the speaker with a puzzled gaze. “The owndes!” he exclaimed. “They’ll ne’er trouble the rope, I’m thinking.” He evidently could not settle it in his mind that his young companions were not mad. Buttar and Ernest laughed heartily at his look of astonishment.

“We speak of our schoolfellows, who pretend to be hounds, and we are hares leading them on,” exclaimed Buttar. The countryman clapped his hands and rubbed them together to express his delight at the notion, while he joined in their laughter at his mistake.

“Well, that there be a jolly good game, I do think,” he exclaimed. “I loikes it, that I do—No, no—I’ll not take your money, young measters. I gets a good day’s pay for a good day’s work, and that’s all I asks, and all I wishes for.” Ernest, on hearing this sentiment, put out his hand and warmly shook that of the countryman. “I like to hear you say that, friend. It is what all of us should alone desire, and I am sure the world would be much happier if everybody in it were like you; but good-bye, good-bye; I’ve no time to talk now. I should like to fall in with you and have a chat another day. It’s a good bit off to Fairway Tower, which we must round before we turn homeward.”

“You bees a free spoken young genl’man, and I’d lief have a chat we ye,” answered the countryman; “my name is John Hodge, and I live in Lowley Bottom; ye knows where that is, I’m thinking.”

“That I do; very glad. I’ll come and see you, John Hodge; good-bye, good-bye;” exclaimed Ernest, as he and Buttar set off at full speed across a grassy willow-bounded field towards Fairway Tower, which appeared full in sight on the downs above them. They had thoroughly regained their wind during the time they had spent with John Hodge, so now they went away once more at full speed. They had a number of broadish ditches to leap, but they easily sprang over them, laughing whenever they pictured to themselves any of their followers tumbling in, a catastrophe they thought very likely to occur at two or three places, where the bank they had to leap to was higher than the one they leaped from.

Once more they reached the foot of the downs. These downs rose on the opposite side of the broad stream they had crossed. Looking along the course of the river towards the sea, it appeared as if the silvery thread of water had cut the green hills in two parts, and that then they had slipped away from it on either side, leaving a broadish expanse covered with meadows and copses, and here and there a corn-field, and a cottage garden, and a potato-ground, with its small, low, straw-thatched, mud cottage.

Up—up the smooth, closely cropped side of the steep hill they climb, with just as good a heart as when they started. Steep as it was, they scarcely panted an instant. Ernest was in capital training; that is to say, he was in the condition in which a strong healthy boy ought always to be. So, indeed, was Buttar; for neither of them ever ate a particle more of food than they required, they eschewed tarts of all sorts, and kept all their limbs and muscles in full exercise. May English boys never cease to practise athletic sports, and more especially systematic gymnastics!

The hare and his companion soon reached the top of the downs, and turning round, spread out their arms with open palms, and gulped down a dozen draughts of the pure fresh breeze, which would now be somewhat behind them, though they had hitherto had it chiefly in their faces, an important advantage which Ernest had taken into consideration when he selected the course for the day.

Note it, all you who may have to do hare. Get the wind in your face as much as possible during your outward course, in cold as well as in hot weather, but more especially in hot. In cold weather, however, it is important, as you will, if you have the wind behind you when going, get very hot, and you will be apt to get chilled when leisurely returning, or be prevented, from fear of it, of sitting down and resting. Not that such an idea of catching cold ever entered into the imagination of the two schoolboys. Along the ridges of the smooth downs they went merrily, gazing down into the valley below, and more than once looking round to discover if the hounds were following. Nowhere were they to be seen.

The foot of Fairway Tower was reached at last. It was the keep of a castle of very ancient date, built in the centre of a Roman encampment. The walls were of enormous thickness, allowing a staircase to wind up within them.

“Let us give them a good view of the sea,” cried Ernest. Up the well-worn stone steps they mounted. Up—up they sprung, laughing merrily and cheering loudly when they reached the top. Few people, after a run of nearly fifteen miles, would have liked to have followed their example. The view, Ernest declared, repaid them. It was expansive, and it gave, from its character, a pleasing, exhilarating sensation to the heart as it lay at their feet basking in sunshine. On either hand were the smiling undulating downs, dotted here and there with flocks of sheep. Before them the country sloped away for a couple of miles till it reached the bright blue dancing ocean, over which several white sails were skimming rapidly. Inland there was a beautifully diversified country. There were several rich woods surrounding gentlemen’s seats, and here and there a hamlet and a church spire rising up among the trees, and some extensive homesteads, the gems of an English rural landscape; and there were wide pasture lands, and ploughed fields already getting a green tinge from the rising corn, and many orchards blushing with pink bloom, and white little cottages, and the winding river, and many a silvery stream which ran murmuring into it; but I need not go on with the description. Ernest and Buttar drank in its beauties as they did the cool breeze which blew on their cheeks, and then they looked round to try and discover the hounds.

“I see them,” exclaimed Buttar, after a long scrutinising search. “There they are, just coming out of Beechwood; they look no bigger than a troop of ants. Well, we have got a fine start of them—let us give them a cheer. They won’t hear us, but they may possibly see us.” Ernest agreeing to Buttar’s proposal, they got to the top of the highest pinnacle, and taking off their hats they waved them vehemently above their heads, shouting at the same time to their hearts’ content at the top of their voices, Hurra, hurra, hurra; once more, hurra! They did not expect, however, that the sound could possibly reach their friends, so they shouted, it must be owned, for their own satisfaction and amusement. Having shouted and waved their hats till they were tired, they agreed that it should be time to commence their homeward way. They accordingly prepared to descend from their lofty perch to the world below. They did not go down by the staircase, but by the rugged projections in the wall, where a wide breach existed, made either by the hand of time or by Cromwell’s cannons in the times of the Cavaliers and Roundheads. They laughed very much as they stuck bits of paper into the crevices in the walls, and scattered them on every spot where there was a chance of their remaining. They were not long in reaching the bottom, for they were fearless climbers, and made little of dropping down ten feet or so to a ledge below them, provided they felt sure that they could balance themselves when there, and not go head foremost lower still, as careless climbers are apt to do. After this every step would bring them nearer home; but still they endeavoured to make the course as interesting as possible. Having taken a turn round the tower, and dropped the scent thickly in their track, off they again set. Along the upper edge of the downs they went at an easy jog-trot, and then when compelled at last, with regret, to leave the breezy hills, they took their way across a succession of fields where oats, and turnips, and mangel wurtzel were wont to grow, till they descended into the richer pasture and wheat-producing lands. Still they had many a stream and deep ditch to leap.

“How do you feel, old fellow?” said Ernest, after they had made good play for a couple of miles or more without stopping.

“As fresh as one of the daisies we are treading on,” answered Buttar. “Do you know, Bracebridge, I never like treading on wild flowers; it seems such wanton destruction of some of the most beautiful works of nature. I feel all the time as a donkey who has got into a flower-bed ought to feel,—that I am a very mischievous animal. I would always rather go out of my way than injure them, especially such graceful gems as the wood anemone, or the wild hyacinth, or the wood sorrel, or primroses and cowslips. I feel that I could not restore one of the hundreds my careless feet have injured, even if my life depended on it.”

“The same sort of idea has crossed my mind, I own,” replied Ernest; “but then I bethought me, that they have been given in such rich profusion that, although hundreds or thousands may fall victims to our careless steps, as you remark, thousands and tens of thousands remain to show the glory of God’s works, and that year after year they come back to us as plentiful and lovely as ever. But I say, old fellow, it won’t do to stop and philosophise. We are hares for the nonce, remember, and the hounds are in hot chase after us. By the by, apropos to the subject, I remember reading a capital Irish story of Lover’s, which made me laugh very much. For some reason or other, a fox walks into the cottage of a keeper, who is absent, and sits down on a chair before the fire, putting his feet on the fender, and taking up a newspaper, resolved to make himself comfortable. ‘A newspaper?’ exclaimed the Irishman to whom the story is being narrated. ‘What did he want with that?’ ‘Faith! how else could he tell where the hounds were going to meet in the morning?’ is the answer.”

Buttar laughed heartily at Ernest’s anecdote.

“Do you know that I cannot help feeling sometimes, as I am running along, as if I were really and truly a two-legged hare,” observed the latter.

“Well, so do I,” replied Buttar. “And when I have been doing a hound, I have so completely fancied myself one, as I have been scrambling through hedges and ditches, that I have felt more inclined to bark than to speak, and should certainly have claimed fellowship with a harrier had I encountered one.”

“However that may be, as I do not feel inclined to sup on grass or raw cabbage, and should much rather prefer a good round of beef and some bread and cheese, let us now take the shortest cut home,” observed Ernest, who was getting hungry.

“Agreed! agreed!” cried Buttar. “I don’t think, though, that the hounds can be far behind us. It’s my belief, when they come in, that they’ll all declare they never have had such a day’s run since they came to school.”

The huntsman, and whipper-in, and hounds were left on the ledge of rock, looking out for a way by which to reach the bottom of the cliff. At last Tom Bouldon espied a bit of paper sticking in a crevice above where they were standing. He climbed up to it and seeing another, and another, clearly defined the path the hare had taken.

“Tally ho! tally ho!” he shouted.

“Tally ho! tally ho!” cried the huntsman, and sounded his horn.

In an instant, like shipwrecked sailors escaping from a wreck, all the boys were scrambling along the face of the cliff. Then they began to drop down, one after the other, fearless of broken limbs, and very soon they were assembled in the valley below. Once more they burst away in full cry. Across many a marsh they had to wade, and over many a stream to jump, into which more than one tumbled, and had to be hauled out by the rest. Indeed, had not Tom kept them up to their work, several of the hounds would have given up and turned back. Then Lemon cheered them on with his horn, and waved before them his flag, and, shouting together, they surmounted all difficulties, and seldom for more than a minute at a time lost the scent, till they came to the passage of the river. Here for a few minutes they were fairly puzzled. They got into the island, but how to get out again they could not tell. Round and round it they ran, till the scent was discovered by Lemon on the stem of the old willow.

“Tally ho! tally ho!” he shouted, springing along the leaning stem, and disappearing among the branches.

Tom whipped in the hounds, wondering what had become of their leader, till he was seen on the grass on the opposite bank, having come down, not having discovered the rope, rather more rapidly than he intended. Some had already descended in the same rapid way, coming down on all-fours, or with all-fours upwards, and there lay on the soft grass, kicking and sprawling in delightful confusion, before the rope was discovered. The rest got down by the rope, followed by the whipper-in, and then they all picked themselves up, and set off at full speed after the hare. I need not follow them. Continually this indefatigable whipper-in had to keep them up to their work, and very often had to help out those who had tumbled into ditches and trenches, or stuck fast in hedges.

“Well, I do declare we never have had such a run since I came to school,” cried Tom, enthusiastically. “Bracebridge deserves a cup, that he does.”

The sentiment was echoed by all hands, from Lemon downwards.

“Now, let us see if we can catch him before he reaches home.”

Vain was the notion. The active hares kept well ahead of them, and when they reached the school, not a little tired, and as hungry as hounds should be, were found, seated at table, in clean dry garments, and enjoying a hearty supper. The two hares were speedily joined by huntsman, whipper-in, and hounds; and the Doctor and two or three of the bigger boys came in to superintend the feast, and to hear them “fight their battles o’er again.” The hares said very little of their exploits; but it is surprising what wonderful accounts some of the hounds gave of what they had done, what hair-breadth escapes they had had, what hills they had climbed, what streams and ditches they had leaped.

Chapter Four.

Ernest’s New Friend.

After the Easter holidays, several new boys came. One of them was called Edward Ellis. He had a remarkably quiet and subdued manner. The general remark was, that he looked as if he was cowed. He was certainly out of spirits. He spoke very little, avoided making friends, or, at all events, confidants, and seldom entered into any of our games. He seemed prepared to suffer any amount of bullying, even from little fellows, and if he was struck, he never struck again. He had been at school before, but he never said where. Probably, however, he had been there for some time, for he was already fourteen, though not big or strong for his age. With such a disposition and habits as I have described, of course he could not be a favourite with any one; at the same time, it could not be said that he was positively disliked. Ernest, seeing how solitary and melancholy he appeared, compassionated the poor fellow, and never lost an opportunity of speaking kindly to him. This conduct had its due effect, and Ellis took pains to show his gratitude.

Ernest had no little difficulty in defending his new friend, both from attacks made with the fists and those levelled with that still sharper weapon, the tongue. Ellis was much exposed to the latter, especially on account of his ungainly appearance and uncouth manners. Of course Blackall took especial delight in bullying him, as there was no fear of a retort, by word, look, or deed. This conduct especially excited Ernest’s indignation, and he resolved to defend Ellis, at every personal risk, from the attacks of the bully.

“Oh, I have always been an unfortunate, unhappy fellow!” exclaimed poor Ellis one day, in the bitterness of his spirit, after he had been more than usually bullied. “Unfortunate I have been, and unfortunate I expect to be to the end of my days!”

“Oh, nonsense!” answered Ernest. “It is positively wrong to give way to such feelings. Just rouse yourself, and come and play like other fellows, and practise your limbs, and run and leap, and you’ll soon get on as well as anybody else. Put yourself under the drill-sergeant and gymnastic master, and learn to dance, and you’ll do as well as anybody.”

“Me dance!” cried Ellis, with a doleful expression. “Tell me, Bracebridge, did you ever see a bear attempt to practise the Terpsichorean art. I should be very like the monster if I were to try it. But it is not that—there is something I cannot tell you about which makes me so unhappy, that I never expect to get over it. Nobody here knows anything about it, but some day they may, and then I shall be worse off than I am now.”

“Well, I don’t want you to tell me,” replied Ernest, for he had an innate dislike to petty confidences. “But, I repeat, come and join us in our games. Just practise cricket, for instance, every day for a month or so, with single wickets, and you’ll be able to join in our matches, and play as well as any one, I dare say.”

“Oh, no! I’ve no hopes of myself. I’m sure I shall never play cricket,” said Ellis, shaking his head.

“We’ll see about that,” observed Ernest, laughing at his friend’s lugubrious expression of countenance. “But I’ll tell you what you can do; you can play a game of rounders. It is not often that I play now, but I will get up a game for your sake.”

Ellis was easily persuaded to accept Ernest’s offer. They went out into the playground, and the latter was not long in finding plenty of players ready to join the game. Everybody was very much surprised when they saw Ernest select Ellis on his side.

“Why, Bracebridge, you’ll never do with that fellow; he’ll be out directly,” cried several boys.

“Never mind; he’ll play better than you suppose in a little time,” was the answer. “Everybody must make a beginning.”

Five of a side were chosen, and the ground was marked out. Five sticks were run into the earth, about sixteen yards apart, the lines between them forming the sides of a pentagon, with one stick in the centre. The centre was the place for the feeder.

“Those are what we call bases,” said Ernest to Ellis, pointing out the spots where the sticks were placed. Then he drew a circle round one of them, which he pointed out as the “home.”

Buttar, Bouldon, Dawson, and other fellows of the same age, were playing. Bouldon was on one side, Ernest on the other. The latter selected Buttar, and the former Dawson. They tossed up who was to go in first; Ernest won. He went in first; Tom had to feed him. Dawson kept a sharp look-out behind him, as did the other three players in different parts of the field. There is more science in the game than many people are aware of, though not, of course, to be compared to cricket, any more than the short bat which is used is to a cricket-bat.

“Now, Bouldon, give me a fair ball, you sly fox,” cried Ernest, for Tom was notorious for his tricks and dodges of every sort. If a good hoax was played on the school, or on any individual, its authorship was generally traced to him. To do him credit, they were never ill-natured. He generally, when found out, bore his blushing honours meekly, and if not discovered, contented himself by laughing quietly in his sleeve.

“All fair and above board,” cried Tom, bowling. “Look out!”

Ernest hit the ball a fine blow, and sent it flying away over the heads of all the out-players. Away he ran from base to base. He had already reached the third from the home—two distances more only had to be run—when Reynolds, a boy who could heave as far as any one in the school, got hold of the ball. One more run he thought he could attempt, for Reynolds could scarcely hit him at that distance. Reynolds, seizing the ball, rushed on with it. Ernest reached the fourth base. He wished to make Reynolds heave it; he pretended to spring forward; Reynolds threw the ball; Ernest watched its course, and as it bounded by him, he changed his feint into a reality, and reached the home. The next time he hit the ball still harder, and ran the whole round of the bases.

“Now, Ellis, you may have to go in before long,” he sang out. “Don’t attempt a rounder, though. Get to the first or second base easily; that will do. Come, feed away, Tommy.”

Bouldon fed him, and though he sent the ball to a good distance, he only reached the fourth base. When he got there, he called out to Ellis to go in. Ellis seized the bat with a convulsive clutch, as if he was about to fight a battle with it, or was going to perform some wonderful undertaking. Even Ernest could scarcely help laughing at the curious contortions of countenance in which he indulged. However, remembering Ernest’s advice, he kept his eye on the ball, and hit it so fairly, and with such good force, that he sent it flying away to a considerable distance.

“Capital!” cried Ernest, clapping his hands at the success of his pupil. “Run! run!—two bases at least.”

Ellis did the distance with ease, and Ernest sprang into the home.

“Now look out, old fellow, to run right in, or, at all events, to the fourth base,” he sang out to Ellis, whose spirits rose at his success; and he looked as eager as any one, and ready for anything. Tom tossed the ball to Ernest in a way somewhat difficult to hit, and when he struck it, he was nearly caught out. He, however, ran over a couple of bases, and Ellis stopped short at the fourth. This brought in a new player at the home. He sent the ball but a short way, and Ellis was very nearly struck out. The ball grazed him, but he was well in the home. Had he been struck out, he very likely would never have played well again. Tom now fed him. He hit the ball, and with all his might, and sent it as far as Ernest or Bouldon had ever done.

“Capital! well done, Ellis!” shouted many of the fellows, both players and lookers-on; and away he ran, and performed a whole circle.

Ernest determined to play his best, so as to keep Ellis in as long as possible. He was sure, from what he saw, that his success would give him encouragement, not only to play other games, but to mix more sociably with his schoolfellows. Ernest played capitally, but Ellis scored almost as many, to the surprise of those who fancied that he could not play at all. Few would have believed that he was the same awkward, shy boy, who was usually creeping about the play-ground, as they saw him, with a high colour and full of animation, hitting ball after ball with all his might, and cutting away round the bases. At last, one of their side was caught out, and Buttar went in. He was a good player, and added considerably to the numbers scored by his side. Still, as both Dawson and Bouldon were capital players, and so were most of their side, Ernest did his utmost to get as many runs as possible, at the same time that he wanted to make Ellis feel that he had himself contributed largely to the victory. Every time Ellis made a good hit, he praised him loudly, and certainly felt more pleasure than if he had done well himself. Poor Ellis had never been so happy since he was a child. He began to feel that, after all, he need not fancy himself less capable than his companions to enter into the usual sports of the school. At last, Buttar was struck out, and so was another player, and Ernest and Ellis alone were kept in. The latter could scarcely believe his senses, when he found himself the only person to help Ernest to keep up the game. Ernest was in the home; Ellis was on the base at the opposite side. He knew that he must run hard, or he would put Ernest out as well as himself.

“Now, Tom, two fair hits for the rounder,” exclaimed Ernest.

The proposal was agreed to. Bouldon kept tossing the ball several times, but Ernest refused to hit. At last he hit, but did not run, and Ellis very nearly got out by attempting to do so. The next time he hit, and hit hard indeed. Away flew the ball further than ever, to the very end of the field.

“Now, Ellis, run! run!” he sang out.

Ellis moved his legs faster than he had ever before done, and shouted and shrieked with delight when Ernest made the round in safety. Thus the game continued. Ellis appeared to have a charmed existence as far as the game was concerned. Nothing could put him out. More than once his balls seemed to slip through the very fingers of those about to catch them.

“I say, Bracebridge, are you going to be out or not, this evening?” exclaimed Tom, getting positively tired of feeding.

“Not if Ellis and I can help it,” was the answer. “We’ve taken a fancy to have a long innings, do you see?”

So it seemed, in truth; and the tea-bell positively rang while they were still in. By the custom of our school, a game of that minor description was then considered over; and the two new friends went into the tea-room together in a very triumphant state of mind.

“I told you, Ellis, you could do whatever you tried, just as well as other fellows,” said Ernest, as he sat by him at tea. “Now I must show you how to play cricket, and hockey, and football, and fives, and all sorts of games. To-morrow we’ll have a little quiet practice at cricket with single wicket, and I’ll wager by the summer that you’ll be able to play in a match with any fellows of our size.”

Ellis thanked Ernest most warmly. He felt a new spirit rising in him—powers he had never dreamed of possessing coming out. He might yet stand on equal terms with his companions at school and with his fellow-men in the world.

“As I told you before, old fellow, what you want is a course of drilling. Our old sergeant will set you up and make you look like a soldier in a very few months. Just go and talk to the Doctor about it. He’ll be glad to find you wish to learn. You’ll like old Sergeant Dibble amazingly. It’s worth learning for the sake of hearing him tell his long stories about his campaigning days—what his regiment did in the Peninsular, and how they drove all Napoleon’s generals out of Spain and Portugal.”

Ernest grew quite enthusiastic when speaking about Sergeant Dibble, with whom he was a great favourite. He succeeded in inspiring Ellis with a strong desire to learn drilling.

“Who knows but what after all I may one day be considered fit to go into the army!” exclaimed Ellis, after listening to a somewhat long oration in praise of Sergeant Dibble.

“I wish you would go into it,” said Ernest. “I believe that I am to be a soldier, but my father will never tell any of us what professions he intends us for. He tells us we must get as much knowledge as we can obtain, and that we must perfect ourselves in all physical exercises, and then that we shall be fit to be bishops, or generals, or lord chancellors, or admirals, or aldermen, or whatever may be our lot in life. Of course, he is right. My elder brother came out Senior Wrangler at Cambridge, and pulls one of the best oars and plays cricket as well as any man in the University. If I can do as well as he has done I shall be content. He is now going to study the law, and then to look after the family property. I have to make my own way in the world somehow or other.”

“Well, so have I to make my own way,” observed Ellis. “I don’t fancy that I shall ever have any property coming to me, and I thought that I should never get on, but always have to stick at the bottom of the tree; but do you know, that from what you have said to me, I begin to hope that I may be able to climb like others, if not to the top, at least to a comfortable seat among the branches?”

“Bravo! capital! that you will!” cried Ernest, who was delighted to find the effect his lessons were producing. He was not himself aware of the benefits he was reaping from having some one to watch over and assist. Ernest was undoubtedly very clever, but he was very far from perfect. He could not help feeling that he was superior to most—indeed, to all the boys of his own age at school. This did not make him vain or conceited in any objectionable way, but he was somewhat egotistical. He thought a good deal about himself—what people would say of him, what they would think of him. He was perhaps rather ambitious of shining simply for the sake of shining—a very insufficient reason, all must agree, if they will but consider how very very pale a light the brightest genius can shed forth when his knowledge comes to be measured with that which is required to comprehend a tenth part of the glories which the universe contains.

The half drew on. Blackall did not relax in his tyranny over the younger boys, though more than once it brought him into trouble. At last the Doctor heard of his bullying, and he was confined within bounds for a month, and had no end of impositions to get up. He promised amendment; but the punishment did not cure him, and in a short time he was as bad as ever. He began, as usual, upon those less likely to complain, and Ellis was one of his first victims. He seemed to take a peculiar delight in making the poor fellow’s existence miserable, and every day he found some fresh means of torture. Ernest saw this going on day after day, and at last felt that he could stand it no longer. “I must get Ellis to stick up to him, or I must do so alone,” he exclaimed to himself.

Although Ellis fancied that he could not play at games, he was very ingenious, and could make all sorts of things—little carriages of cardboard, with woodwork, and traces and harness complete, which he painted and varnished; and boats and vessels, which he cut out of soft American pine, and scooped out and put decks into them, and cut out their sails, and rigged them with neat blocks. Sometimes the blocks had sheaves in them, and the sails were made to hoist up and down, and his yachts sailed remarkably well and could beat any of those opposed to them. Then he made little theatres capitally, and painted the scenes and cut out the characters, and stuck tinsel on to them; and if not as good as a real play, they afforded a vast amount of amusement. These talents, however, were not discovered for some time.

We did not disdain to fly kites at our school, but they were very large, handsome kites, and we used to vie with each other in trying which could get the largest and strongest and most finely ornamented, and make them fly the highest.

Our French master, Monsieur Malin, was a great hand at kite-flying. He did not like cricket, or football, or hockey, or any game in which he might get hurt, because, as he used to say, “Vat you call my sins are not manufactured of iron. You petits garçons don’t mind all sorts of knocks about, but for one poor old man like me it is not good.” Had he been an Englishman, we might have despised him for not playing cricket or football, but we thought it was only natural in a Frenchman. As he played rounders, and prisoners’ base, and hoops, and every game of skill, in capital style, and was very good-natured and ready to do anything anybody asked him, which he had it in his power to do, he was deservedly a very general favourite. It was great fun to hear him sing out, “Chivie! chivie! chivie!” when playing at prisoners base, and to see his legs with short steps moving along twice as fast as anybody else.

The weather was getting rather too hot for most of our running games which we played in the spring and autumn—with the exception, of course, of cricket, the most delightful of all summer amusements—when Monsieur Malin proposed a grand kite-flying match. Two different objects were to be tried for. There were two equal first prizes. One was to be won by the kite which rose the highest, or rather, took out the longest line; the other prize was to be given to the owner of the kite which could pull the heaviest weights the fastest. Two other prizes were to be bestowed, one on the handsomest kite, and the other to the most grotesque, provided they were not inferior in other qualities.

For two or three weeks before, preparations were being made for the match, and every day parties were seen going out to the neighbouring heath to try the qualities of the kites they had manufactured. Clubs were formed which had one or two kites between them, for the expense of the string alone was considerable. It was necessary to have the lightest and strongest line to be procured, which would also run easily off the reel.

Monsieur Malin was working away at his kite in his room, and he said that he would allow no one to see it till it was completed. Many of the bigger fellows condescended to take an interest in the matter, as did Lemon and Ernest and others, and even Blackall gave out that he intended to try the fortune of his kite. He stated that he should not bother himself by making one, but that he had written to London to have the largest and best ever made sent down to him. Many of the fellows, when they heard this, said that they thought there would be very little use in trying to compete with him. Dawson especially remarked that he should give up. “Blackall has everything of the best, you know, always in tip-top style,” he remarked; “and you see, if he gets a regular-made kite from a first-rate London maker, what chance can any of us possibly have?” Blackall himself seemed to be of the same opinion, and boasted considerably of the wonders his kite was going to perform. Monsieur Malin smiled when he heard him boasting; Ernest said nothing, but looked as if he thought that he might be mistaken; while Buttar laughed and observed that Bully Blackall seemed to think that a large amount of credit was to be gained by buying a good kite. He might congratulate himself still more if he could buy at as cheap a rate a good temper and a good disposition.

Ernest, meantime, going on the principle he had adopted of doing his utmost to encourage Ellis, proposed to join him in the share of a kite. Ellis said that he should be very glad, and that he would undertake to make it himself.

“What! can you make kites?” exclaimed Ernest. “I never dreamed of that.”

“Oh, I have made all sorts of kites, and know how to fly them well,” answered Ellis. “I have the materials for one in my box now. I did not like to produce them, because the other boys would only laugh at me for proposing to fly a kite. I have ample line, though we may add another ball or two. All I want are two thin but strong laths, nine and eight feet long.”

“What! are you going to make the kite nine feet high!” exclaimed Ernest. “That will be big, indeed.”

“Yes; nine feet high, and eight from wing to wing,” said Ellis.

“Why, what a whacking big fellow it will be!” exclaimed Ernest. “And I say, what a lot of paper it will take to make it!”

“Not a particle,” answered Ellis. “It is all made of silk, which is lighter and stronger than any other material. Come with me to the carpenter’s and get the laths, and we’ll have it made by the evening, so as to fly it, if there is a breeze, to-morrow.”

“I’ll go with pleasure to the carpenter’s; but if you are pretty certain that your kite will do well, do not let us fly it till the day of trial. It will astonish every one so much to see you come out with a great big kite, which, I doubt not, will beat all the others.”

“Oh, no! I’m afraid that it won’t do that. It will scarcely be equal to Monsieur Malin’s, and probably Blackall will get something very grand down from London,” answered Ellis, always diffident about anything connected with himself.

“We’ll see,” said Ernest quietly. “And now, as we have so grand a kite, let us go and see old Hobson about the carriage which we must make it drag. Any shape and any plan is allowable, remember, provided it can carry two. Now I have a design in my head which I think will answer capitally. You see old gentlemen and ladies steering themselves, with a person pushing behind, in an arm-chair. I propose having a sort of a skeleton of a chair, with two big wheels and one small one in front, with a very long front part,—one seat behind for the person who manages the kite, and one in front for the steerer. There must be a bar in front with a block to it, through which the line must pass, and then I would have a light pole with a hook at one end, while the butt-end should be secured to the centre of the carriage. Suppose you were to sit in front and steer; I would sit behind and have a reel to haul in or let out the line, and with the pole and hook I could bring the kite on one side of the carriage or the other, as might be required to assist you to guide it. It is my opinion that we can make the carriage go on a wind, as yachtsmen say. That is to say, if the wind is from the north or south, we may make the carriage go east or west. Now, if other fellows have not thought of that, and the wind should change a few points, we may be able to go on in our proper course while they may be obliged to stop, and so we shall win the prize.”

“Capital!” repeated Ellis, clapping his hands and hugging himself in his delight in a peculiarly grotesque way which always made his friend smile, though he determined some day quietly to tell him of the habit, and to advise him to get over it. “Capital!” repeated Ellis. “I’ve heard of something of the sort in Canada, where, on the lakes and rivers, what are called ice-boats are used. They are, however, placed on great skates or iron runners, and have sails just like any other boats, only the sails are stretched quite flat, like boards. They have a long pole out astern with an iron at the end of it, which cuts into the ice and serves as a rudder. They sail very fast, and go, I understand, close on a wind.”

“What fun to sail in them!” cried Ernest. “I’ve often thought I should like to go to Canada, and that would be another reason. But, I say, Ellis, I fancy from the way you talk you know something about yachting. I’m very fond of it; you and I will have some sailing together one of these days.”

Ellis said that he had frequently yachted with some of his relations, and that he should be delighted to take a cruise with Ernest when they could afford to have a boat. They talked away till they got to the shop of old Hobson the carpenter. He was a clever workman, with a natural mechanical turn, so he comprehended the sort of carriage they wanted, and willingly undertook to make it.

Chapter Five.

Our Kite-Race.

Towards the end of April, the rising sun ushered in a fine breezy morning, with every promise of a strong wind during the day. It was a half-holiday; but on grand occasions of the sort—for it was the day fixed for the kite-race—the boys were allowed to get up and begin lessons an hour earlier than usual. The Doctor always encouraged early rising, and he was, besides, anxious to show us that he took an interest in our amusements, by making such regulations as might facilitate them.

Ernest and Ellis had constantly been to old Hobson’s to see how their carriage was getting on. “Never you mind, young gen’men, it’s all right,” was his answer for some days. “I won’t disappoint you; but you see several has come here who wants such fine painted affairs, that I must get on with them. There’s Mr Blackall, now, who has been and ordered a carriage which I tells him will take six horses to drag; but he says that he has got a kite coming which will pull one along ten miles an hour, twice as big as this, so of course I’ve nothing more to say.”

A large flat case arrived in the morning of the race day for Blackall, just as we were going in to lessons after breakfast; so he had no time to open it. It was not as large as he expected, but still he was very confident that all was right.

Lessons over, we went in to dinner—and that meal got through, with more speed than usual, we all assembled to see the kites and the carriages which had been prepared.

The carpenters were in attendance with the vehicles they had got ready according to orders received. They were of all shapes and plans. Several, among whom was Blackall’s, were very finely painted, but the greater number were mere boxes on wheels, put together at very little expense—which few boys were able to afford, even when clubbing together.

First appeared Monsieur Malin’s kite; it represented a wonderful Green Dragon, twisting and turning about in the most extraordinary way—the tail of the kite being merely the small end of the tail of the dragon. It had great big red eyes, glowing with tinsel, and wings glittering all over, and a tongue which looked capable of doing a large amount of mischief. Loud shouts of applause welcomed the green dragon, as Monsieur Malin held it up like a shield before him, and moved about the playground, hissing, and howling, and making all sorts of dreadful noises.

Tommy Bouldon had joined a club, which produced a magnificent Owl, with a large head, and huge goggling eyes; and never did owl hiss more loudly than did their owl as it met Monsieur Malin’s terrific dragon. They at last rushed at each other with such fury, that Tommy’s head very nearly went through the owl’s body, which would effectually have prevented it from flying at the match.

Lemon and Buttar had fraternised, and in front of them marched a Military Officer, magnificent in a red coat, vast gold epaulets, and no end of gold braiding and trimming, which glittered finely in the sun, while his richly ornamented cocked hat, set across his head, had on the top of it a waving plume of feathers, and a drawn sword in his hand shone in the sunbeams. He looked very fiercely at the dragon and the owl, as he did at everybody, for his eyes were large, and round, and dark.

The Dragon roared, and the Owl hissed at him, when he growled out, “I’ll eat you,” which produced loud shouts of laughter from both of them, while they quietly replied, “You can’t.”

After the General had shown himself, Ellis walked in, bearing a long thin pole, wrapped round, it appeared, by a flag. Ernest accompanied him, carrying a reel of fine but very strong twine. Some boys stared, and others laughed derisively, and asked if he thought that thing was going to fly. “You’ll see—you’ll see,” he answered very quietly.

“Fly!—Dat it will—higher dan any of ours, I tell you, boys,” observed Monsieur Malin, who had eyed it attentively.

Ernest and Ellis marched across the playground, into the field beyond, out of sight, and in less than two minutes returned, bearing aloft a magnificent Knight in silver armour, with a glittering shield on his arm, a plume on his helmet, and a spear in his hand. His visor was up, and his countenance, with a fine black beard and moustache, looked forth fiercely beneath it, while a band of roses, which was thrown over his shoulder, hung down and formed a very magnificent tail, glittering with jewels. No sooner did the gallant knight make his appearance than the derisive laughter and sneers were changed into shouts of applause. All were agreed that never had a more beautiful kite appeared.

“All very well,” cried Dawson, who was expecting Blackall’s kite to come forth, “but it is a question with me whether such a gimcrack-looking affair will fly.”

Blackall had meantime been busily employed in unpacking his kite, which was to create so much astonishment, and do such mighty things. He undid the strings and brown paper, and laths, which surrounded it, with eager haste. A number of boys were looking on, all curious to see what was to be produced. Dawson was among the most sanguine, expecting that something very fine was to appear. At last Blackall was seen to scratch his head, and to look somewhat annoyed.

“Come, come, Blackall,” exclaimed Sandford, one of the biggest fellows, and certainly no friend of his; “let us see this precious kite of yours. Out with it, man.”

“Mind your own business, Sandford,” answered the bully, sulkily. “I’ll show the kite when I feel inclined.”

“Ho, ho, ho!” replied Sandford, laughing; and knowing perfectly well that Blackall dared not retaliate, stooping down, he lifted the kite, and held it up to the view of the whole school. There was a picture of a big ugly boy daubed in the commonest ochre, and bearing evident marks of its toy-shop origin, though Tommy Bouldon and others declared that they recognised in it a strong likeness to Blackall himself. Blackall seemed to think that some trick had been played him, though it was very clear that the likeness was accidental.

“It’s pretty plain who’s got the ugliest and most stupid looking kite,” said Buttar, as he passed by. “Very like himself. I wonder if it will fly.”

“Yes, if it can find a small kite up in the sky to thrash,” observed Bouldon. “But, I say, let us give three cheers for Blackall’s toy-shop kite. I wonder if he will take it as a compliment.”

A boisterous, if not a hearty, cheer was quickly raised, which barely served to cover a chorus of hisses and groans uttered by a number of little fellows, who had been in the habit of receiving gratuitous kicks and cuffs from their amicable companion.

There were several ordinary kites, remarkable chiefly for their size, being made of newspapers; but there were others contributing an ingenious variety of devices—bats, and frogs, and fish of curious shapes. The flying-fish especially looked very natural as they glittered in the sunbeams, only people could not help inquiring how they came to be up so high in the air.

At last all were ready to set forth; some pushed the carriages, and others carried the kites. Ernest and Ellis rolled up theirs, and carried it along very easily. The Doctor led the way, accompanied by two or three of the biggest fellows; but he would every now and then stop, and call up some of the smaller ones to have a talk with them.

The ground chosen for the trial of the kites was a high, downy table-land, with a fine flat surface. It was a very pretty sight to see all the boys, with their carriages and gaily-coloured kites, assembled together. There were nearly fifty kites, for many brought small kites, with which they had no intention to contend for a prize. All the masters, and several friends of the Doctor’s and some of the boys, attended to act as umpires. At last everything was arranged.

The kite-flyers formed one long line, with the wind in their backs. The first point to be decided was the beauty of the kites. Lemon had his horn, which was to be used as a signal. He blew three shrill blasts. At the sound of the third, up they all flew, some starting rapidly upwards; others wavering about before ascending; a few refusing to mount altogether beyond a few yards off the ground. However, the greater number mounted rapidly, their brilliant colours flashing in the sunbeams. The spectators clapped their hands loudly, as a mark of their approbation, and then set to work to make notes, that they might decide when called on to declare on whom the prizes ought to be bestowed.

Monsieur Malin’s Green Dragon came in for a large share of praise, so did the General Officer; but Ellis’s Knight of the Silver Shield was decided to be the most elegant and beautiful of all the kites, and the owner was called forth to receive his meed of applause.

Many were surprised when they saw Ellis, with his awkward gait, shuffling out from among the crowd; and, more especially, when he announced himself, in a hesitating tone, not only as the maker, but as the designer of the Knight of the Silver Shield.

One kite went up some way, just sufficient to exhibit its ugliness, but wavered and rolled about in the most extraordinary manner, evidently showing that it was lop-sided. It received shouts, but they were not of applause, and they were accompanied by hisses, which the Doctor, however, repressed. The kite received in this unflattering way was Blackall’s boasted toy-shop production. He was highly indignant, and walked about stamping with rage.

Buttar and Bouldon were much amused, and expressed a hope that he would expend his fury on his kite, and cut it to pieces. He drew out his knife, evidently with that intention, but he had not the heart to attack it.

“I’ll tell you what it is, Bobby,” said he to Dawson, who was standing by not a little disgusted, “it pulls terrifically hard, and in my opinion, if it is altered a little, and has a heavier wing put on the right side, it will yet do magnificently, and make all those howling monkeys change their tone. That dolt Ellis, and that conceited chap Bracebridge, will soon find that their finely-bedizened machine is cut out. My carriage is, I know, such a first-rate one, that it will go along with anything.”

Dawson was in great hopes that Blackall was right, for he had staked his reputation, as he said, on the success of his patron and his imported kite, and he had no fancy to find himself laughed at. In what Master Bobby Dawson’s reputation consisted he did not stop to inquire, and certainly anybody else would have been very puzzled to say.

The rest of the kite-flyers troubled themselves very little about Blackall and his ill success. They were all intent on making their own kites perform their best. After the kites had flown for some time, the Doctor advanced from the group of spectators and umpires, and summoned Ellis and Monsieur Malin, and, with an appropriate address, bestowed on them the two first prizes, complimenting them on their design, and the beauty of the execution.

And now the time arrived to try which kites could fly the highest. All were hauled in, and the boys stood as before in a row. The signal was given by Lemon, and up they went, soaring far away into the blue sky. This time Ernest had a kite as well as Ellis. It was a good large kite, with remarkably strong string. The device was that of a man-at-arms, with a gleaming battle-axe over his shoulder, or, as Ernest called it, the Squire.

“Why, Bracebridge! what do you expect that kite to do, eh?” exclaimed Lemon. “It is too heavy-looking to fly, and not large enough to drag a carriage.”

“I hope that at all events he will do his duty, and prove a faithful Squire,” answered Bracebridge.

“I wonder what he means?” said several boys who overheard him.

Away soared the kites; some of them appeared as if they would never come down again. The Green Dragon rose very high, and must have astonished the birds and beasts of the field, if it did not the human beings in the valley below. The Silver Knight also played his part well up in the skies, so did the General, and many others. Up, up went the Green Dragon, and high soared the Silver Knight; Excelsior was his motto; but high as he went, the Green Dragon went higher.

“Hilloa, Bracebridge, you and your friend should have chosen a different motto for your knight, for the Green Dragon is beating him, and the old Owl is not far behind,” exclaimed Lemon, who, while manoeuvring his kite, found himself not far from Ernest.

“Stay a bit,” answered Ernest, in a good-natured tone; “perhaps our knight may yet prove that his motto was not ill-chosen. We have not yet got to the end of our line.”

Monsieur Malin kept easing out his line, and his monster went slowly upward, but it was evident that the weight of string it had already to bear was almost too much for it, and that it would not carry much more. It was a brave dragon, however, and in the French master’s skilful hands, it is extraordinary how high it got up. At last it was evident that it was stationary, and required a great deal of manoeuvring to be kept at the height it had attained.

“Now, Bracebridge,” cried Ellis, who had worked the Silver Knight up almost as high, “let me have your line.”

“All right,” answered Bracebridge, hauling down his kite till it was within thirty feet of the ground. “Hook on.”

On this Ellis brought the end of his line up to Bracebridge, who fastened it to the string of the Squire, which immediately shot upward, while higher and higher flew the Silver Knight. He reached the Green Dragon, and floated proudly past him. Up he went, higher and higher, till a glittering spot could alone be seen in the blue heavens. Shouts of applause broke from the spectators.

“Now,” cried Bracebridge triumphantly, “has not our knight chosen his motto with judgment, Excelsior? See, up he goes higher and higher.”

Higher he did go, indeed; and in a short time the glittering spot was lost to view.

“We could easily get our Squire out of sight also, if we could find a line light enough and strong enough to bear the strain of the two kites together, but no string we have got here could bear the strain that would be put upon it,” observed Ernest to those who came round to observe the wonder which had been wrought.

Some declared that it was not fair, and that they had no right to fasten the string of one kite to that of another.

“Oh! that’s all nonsense, and you fellows know it well,” answered Ernest. “The question to be decided is, which kite can reach the farthest from the earth, and ours has done so. Unless another gets higher, we shall win the prize.”

No other kite got even so high as the Green Dragon, so the Silver Knight was most justly declared to be the winner of the prize.

“Froggy Malin’s and those fellows’ kites may fly high, but they will not be able to pull anything along,” growled out Blackall. “Before they think that they are going to carry off all the prizes, let us see what my kite can do. He looks like a strong, tough fellow, who can pull hard at all events.”

Dawson and a few of Blackall’s admirers echoed these sentiments, fully believing that he did not boast without reason of what he would do.

The carriages were now brought forward from a chalk-pit, where they had been concealed, and formed a line in front of the spectators. Blackall’s was certainly the largest, and not the least gay and gaudy, but more than one person smiled at the notion of its being dragged along by a single kite. None of the carriages could boast of much beauty, but some were very finely painted, and were admired accordingly. When Ernest brought out his vehicle, it was much laughed at, for it had such an odd, spider-like, skeleton look. Still the knowing ones acknowledged that it might have a great deal of go in it.

Most of the line of the kites was now hauled in and wound up. Ernest and Ellis got down the Silver Knight, and fastened some light lines to each of his wings, and brought them down to the carriage. Two or three boys stood round each carriage holding it. At a signal, given by Lemon on his horn, to prepare, they all jumped in. At another, all hands were taken off the carriages, and away most of them went at a fair speed. One did not move—it was Blackall’s. Who could picture his wrath and indignation? He pulled and pulled at the line; the kite rose somewhat, but wavered about terribly: now it darted to one side, now to the other.

“Come along, Blackall, come along,” shouted several of the racers, as they moved on, and left him trying all sorts of useless experiments to make the kite pull and the carriage move. Neither one nor the other could he accomplish. Shouts of laughter reached his ear, and he was conscious that they were caused by his ill success. This only increased his rage and bitterness. He stamped in his anger and impatience till he knocked his feet through the boards which formed the bottom of his carriage. He lost all command over himself. He hallooed; he shouted at his kite; and then he swore great, horrible oaths at the kite, and the carriage, and at the wind, till the voice of the Doctor sounded in his ear, ordering him sternly to get out of the carriage and drag it out of the way. He sulkily obeyed, and wound up the string of his kite, and betook himself to the background, trembling lest the Doctor should have overheard his expressions.

“I say, Dawson,—I say, Smith,—do you think the old one heard what I said?” he asked, as he was going off, and they stood, not liking to desert him altogether, and yet wishing to go on and see the fun.

“I believe you he did, my boy,” answered Smith, who had but little of the milk of human kindness in his composition. “You spoke loud enough to be heard half-a-mile off.”

“But I say, Bobby, do you think so? Did he hear me? By Jove, I shall get a pretty jobation if he did!” exclaimed the bully, appealing in a whining tone to Dawson.

The wretched, cowardly lad forgot that there was another—a great Omniscient Being—who, at all events, heard him; and that every evil word he had uttered had assuredly been registered in a book whence it would never be erased till the Day of Judgment, when it would be made known to thousands and tens of thousands of astonished and mourning listeners. But such an idea never crossed Blackall’s mind. Had it, perhaps it might have prevented him from uttering the expressions of which he so frequently made use.

Fearful only of the immediate disagreeable consequences should the Doctor have heard him, he retired by himself from the ground; while Dawson, and the few other boys who had hitherto adhered to him, set off in pursuit of the racers.

With shouts of laughter the racers went on. At first the Green Dragon took the lead, followed closely by the Owl, for both the carriages were very light, and the kites were skilfully managed. Each of them had a second kite attached; for, unless there had been a very strong wind, one would scarcely have dragged them on. Monsieur Malin had selected two boys to manage his carriage, and he ran by their side to direct them; for his own weight would have been too great for it. The Knight and Squire followed closely on the first two carriages. They were flying, on starting, somewhat too high; but Ernest hauled in the lines, and the effect was soon perceptible. On went their daddy-long-legs, as he and Ellis called their car, and soon got up to the Owl.

“To-hoo, to-hoo, to-hoo!” cried the directors of the Owl, but the Knight and his Squire pulled away, and the Owl was left astern, and very soon the Green Dragon was overtaken. They, of course, were assailed with the most horrible hisses, and roars, and strange noises of all sorts; but these did not daunt the Knight and his Squire, who went bravely on.

“Excelsior! excelsior! Hurra! hurra!” shouted Ernest and Ellis, as their car took the lead. Gradually, but surely, it increased its distance from the rest. Monsieur Malin did his best to manoeuvre his kites; so did Lemon and the rest; but they could not manage to overtake the Knight and his Squire, though they hissed, and roared, and shouted with merry peals of laughter between the intervals, calling them to stop, and not go ahead so fast.

“Old Hobson did not deceive us,” observed Ellis; “really this carriage goes along capitally.”

“He has done us justice, certainly,” answered Ernest. “But remember, Ellis, our success is entirely owing to your talent and judgment. You think too little of yourself. Now, hurrah! we shall soon be at the winning-post if the wind holds.”

Never were there more merry or noisy racers; except, perhaps, in a donkey race, when the winner is the donkey which comes in last.

“Very easy to win that sort of race,” some one will say.

Not at all, though.

In ordinary races, each jockey wishes the horse he rides to win; but, in donkey races,—which I hold to be superior to all others, whether at Goodwood, or Ascot, or Epsom,—each jockey rides his opponent’s donkey, so each is anxious to get in before the other, and, if possible, to leave his own behind.

The wind blew fair; the kites drew capitally; the Green Dragon was, after all, not very far behind the Knight and Squire; and the Owl came too-hooing, close upon the Dragon’s tail; while the General Officer seemed in a great hurry to catch the Owl, and kept singing out “Halt! halt! right-about-face,” and other expressions evidently from a somewhat scanty vocabulary of military terms. The rest of the racers came up pretty thickly one after the other.

As they reached the winning-post, where one of the masters stood ready to mark the time of their arrival, there was a general shout for Blackall and his fat boy.

“Oh, he was last seen in the chalk-pit, hacking him to pieces with his knife, while he seemed inclined to treat his wonderful carriage much in the same way.” A boy who had just come up gave this news.

A few expressions of commiseration were uttered by Dawson and others; but in their hearts no one really pitied the bully. How could they? What had he ever done to win the affection, or regard, or esteem of any one of his school-fellows? Certainly, to those with whom he associated and whom he patronised, he had ever done far more harm than good; and of this most of them were aware at the time, though they might not be willing to acknowledge it to themselves; and bitterly were they conscious of it before many years were past, when they reaped the fruits of his pernicious example. Several sunk into early and dishonoured graves: others lived, ruined in health and constitution, to bemoan the fate which their folly and vice had brought on them. But to return to our merry racers.

They were called up forthwith to receive their prizes. The most valuable were some serviceable fishing-rods, reels, lines, fishing-baskets, a couple of bows, and the various accoutrements required in archery, a good bat or two, and similar things valued by boys.

The Doctor made a very neat speech, and complimented them all on the skill and talent displayed both in kites and carriages.

“Especially I must compliment you, Bracebridge, on the beauty of your kites, and the skill with which you have managed them.”

“Not me, sir, but Ellis deserves the praise,” answered Ernest in a clear, loud voice, so that every one might hear. “He is a very clever fellow, sir, only he does not know it. He thought of the carriages and the kites, and, indeed, of every thing; I merely helped him. I joined him because I knew that by himself he would be too diffident to carry out his own plans. I was his assistant, that was all.”

“I am glad to hear you thus speak of Ellis, but you equally deserve the prize, although you only aided him in carrying out his plans. I have, therefore, to present you with this bow, and all the equipments complete; and you, Ellis, with this fishing-rod, and all the accompanying gear.”

Ernest, who was perfectly free from timidity, and always expressed himself well, made a very appropriate reply; and, at poor Ellis’s earnest request, spoke for him also, and said a great deal more in his favour than he would have done himself.

Monsieur Malin seemed as much pleased at getting a prize as were any of the boys. A capital fishing-rod was presented to him; and he invited all who had rods to accompany him some day on a grand fishing expedition. Altogether, the kite-flying was most successful; and a stout old gentleman, one of the umpires, expressed a hope that next year they might all enjoy a similar treat; and that he was not at all certain that he should not try to get half-a-dozen kites and a carriage, with which he might join in the race. Several merry voices shouted “We hope you will, sir,—we hope you will.” And that made him so enthusiastic that he promised, if he possibly could, to do as he had proposed.

They all went back to a capital, grand half-holiday tea, which was very different to the ordinary meal of bread-and-butter; and consisted of cakes, and sandwiches, and meat-pies, and sausages, and all sorts of substantial productions likely to satisfy the appetites of hungry boys.

The only person who did not enjoy the day was Blackall. He came back expecting every instant to be called up by the Doctor; but bed-time came, and he was not summoned. As he was on his way to his room he met Ellis, who was about to pass him without looking at him, or in any way taking notice of him.

“What do you mean by grinning at me, you young scamp?” exclaimed Blackall suddenly.

“I did not intentionally alter a muscle of my countenance,” answered Ellis quietly. “Did you, however, address me?”

“If that’s intended for impudence, take that,” cried Blackall, dealing a heavy blow with his fist on Ellis’s head. “I allow no young jackanapes like you to treat me with contempt.”

“But if we feel contempt, how do you expect to be treated?” exclaimed a brisk, confident voice close at his elbow.

Blackall turned round to see who had dared thus to beard him. He saw Bracebridge standing close to him, in an attitude which showed that he was prepared for an attack.

“You want to get it, do you?” exclaimed Blackall, furiously, at finding his authority disputed by a boy of Ernest’s size. “You shall have more than you expect.”

“Now, run off, Ellis; run off,” cried Ernest; “I’ll tackle this fellow.”

Ellis did not run, though Blackall let him go and advanced towards Ernest; but Ernest’s undaunted bearing completely staggered him. He stood irresolute; while his opponent fixed his eye boldly on him. He feared some trick. He thought that some big fellow must be behind, ready to back up Bracebridge; or that he knew the Doctor was coming. He judged of other people by what he knew himself to be. He had no conception of the existence of the spirit which animated Ernest.

“Well, what are you going to do?” said Ernest, as he stood with clenched fist before him. “If you are going to strike me, do it at once, and get it over. I have no wish to stay here all night, waiting to be attacked by you.”

While Ernest was speaking, Blackall was considering what he would do. At last, seeing no one coming, he plucked up courage, and made a dash at Ernest, who, springing aside, adroitly, warded off the blow.

Poor Ellis, meantime, stood by, trembling with agitation. He knew from sad experience that the bully hit very hard; and every blow he saw aimed at his friend he felt as if it had hurt him ten times as much as if it had been struck at himself.

They were in one of the many passages leading to the bedrooms, through which neither the masters nor servants often passed, so that Blackall knew that he was pretty secure from interruption. Ernest was aware of the same fact. He cared nothing at all about the thrashing he should get, and was only anxious to save Ellis. Ellis, however, would not move, and Blackall looked as if he would thrash both of them.

Still more angry at being baulked of his revenge, Blackall again struck at Ernest, and tried to catch him, but in the latter object he did not succeed, though he hurt Ernest’s arm, so that he could with difficulty defend himself; and now blow succeeded blow with considerable rapidity.

Bracebridge disdained to fly, and as he could not hope to return the blows with much effect, he contented himself at first with standing on the defensive, waiting his opportunity to hit his powerful opponent in the eye or face, where he might leave a mark not easily effaced. He knew that if he succeeded, he should still further enrage the bully; but he also knew that it was very likely to prevent him from ever attacking him again. As Blackall hit out, he sprang back along the passage, then suddenly stopping, he leaped forward again, and put in the blow he desired.

Blackall’s eyes struck fire, but he was too well accustomed to the use, or rather the misuse, of his fists to allow his opponent to escape him. Ernest was again retreating. Blackall caught him under his arm, and was about to inflict the most severe and disagreeable of punishments, by gibbing him, when poor Ellis, who had hitherto stood trembling at a distance, in obedience to Ernest’s directions, could bear it no longer; and, throwing himself forward, leaped on Blackall’s back, and held his arms with all his might and main, butting away at the same time, like a ram, with his head, and kicking furiously with his long legs, biting, it was said, the bully’s ears and cheeks. However that may be, Blackall was compelled to let Ernest go, for the purpose of shaking off his new and ferocious assailant. This was not very easily done, for Ellis had remarkably long and strong arms, and held on like a vice. Ernest seeing this, resolved to bring the bully to terms.

“I say, Blackall, if Ellis lets you go, will you promise faithfully not to hurt him in any way, by word, look, or deed?” exclaimed Ernest.

Blackall did not deign to reply, but continued his impotent efforts to shake off his old man of the woods. He jumped and leaped, and backed against the walls, but to no purpose; he could not manage to get rid of his burden.

“Well, what is your determination?” asked Ernest again, advancing in a threatening attitude towards Blackall, on whom he could now, had he chosen, have inflicted a very severe punishment. “Will you promise faithfully, by all you hold sacred, not to touch or hurt Ellis in any way for this?”

“I should think you had better try to make a bargain for yourself first,” said Blackall.

“Not I!” said Bracebridge, proudly; “I can stand a thrashing far better than Ellis. I am pretty well accustomed to your lickings, and they don’t hurt me much. Therefore, again, I ask you, will you promise, or will you not?” As he spoke, he doubled his fists, and advanced on Blackall, whose face was completely exposed to an attack, while Ellis kept battering away at his head, and grasped his arms tighter than ever.

What might have been the consequences I do not know; Bracebridge, in all probability, would pretty severely have handled the bully, and, his anger being excited, would have left some marks not very easily eradicated on his countenance: when a light was seen in the passage, and a quick step advanced towards them. Bracebridge disdained to fly, and Blackall could not, so they waited the result.

“Ah! vat you garçons do there?” exclaimed Monsieur Malin, for it was the French master, holding up his candle. “Let me see! Ah, I understand! You, Blackall, are one very bad boy. You go to bed now. Bracebridge, Ellis, you come with me.”

Ellis on this jumped off Blackall’s back, and glad he was to do so, for his arms were beginning to ache terribly with his exertions.

Blackall sneaked off, vowing vengeance in his craven heart on his adversaries; and the kind-hearted Frenchman led the other two away, and urged them to keep clear of the bully. When, however, he heard how the affair had taken place, he was very much inclined to go and inform the Doctor, to try and get Blackall expelled, but they entreated aim not to do so, and declared that they did not fear him, and would not run the risk of thus injuring his prospects.

“Ah, you are brave garçons, brave garçons!” exclaimed Monsieur Malin.

At all events, they were true, right-feeling English boys.

Chapter Six.

Our Military Exercises.

Bracebridge had to press his advice on Ellis more than once before he could induce him to apply for leave to drill and to learn fencing and the broadsword exercise. All these sort of lessons were classed among the extras, so that the Doctor did not insist on the boys learning them unless by the express wish of their parents. If they themselves wished to learn them, they had to write home and get leave. This system, I fancy, made these branches of education far more popular than they would otherwise have been. The several masters, knowing that the number of their pupils depended on the interest they could excite in their respective sciences, did their utmost to make them attractive. They generally succeeded.

Monsieur Malin would, at all events, have been popular. He was a gentleman by birth and by education, of polished manners, and very good-natured, and as everybody liked him, everybody wished to learn French. Old Dibble, our drill-sergeant, was very unlike him in most respects, but still he won all our hearts. He was a kind-hearted man, and had an excellent temper, and he took great pains to teach us our drill and to make us like it. He was the very man to turn us all into soldiers, and, as Bracebridge had said of him, he never grew weary of recounting his deeds of arms to all whom he could find ready to listen. He was a tall man, somewhat stout, with a bald patch on the top of his head, and grey hair and whiskers, a thoroughly soldier-like hooked nose, and fine piercing grey eyes. Good-natured as he was, he would stand no nonsense or any skylarking; and we all agreed that when he was in the army he was certain to have kept all the men under him in capital order.

Our dancing-master was Mr Jay. He was a proficient in his art; and though he might not have been able to jump as high or to spin round on one leg as long as an opera-dancer, he was able to teach us to dance like gentlemen. He was also a professor of fencing and gymnastics, and a very good instructor he was. He understood thoroughly what the human body could do, and what it might do advantageously. He also taught boxing.

The Doctor was a great encourager of all athletic exercises, and allowed all the boys who wished it to take lessons in boxing once a week for half-an-hour at a time. The greater number availed themselves of the permission, and most of the school were very good boxers. The result was that, as a rule, we were a most peaceable set of boys, and I believe that fewer quarrels took place than among any equal number of boys in England. We had a riding-master, who used to come every Saturday with five or six ponies, and give us lessons in a paddock attached to the school-grounds. The Doctor used to say that his wish was to educate our hearts, our minds, and our bodies as far as he had the power, and that he found from experience that the greater variety of instruction he could give us, the more perfectly he could accomplish his object. He himself gave us instruction in swimming. I have described the pond in the grounds. He used a machine something like a large fishing-rod. A belt was fastened round the waist of a young swimmer, and by the belt he was secured to the end of a line hanging from the rod. The Doctor used to stand, rod in hand, and encourage and advise the boy till he gained confidence and knew how to strike out properly. He was anxious to prevent any one from getting into a bad way of striking out, for, as he used to say, it was as difficult to get rid of a bad habit as to acquire a good one. He was, therefore, always waging a deadly warfare against all bad habits from their very commencement, not only with regard to swimming, but in every other action of life. As soon as a boy had learned to strike out properly, he turned him over to the instruction of one of the bigger boys, who had especial charge of him in the water. He had always four or five boys whom he had taught to swim thoroughly well, and he made them swimming-masters. They benefited by having to give instruction to others, and by learning to keep their tempers. Nothing, perhaps, tries the temper so much as having to teach dull or inattentive boys. Blackall had been made one of the swimming-masters, but at the commencement of the bathing season the Doctor called him up, and without a word of explanation told him that he thought fit to dismiss him from the post. He lost, in consequence, several privileges attached to the office. To a person of Blackall’s character, the mode of his dismissal was a considerable punishment. It showed him that the Doctor was aware of some of his misconduct, but of how much he was still left in ignorance, and he had to live on in fear that some more severe punishment was still in store for him. I am glad to say that there were very few other fellows at all like Blackall in the school. There were, of course, some few bullies and blackguards, or who would speedily have become so if left to their own devices, and there were cowards, and boys who carelessly told an untruth, or were addicted to the too common vice of prevarication. There were also vicious boys, or who would have been vicious had they not been watched and restrained. These were exceptions to the general rule. The Doctor’s system, embracing the law of kindness, answered well, and brought forth good fruits.

“Come along, Ellis,” said Ernest, one Saturday afternoon, when he found his friend busily working away at the model of a vessel he was cutting out of a piece of American pine; “there’s Sergeant Dibble in the playground; I’ll take you up to him, and tell him that he must turn you into a soldier before the holidays. He’ll do it if you obey his directions.” Sergeant Dibble was found in the middle of the playground, surrounded by a number of boys, who were listening eagerly to one of his stories with which he was amusing them till the hour to commence had arrived.

“The reason why we conquered was this, young gentlemen,” he was saying. “Every man, from the highest to the lowest, knew his duty and did it. If they didn’t know it and didn’t do it, Lord Wellington sent them about their business, no matter who they were. Remember that when you grow up. Your duty, I take it, is to do your best in whatever station you may be placed; what you are certain will produce the best results and forward the objects in which you are engaged. It is not enough to say, ‘Such were my orders;’ you must try and discover the spirit of your orders. Above all things, you must never be afraid of responsibility. Never be afraid of being found fault with when you know that you’ve done what’s right. I was going to tell you how we crossed the river Douro, in Portugal; how we surprised Marshal Soult, and how Lord Wellington ate the dinner which had been prepared for him and his staff. We very nearly made him and his whole army prisoners, and we followed them up so closely that they had no time to rest till they were clear out of Portugal; but the hour is up. Fall in, young gentlemen; fall in!”

Ernest took this opportunity to go up to the Sergeant and to explain that he would find Ellis a very willing though, perhaps, a very awkward pupil, and begged that he would treat him accordingly, and not suppose that his awkwardness arose from carelessness or idleness.

Sergeant Dibble looked at Ellis for a few moments. “No fear, Master Bracebridge,” he answered; “I’ve made a first-rate soldier out of far worse materials. If he’s the will, he’ll soon get them long arms and legs to do their duty. It’s rather hard work to get a person who has no ear to march in time, but that’s to be overcome by perseverance, and the eye must be made to do the work which the ear cannot. Fall in, Master Ellis, if you please.”

Ellis had no notion of what falling in meant, so he shuffled about from place to place, looking up inquiringly at the Sergeant. “Take your place, I mean, in the awkward squad, Master Ellis.”

“That’s where I shall always have to be,” thought poor Ellis. “Which are the awkwardest squad, Sergeant?” said he, looking up. “It strikes me that I should go there.”

Whatever Ellis thought of himself, there were several other boys just as awkward, or at all events as unapt to learn military manners. Little Eden was one of them, that is to say, he always forgot what he had learned during his previous lesson. Gregson was another. He was not awkward in his movements, but while instruction was going forward he was always thinking of something else. One reason that Bracebridge succeeded so well in whatever he undertook was, that he had the power of concentrating his attention on whatever he was about; in the school-room or play-room, in the cricket-field or on the parade-ground, it was the same. It was his great talent. He had many other talents, and he also had, from his earliest days, been well trained. Had he been an only son, he might have been spoiled, but he had many brothers, and his temper had been tried, and he had been taught to command himself, and while he relied on his own energies for success, to obey his elders and to treat all his fellow-creatures with respect. Sergeant Dibble very soon pronounced him his best drill. The awkward squad had been standing by themselves for some minutes, looking very awkward, indeed, when Sergeant Dibble exclaimed—

“Fall out, Mr Bracebridge, and take charge of that squad. Exercise them in the balance step, and put them through their facings.”

Ernest, not a little proud, obeyed, and while the rest of the young soldiers were marching up and down, taking open order, wheeling to the right or left, and going through a variety of manoeuvres, he placed himself in front of the boys I have described, with others, making altogether about a dozen. His first aim was to awaken them all up. “Attention!” he exclaimed in a sharp tone, which made them all spring up suddenly. He then explained very clearly what he wanted them to do, and put himself in the required attitude, taking care that they all did the same. Very few could not do the balance step. Chivey and other hopping games had taught them that. He kept them at it a very few minutes, and then telling them to practise it by themselves, went on to teach them their facings, explaining the object of each movement. He did it all in so patient and good-natured a manner that every boy in the squad expressed a hope that Bracebridge might be set to teach them again.

“I’ll tell you what we will do; we will work away every day in the week, and when Sergeant Dibble comes next week we will show him what we can do.” The idea was taken up enthusiastically, and even the least apt of the squad made great progress. In two or three weeks they were fully equal to those who had been drilling all the half. Sergeant Dibble was delighted, and foretold that if Master Bracebridge went into the army he would distinguish himself.

“I don’t know what I am to be,” replied Ernest; “I know that I am to do everything I am set to do as well as I can.”

There were some twenty boys or more who were very far from perfect in their drill in the larger squad, and Sergeant Dibble managed to persuade them to put themselves, during the week, under Ernest’s instruction. Some few, at first, kicked at the notion, but finally all agreed to obey his orders on the parade-ground during one hour every day. Others, of their own accord, joined, and in a short time he had quite a large army of volunteers. He spared no pains to perfect them. He got the Sergeant to bring him a “Manual of Drill Instruction,” and every spare moment he spent in studying it attentively.

In a few weeks Ernest’s squad surpassed that composed of the older boys in the accuracy and rapidity of their movement; and Sergeant Dibble, when he came, expressed his astonishment and delight on finding what could be done when all set to work with a will to do it.

Ernest, too, gained great popularity, and many who had before rather envied him now frankly acknowledged his talents and excellent qualities. He himself also behaved very well. He did not set himself up above the rest in consequence of what he had done and the applause he had gained, but the moment the drill was over he became like one of the rest, and took his hat, or his fishing-rod, or his hoop—though, by the by, he was getting rather out of hoops—and went off shouting and laughing with all the merry throng.

The greatest possible change was worked in Ellis. He no longer looked like the same boy. The alteration in his appearance was almost as striking as that which takes place in a country clown caught by a recruiting sergeant, half drunk at a fair, as he rolls on, looking every moment as if he was going to topple over, from public-house to public-house, and when he has been under the drill-sergeant’s hands for a couple of years, and is turned into the trim, active, intelligent soldier. At first, few who saw poor Ellis’s awkward attempts could possibly avoid laughing. How he rolled from side to side; how he stuck out one foot, and changed it again and again, finding that it was the wrong one; how, when the word “to the right-about” was given, he invariably found himself grinning in the face of his left-hand man, unless by good chance the latter had made the same mistake as himself, when he became suddenly inspired with the hope that he had, for a wonder, hit off the right thing. He soon found his hopes disappointed by being summoned to repeat the movement, with a caution to do it correctly. Then, on receiving the order to march, he nearly always started off with his right foot instead of his left, and when he did put out the left, he quickly changed it to the right, under the impression that he must have made a mistake. Still his perseverance was most praiseworthy. Bracebridge had assured him that in time he would become a good soldier if he wished it, and a good soldier he resolved to be, whether he followed up the profession or not. He read as hard as he had ever done, and found time to manufacture all sorts of things, and yet no one practised more than he did drilling, and games, and all sorts of athletic exercises. Before the change I have described was perceptible, the half was nearly over, and the summer holidays were about to begin. I have, in mentioning it, run on somewhat ahead of events. Ernest had advised him to learn to dance and to fence.

“Come, come, you are joking now, old fellow,” was his reply, in his former melancholy tone of voice. “I may learn any rough affair, like drilling and gymnastics, and, perhaps, the broadsword exercises, and learn enough to cut a fellow’s head off; but to hop and skip about to the sound of a fiddle, or to handle a thin bar of steel so as to prevent another fellow with a similar weapon running his into me, is totally beyond my powers. I know that I could not, if I was to try ever so much.”

“So you thought about gymnastics, and so you thought about drilling, and yet you have succeeded very well in both. Remember the motto of our Silver Knight. Push on up the hill; work away at one thing, and then another. It is extraordinary how much may be learnt in a short time, if people will but give their minds to what they are about. I know a good number of things, and I can do a good number of things, and yet I have not spent more hours of my life with a book before me than have most boys of my age; but then, when I have had a book before me, I have been really busy, getting all I could out of it; I have not sat idling and frittering away my time as so many fellows do. I don’t fancy that I cannot do a thing because it is difficult; I always try to find out where the difficulty lies, and then see how I can best get over it. I like difficulties, because I like to conquer them. This world is full of difficulties, which it is the business of men to conquer. A farmer cannot get a field of corn to grow without overcoming difficulties. He must dig up or plough up the ground; he must get rid of the weeds; he must trench it, and after a time manure it; and this he must do year after year, or it will not produce abundantly. And so it is throughout all the works to be done in this world: then why should we expect to get knowledge, to cultivate our minds, to get rid of the weeds growing up constantly in them, without labour, and hard labour, too? Now, I dare say, my dear fellow, you think that I am talking very learnedly, or you may say, very pedantically; but I do not even claim originality for my views. My father pointed them out to me and my brothers long ago. He threw difficulties in our way, and stood by till we overcame them, telling us it was the best practice we could have in the world. I cannot tell you how much we owe to our father. He is the wisest man I ever met. I dare say there are many cleverer people; men who can talk better, and have done more, and have written more, and who are thought much more of in the world; but my brother and I agree, for all that, that he is the wisest, and if not the most talented, which we don’t say he is, that he makes the best use of the talents he has got. You must come and see him one of these days; I would say at once; but I think that you will like him, and that he will like you better by and by. I wrote to him about you, I must confess that, and he put me up to some of the advice I gave you. My brothers and I always write to him just as we write to one another; indeed, we generally pass our letters on to him, because we know that he likes to hear everything that we are doing. We have no secrets from him, as I find some fellows here have. We always go to him for advice about everything. He often tells us to act as we think best, and to let him know what we have done. Sometimes he tells us that he thinks we have acted very judiciously; at other times he tells us that, from the judgment he has been able to form, we ought to have done differently. He has never kept us in what might be called leading-strings; but has placed the same confidence in us that we do in him—that is to say, he knows we want to do what is right. Depend on it, Ellis, there is nothing like having the most perfect confidence between your father and yourself. I assure you that I should be miserable if I had not, and if I did not believe that he is the best friend I have on earth, or ever shall have.”

Bracebridge said a great deal more to the same effect. Indeed, whenever he got on the subject of his father’s excellences, he was always enthusiastic. Not without ample reason, I believe, for Mr Bracebridge was a man possessed of very rare qualities; and Oaklands, his place, was one of the most delightful houses to visit at in the country, or probably, in all England; that is to say, young men and boys, and indeed young people, generally, found it so. Ernest knew that it would do poor Ellis a great deal of good to go there. From what he could make out, Ellis’s father and mother were advanced in life and great invalids, and Edward, their only son, had been considerably over-petted and over-coddled, though, as they had a good deal of sense with regard to many important matters, they had not spoilt him. They had corrected him as a child when he deserved it, and watching the growth of bad propensities, had endeavoured to eradicate them before they had attained any size. They were themselves very shy, diffident people, and thinking little of themselves, thought very little of their son, and brought him up to think very little of himself. Certainly, if they erred, they erred on the right side.

Ellis was not weak; he was not a boy at all likely to be imposed upon by a bad person; his principles were, as far as could be seen, good, and his sympathies appeared to be always on the right side. Thus he was undoubtedly particularly fortunate in falling in with a boy like Ernest Bracebridge, whom he could admire, and who could, at the same time, enter into his feelings, and take an interest in him. Still Ernest did not think that he was doing anything out of the way in encouraging him. There was something so natural and unpretending about his character, and so free was he from anything like conceit or vanity, that he was scarcely conscious that he was superior to his companions; or, if he was conscious of the fact, that it was anything on which he should be justified in priding himself. Of one thing I am sure, that he had not found out that, by his own force of character and talents, he had already become one of the most popular boys in the school, and that, had he made the experiment, he would have had more followers than any boy even in the first class. The way he had tackled Blackall the evening of the kite-race had become known, though neither he nor Ellis had talked of it; and this gained him many admirers, especially among those over whom the bully was accustomed to tyrannise. At last Blackall began to be twitted with it, even by the fellows of his own age. It became at last a joke among his compeers to ask him how his ears were—how he liked to have an old man of the woods on his back, and how he could allow himself to be thrashed by a fellow half a head shorter than himself, and so much younger. He dared not attack either Ernest or Ellis openly, but he resolved to take his revenge on them as soon as possible. He had not long to wait for an opportunity. Before our drilling lessons were over, Sergeant Dibble used to arm us all with basket-hilted sticks, which served the purpose of broadswords; and, forming in two parties on opposite sides of the parade-ground, we were ordered to advance and attack, and defend ourselves, delivering or receiving so many cuts each time the two lines passed each other. Blackall, who prided himself on being a good swordsman, thought this would be a fine opportunity for inflicting a severe revenge on Bracebridge, whom he dared not now bully as formerly, and kick and cuff whenever he met him.

“Now, young gentlemen, prepare for the broadsword exercise,” the Sergeant sung out in his clear, sharp voice. “Fall in line; fall in!”

Ellis had begun to learn the broadsword exercise, though it was a sore trial to him, for he found great difficulty in recollecting the proper guards or strokes, and he was always receiving some severe cuts across the head or shoulders or legs, and getting into trouble by giving the wrong strokes, and making his opponents, who were not prepared for them, suffer accordingly. Bracebridge had hit upon a plan to save him somewhat from this, by taking him as his opponent; and when he saw him making the wrong stroke, he was ready with the proper guard; and when he saw that Ellis had not his right guard, he either hit him softly, or hit at the guard presented to him. This was very good practice to Ernest, though it made Sergeant Dibble sing out, every now and then—

“Mr Bracebridge! Mr Bracebridge! can you never remember to listen to the word of command, sir? When I say cut two, I often see you cut four; and when I say third guard, you are apt to use the first or second guard. How is this, sir? Mr Ellis, you are not attentive either, sir, permit me to observe. When I say defend, draw up the hand smartly, and from the first guard. Be smart!—second guard! third guard! Remember, if you have a big, ugly fellow, with a sword sharp enough to divide a bolster, who happens to wish to cut your head off, he doesn’t stop to consider which is the right guard to make, or thrust to deliver. He’d whip off your head before you had time to look round, and then what would you think of yourself, I should like to know?”

Ernest never replied, while exercising, to these or any similar remarks, but he and Sergeant Dibble soon understood each other, and the Sergeant was convinced that Ernest was a better swordsman than he had supposed.

“But, Mr Bracebridge, it will never do to let Mr Ellis go on in that way. Now that he has a little more confidence, we must make him run his chance with the rest,” he urged. “A few cuts with a hazel stick won’t do him any harm, and will make him open his eyes a little.”

To this, of course, Ernest agreed, and the present day was one of the first poor Ellis had to look out for himself.

Blackall had meantime watched Ernest; and hearing him found fault with, and seeing him and Ellis make a mess of it, as he thought, he held his swordsmanship in very low estimation. This made him confident that he could do what he liked with him. It required some management to get placed opposite to him, but he succeeded, and felt highly delighted at the thoughts of the revenge he was about to enjoy.

“Draw swords, gentlemen;” sung out Sergeant Dibble. “Both parties advance. Mr Jones’s party assault with the second cut; Mr Smith’s defend with the second guard. Now hit hard and sharp, gentlemen. If the proper guards are up you can do no harm.” Blackall was in the Jones’s party, and purposed fully to carry out the order. Bracebridge saw that he was opposite to him, and assumed a look of perfect indifference. The bully expected to see him turning pale and looking alarmed. “March!” sung out the Sergeant. “Double quick!”

On rushed the two squadrons, for so they could not help fancying themselves, and, as I believe, the Sergeant for the moment fancied them also. They met with a hostile clash. Blackall, not knowing that the Sergeant’s eye was on him, shifted to the third cut, hoping to give Ernest a severe blow across the legs, but Ernest’s eye was as quick as his, and catching the movement of the arm, he had the third guard ready to receive the blow.

The Sergeant made no remark, but kept a watch on Blackall’s movements, “Very well, gentlemen; very well!” he exclaimed. “Now let Mr Smith’s party assault with the fourth cut. Bravo! performed with perfect precision.” And so he went on. Each time, however, that Jones’s division had to assault, he saw that Blackall endeavoured to take some undue advantage of Ernest, who with equal regularity contrived quietly to foil him. Ernest kept his eye on his opponent’s, but said nothing, and in no other way showed that he was aware of his evil intentions. Blackall at length began to lose his temper at his own failures: he ground his teeth and turned savage glances towards Bracebridge, who met them with a quiet look, free, at the same time, from scorn or anger. Not once did Blackall succeed in inflicting a blow, and though Ernest at last might have bestowed several very severe ones, he rightly refrained from so doing.

“I know perfectly well that even had he hit me, I ought not to have hit him back,” he said to himself; “much more then ought I to refrain when he has not succeeded in his object. I should like to try the plan of heaping coals of fire on his head. I might soften him, but I should have less hope with him than with any one. I will try. It matters not what may happen to me, but I am resolved, at the same time, I will not let him go on bullying any fellow whom I can defend.” When the drill was over, Sergeant Dibble called up Ernest.

“I saw it all, sir,” he said. “You did capitally. I never saw a young gentleman keep his temper as you did. Why he wants to hurt you I don’t know, but I will put you up to a trick or two which will place him in your power. You are getting on famously with your fencing. He piques himself on being a first-rate fencer. He is not bad; and he does very well when he fences with Mr Jay, or any one he knows. Now, though I do not teach fencing, I can fence; and, what is more, I have learned several tricks which people do not generally know. I once saved a wounded Frenchman’s life and took him prisoner, and nursed him as I ought to have done, and then I found he was a master of the science of defence and attack. I never saw a man who could use a small sword as he did. Well, as a mark of his gratitude, he taught me all he knew, and, especially, how to disarm an opponent. It is simple, but requires practice. There is no one in the fencing-room; come with me there and I will show it to you. Practise the trick till I come again, whenever you have an opportunity, either by yourself or with a friend you can trust, like Ellis or Buttar. I’ll answer for it that you will be perfect in a couple of weeks at most. If you lead Blackall to it, he is certain to challenge you before long. Disarm him three times running, and I do not think that he’ll ever wish to attack you again in any way.”

Ernest could not resist the offer the Sergeant made him. He thought that the knowledge might be of the greatest importance to him during his life, so he at once went with the Sergeant into the fencing-room. “You see, Mr Bracebridge,” observed his instructor, “if you had a real sword in your hand, you would give your opponent such a cut round the wrist that he would probably be unable to hold a weapon again for many a month afterwards.”

Ernest set to work at once in his usual way, and Sergeant Dibble taking great pains to instruct him, he quickly acquired the trick.

“You see, sir,” observed the Sergeant, “though a foil does not cut, the button, if the leather is off, as I often see is the case, will give a very ugly scratch round the wrist, and if this is repeated two or three times, a fencer will rather stand clear of the man who can do it. Just do you try it on Blackall, and you’ll see if my word don’t come right.”

After the Sergeant was gone, Ernest thought over what he had said. He did not, however, half like the idea of taking the advantage which had been given him over Blackall.

“No, no!” he exclaimed to himself. “I’ll tell him beforehand what I am going to do. If I was going to engage with him in mortal combat, the matter would be different; I should feel as if I was going to commit a murder; but now I feel as if I was going to inflict on him a very deserved punishment and take down his pride a little.” So Ernest set to work, and practised the trick Sergeant Dibble had taught him. After a day or two he took Buttar and Ellis into his confidence, and they all practised it together. Ellis, however, could not manage to accomplish the turn of the wrist in a way to be effective, but Buttar, who had resolved to be a soldier, and took a deep interest in all military exercises, was never weary in practising it. When Sergeant Dibble came again, he told Ernest that he would be perfect in another week, and complimented Buttar also on his proficiency.

Ellis, meantime, was making great advances in the use of the broadsword, and the Sergeant assured him that if he would go on and persevere, he would very soon be far superior to many idle fellows who now sneered at him, and would not practise unless the master was present.

Chapter Seven.

A Fishing Expedition.

“I say, Bracebridge, we must try our new rod before we break up,” said Ellis, one Saturday, just before the boys were going in to dinner. “It’s a capital afternoon for fishing, cloudy and soft. I’ll see about bait if you will promise to come. Buttar and Bouldon say they will, and so will Gregson; so we shall be a jolly party, and shall gain something even if we don’t catch fish.” Ernest, who always appeared to have more spare time than any one else, consented to go, provided he had half-an-hour’s reading after dinner, to get up some work. Ellis had learned to be almost as eager as his friend in anything he was about. He now hurried off to send Jim, a lame boy, who was allowed to go on errands for the young gentlemen, to prepare the baits for the fishing-party. They all assembled at the appointed hour, with capital rods in hand, with the exception of Gregson, who declared that he always made his own rods, and that his, though uncouth in appearance, would catch as many fish as all the rest put together. The young fishermen had very little excuse for not catching fish. There was a large pond, about two miles off, with a clear full stream running into it. In the stream were trout, grayling, roach, and dace, and the pond was full of fine carp, and tench, and perch, while occasionally the other fish from the stream condescended to swim into it. The fishing belonged to a gentleman in the neighbourhood, who took a great interest in the Doctor and his school, and always allowed a dozen boys at a time to fish there. They had to go to the Doctor or one of the masters for leave, and as seldom more than a dozen wished to go at a time, it was not often that any were disappointed. Off they set, with their fishing-rods over their shoulders, singing away as merrily as crickets. There were one or two ponds and streams in the way, where they proposed to try their fortune for a few minutes, as it was reported that sometimes very fine fish were caught in them. The first they came to was a quiet dark pond, shaded by trees. Gregson declared that he thought it must be full of fish, and he was considered an authority on such matters. Ellis, who knew also a good deal about fishing, rather doubted that such was the case.

“Come and try,” said Gregson; “there is no great harm in doing that, at all events.” Gregson prevailed, and no one perceived a quiet chuckle in the tone of his voice. He persuaded them all to fish with very small hooks and red worms, which he gave them. They had not fished long before Bouldon exclaimed, “I’ve a bite, I’ve a bite!” His float began to bob; down it went, and up he whisked his rod. “A fine fish,” he cried out; “but, hillo, it has legs—four legs, I declare! Why, it’s a monster; a terrible monster. Hillo! Ellis, Gregson, Buttar, come and help me. Will it bite, I wonder?” Gregson ran laughing up to Bouldon to see what was the matter.

“Why, it is a water-newt!” he exclaimed. “A harmless, curious little creature—there, don’t hurt it! It has not swallowed the hook. I’ll put it into my basket and take it home. It will live in a tub of water for a long time. Look! it is something like a lizard, but it has a flat tail made for swimming. What curious little feet and legs! Now, though the newt has four legs, it lays eggs; and to guard them from injury, wraps them up in the leaves of water plants, with its four paws. When the young newt is hatched, it is very like a tadpole. It is like a fish, for it breathes through gills; but as it increases in size the gills go away and the front legs appear, and then the hind ones. In a frog-tadpole the hind legs appear first, and then the front ones.”

“Curious sort of fellows,” observed Tom Bouldon, who had been listening attentively to Gregson’s account; “but, I say, I thought fellows, when they grew bigger, took to gills instead of throwing them aside.”

“Oh! Tommy, Tommy, what a pun!” was the general cry.

“What a good pun, or what a bad one?” asked Bouldon with perfect simplicity. “But, I say, Gregson, are there any other fish but your friends, the newts, in this pond, do you think? because if there are not, I vote we move on.”

“I never heard of any; but I wanted a newt, and so I proposed that we should fish here.”

On hearing this, there was a general proposal that he should be left behind to catch newts by himself; but he promised faithfully to show them where the best fish were to be caught, if they would forgive him. On these conditions he very easily obtained pardon for his trick.

“I say, did you ever catch a fresh-water lobster?” asked Gregson. No one had, and no one believed that there was such a thing. “I’ll soon show you one,” said Gregson; and when they came to a shallow stream with highish banks, pulled off his shoes and stockings, tucked up the sleeves of his shirt and the legs of his trousers, and was soon busy feeling under the banks, just below water.

“Why, he has got one; he has indeed!” shouted Bouldon, as Gregson produced, by the antennae, a crayfish, which, to prevent himself from being bitten, he caught by the back; its claws, though they stretched wide open, as if they had the cramp very badly, being utterly harmless.

“This is a Crustacea,” cried Gregson, holding him up in pride; “and if not a lobster, it may well be called one. I have often caught two or three dozens of them, and found them capital for tea or breakfast. In my opinion, if a person has his senses about him, and will but study natural history, he would be able to live entirely on the herbs and fruits of the field, the birds of the air, and the animals of the earth and water.”

“Ho, ho! a pretty sort of existence that would be!” exclaimed Bouldon. “I suppose you would have us to eat grass, like sheep or cows, or snails, or vermin, or tadpoles.”

“No, no! Tom, but I will undertake to place a capital dinner before you; and, except the trouble of catching the animals, it shall cost nothing beyond a halfpenny, which I will expend in mustard and pepper. I cannot grow the pepper, so I shall buy a farthing’s-worth of that and a farthing’s-worth of mustard seed, which I would grow, and could then give you mustard to eat, and also a salad.”

“What would you do for salt?” asked Buttar.

“I would make that very quickly by the seaside. A few pails of salt-water thrown into any clean hollow of a rock would soon evaporate and leave some excellent salt,” answered Gregson. “Then I would give you several sorts of fish, and crayfish, and, if I can get to the sea, fish of all sorts, and lobsters, and crabs, and shrimps, and oysters, and every variety of shell-fish, and sea-weeds also, some of which are excellent and very nutritious; but I can do very well without going to the sea. Of animals in England there are not many; but I can snare rabbits, and so I could hares, but that would be poaching, and therefore I cannot give you hares; but you shall have all sorts of birds—larks, and blackbirds, and sparrows, and young rooks, and wildfowl, and many others; and then there is no end of vegetables. Nettle-tops, when well boiled, are excellent, and so are a number of other plants which are looked upon as weeds; and you have no idea of the number of roots which grow in the fields, and hedges, and hill-sides, which are fit to eat. Then, to give flavour to our birds and rabbits, I can find mushrooms in abundance, and, indeed, several flavoury seeds and roots. While I think of it, I can do without pepper; we have some native pepper. I can make several teas which have a very nice taste, and I can produce very fair coffee from the root of the dandelion. If I was in Canada, I could manufacture excellent sugar from the maple-tree. Here I could make it out of beetroot, but it would be troublesome. I can give you as a dessert some delicious strawberries, and raspberries, and filberts, and I could get plenty of chestnuts, and no one would accuse me of stealing them; indeed, with a little consideration and trouble, I could place before you a first, second, and third course, which ought to satisfy the taste of the most fastidious. For my own part, I do not object to frog’s legs and snails; and if I was hungry, and could get nothing else, I would eat a snake without hesitation; but I do not ask others to entertain my views.”

“Oh, oh! Greggy, you cannibal! you would eat grubs and caterpillars, I suppose? Why, you are no better than an Australian savage,” exclaimed Bouldon, with a look of ineffable disgust.

“That is the worst of you, Gregson, you go into extremes,” observed Ernest. “We tried once, at home, for curiosity’s sake, just the dinner you describe, and a very good dinner we had, though it was more suited to a Frenchman’s than an Englishman’s taste. My father says that if people studied the subject, many more things would be found fit for food than are now used. For instance, if two people were cast on shore on an uninhabited island, or were travelling through the wilds of America or Australia, one might starve from ignorance of what was fit to eat, while the other, from having a thorough knowledge of botany and natural history generally might find an abundant supply of nutritious food. When fruits are not in season, there are nearly always roots to be found under ground, and various herbs, and even the leaves, and gum, and stems or bark of trees. The inhabitants of Terra del Fuego live on mushrooms which are found growing on the stems of the evergreen beech; indeed, I might multiply instances without end. The naturalist not only knows that such things exist, but, from having studied their habits, knows exactly where to look for them. I have often read of poor fellows starving in the midst of plenty, simply from their ignorance that food was close around them. Others have been afraid to eat what they found for fear of being poisoned. I tell you what, Greggy, I think that you are perfectly right, only you should take care not to disgust people by talking of being ready to eat things for which they may have an antipathy. We know that locusts, and sea-slugs, and bird? nests, are considered great delicacies in some countries, and so are dogs by several people, and really I do not see why a dog should not be as delicate as a pig.”

“Well! I declare that it is next door to cannibalism to eat a dog, man’s faithful friend and protector,” cried Buttar, who was more of a sportsman than any of the rest of the party. “I would sooner starve than eat my old dog, Ponto.”

“I am not at all an advocate for the practice of dog eating,” said Ernest. “But I do argue that civilised and educated people, as we profess to be, should obtain a far greater knowledge of the productions of the earth than we possess.” Gregson was glad to find himself so well supported, and the rest finally agreed that they would get books and try and pick up some knowledge on the subject.

“Books are all very well, and very important indeed; but they alone won’t do; you must study and examine for yourselves. Books will, by themselves, never give you a practical knowledge of natural history.” This conversation lasted till the merry party arrived at the stream where they proposed to fish. They all set to work, each in his own way. Ernest was the only fly-fisher of the party. There was a light breeze which just rippled some of the deep pools in the stream, and as he walked up it, passing his companions one after the other, he seldom passed ten minutes without getting a rise and catching a fish.

“Hillo, Gregson,” said Bouldon; “I thought you, with your stick, were going to catch more than any of us. There’s Bracebridge far ahead of you already; you’ll be beaten, old fellow.”

“Wait a bit,” answered Gregson quietly. “My fish have not begun to bite yet. I am thinking of trying the pond for an hour or so. I ground-baited it as I came by, and I have no doubt I shall catch something.” Bouldon, who was the worst fisherman of the party, in consequence chiefly of his want of patience, accompanied Gregson in the hopes that he might benefit by the ground-bait.

“What is it you put in?” he asked. The young naturalist showed him some balls which looked like balls of clay with some red seams, but they were composed of clay and bran, and gentles, and red worms, and one or two other ingredients, which Gregson averred would attract all sorts of fish. “You must not interfere with my sport, but you shall have a spot to yourself; and I’ll answer for it before long that you will have plenty.” Gregson himself, as he spoke, threw in his line, and as Tom looked on, caught several perch and roach in rapid succession.

“Oh, I can’t stand that; I must go and see what I can do,” exclaimed Bouldon, moving on.

“Very well, just go a little on this side of that willow,” said Gregson; “you will find a deepish hole there. Throw in your ground-bait, and before long you are very likely to get some bites. See; I’ve caught another. What a whacking big perch! Three pounds’ weight, I should say. I’ll have him out soon; don’t stay for me, I can tackle him.” This success of Gregson’s made Bouldon still more anxious to be off to try and catch some fish. Hitherto he had got nothing. Having thrown in all the ground-bait he had got, he baited his hook with the full expectation of catching a basket-full. He cast in his line and stood patiently watching his float. It would not bob. He altered the depth of the hook several times; the worm wriggled, as at first, untouched. He began to grow very impatient.

“This will never do,” he muttered; “I must shift my ground till I find the fish more inclined to be caught.” He looked round towards Gregson, who was pulling up fish as fast as he could. “His basket must be already nearly full, and I have not caught even a wretched gudgeon.”

On this Tom went round the pond, throwing in his line here and there with the same want of success. At last he got a bite; “A big fish,” he thought to himself. “I’m sure it is; hurra! perhaps my one fish may weigh as much as all Gregson’s and Bracebridge’s together.” He hooked his fish, which after one or two tugs, poked his nose to the surface just to see who was at the other end of the line, which somehow or other had got hold of his lips.

“A grand, magnificent pike!” shouted Tom with delight, letting go his reel as the fish began to pull, and darted off into the centre of the pond. Bouldon stood ready to turn him as soon as he began to slacken his pace. Never had he felt so eager about catching a fish, for never had he held a bigger one at the end of his line. It would have been better for him had it been much smaller. There was a quantity of weeds in the pond; and numerous large flat leaves of the beautiful white water-lily floating near, moored to long tough stems, among which he was in a dreadful fright that the fish would get, when he felt sure it would contrive to carry line and hook and float away. The pike, if pike it was, seemed fully aware of the advantage it possessed, and darted about in every direction.

“The hook must have caught the very edge of the upper lip, or it would have bitten through my line long ago,” thought Tom. “What can I do? I wish Gregson were here to help me. He would know some dodge to get this fellow on shore. I’m sure I don’t. Hillo! Greggy! Ellis! Do come and help me. Any of you fellows there?” He dared not for a moment turn his eye away from the water, lest the fish should take the opportunity of getting off.

“Hillo! does no one hear? Hillo, I say! Come, my good fellows, lend a hand to land this monster!” No one answered. The fish had run out with the whole of his line; the rod was bending almost double. He advanced to the very edge of the pond; he thought that he might give a little more scope by going to the right hand, where there was what he supposed to be a projection of the bank. So there was, but it was only of grass, and had nothing under it. He put his foot on it; the fish pulled harder than ever; he never dreamed of letting go his rod, and over he went, the impetus of his fall, and the pulling of the fish, carrying him a considerable distance from the shore. His head went under water, and he got a good quantity of it in his mouth; but at last he came up to the surface, spluttering and blowing, and trying to strike out, but still, like a true Briton, keeping fast hold of his rod. He now shouted out with all his might, his shout becoming a sharp cry for help, for he felt very truly that life was in imminent danger. The water was deep; he had thick heavy shoes and trousers on, and he could not make up his mind to lose his rod. For some time he positively swam away from the shore, not knowing what he was about, but fortunately at last he found out what he was doing, and tried to get back. His heart sank within him when he found how far off he was from the land. His clothes were pressing him down, and the long slimy stems of the weeds began to twist and turn round his legs. “Oh, I shall be drowned—I shall be drowned!” he cried out in an agony of fear. “Help—help!—help, oh help!” he shouted, struggling to keep himself above water. His eye looked on either side of the pond. He saw some one approaching the spot where he had stood, but coming leisurely, and evidently not aware that he had tumbled into the water. “Help, help;” he again shouted, and he felt that in another minute he must go down, for the more he attempted to approach the shore, the more his legs became entangled by the fatal weeds. He thought that he recognised the gaunt figure of Ellis.

“Oh, if it had been Bracebridge now! he swims so well, he might have got me out,” he thought to himself; but he had very little confidence that Ellis would help him. Just then his last cry must have reached the ear of the person approaching, for he set off running towards the spot as fast as his legs would carry him. Bouldon began to hope once more that he might be saved. Then he saw that it was Ellis.

“Keep up, keep up!” shouted Ellis; “I’ll be with you.” He disencumbered himself of his basket as he ran, and the moment he reached the spot he threw off his shoes and his jacket, and, rod in hand, having broken off the hook from his line, plunged into the water without an instant’s hesitation. All the time, however, he shouted, “Help! help! help!” He swam out bravely towards Bouldon, poking his rod before him till the end reached his struggling school-fellow. “Catch hold of this—catch hold of this!” he sang out lustily. Bouldon heard him, but his senses were becoming confused, and he could not exert himself to reach the point of the rod. Ellis swam on still further, but he saw the weeds, and he knew that, should his legs once become entangled in them, he should be unable to help his friend, and should probably lose his own life.

“Oh! come nearer, come nearer!” gasped out poor Bouldon, making vain efforts to get free.

Ellis, against his better judgment, generously made the attempt. He instantly felt that he, too, was among the weeds. He tried to get back. His only consolation was to see that Tom had got hold of the end of his rod. Ellis exerted himself to the utmost. Move forward he dared not; but throwing himself on his back, he lifted up his legs, and endeavoured to disentangle them from the weeds which were round them. At last he felt that he could strike out with them; and paddling with one hand at the same time, he gently pulled on his rod, so as to tow Bouldon towards him. The weeds had, however, got so completely round poor Tom’s legs, that Ellis found that he was not moving him.

“I’m sinking, I’m sinking!” Tom cried out.

Ellis struck away with all his might. “Hold on to the rod, whatever happens, that’s all,” he cried out, tugging and tugging away. “I’m moving you, I’m moving you!”

So he was, but it was only so far as the weeds would allow him to go. Tom had followed his example, and thrown himself on his back. Just then a shout was heard, and soon afterwards Ellis caught the words he had been himself using, “Keep up, keep up!—never fear!” He thought it was Bracebridge’s voice; so it was. He was up to them in an instant.

Now, Bracebridge, by his father’s advice, never went out on any expedition without a supply of stout twine. Producing some from his fishing-basket, he fastened one end of it to a drooping branch of the willow-tree, which overhung the pond, and the other on to his own rod, and, having thrown off his clothes, he boldly plunged into the water, knowing that the weeds would have much less power over his naked legs, than if he had kept on his trousers. He reached poor Tom with the end of his rod just as he was sinking. Tom grasped it convulsively, and Ernest holding on to the part of the line made fast to the tree had sufficient force to drag him out from among the weeds. Ernest, meantime, told Ellis to try and get to shore, so as to be able to help him to draw in Bouldon. Ellis was not long in doing so; and climbing up the bank, he hauled in the line Ernest had so thoughtfully made fast to the tree. In a short time, by careful pulling, Bouldon was hauled clear of the weeds, and Ernest was able to take hold of his arm, and to support him while Ellis towed them both up to the bank. By this time Bouldon was unconscious, but, notwithstanding, he still with one hand held fast hold of the butt-end of his rod, and the rod had evidently something else at the other end of it. They drew him up the bank still holding on his rod.

The change of atmosphere from the warm water of the pond, perhaps, to the cooler air, revived him, and opening his eyes he looked up at Bracebridge.

“You, Ernest! I thought it was Ellis. Is he safe?”

“Yes, yes; all right, old fellow!” answered Ellis.

“Oh, thank you, thank you! Then do try and get my fish on shore,” were the first words exchanged between the party when they had got safe to land.

“It’s a whacking big pike, that I know,” cried Tom. “Oh! Bracebridge, don’t let him go; that’s all.”

“I only hope no stranger will come near and find me, like a picture in the ‘Boy’s Own Book,’ fishing in statu quo,” said Ernest, laughing, “But quick, Ellis, bring the landing-net; I shall have him directly, I believe.”

There was a broad laugh as Ellis put the net under the fish—for fish there undoubtedly was. “Why, Tommy, your big pike has turned into a perch after all,” cried Ernest; “a good-sized one though. But how did you come to fancy it a pike?”

“Because he pulled so horribly; and when I saw his big jaws above water, I thought nothing but a pike could possess such a pair of gills,” answered Tom, with much simplicity.

Ernest and Ellis laughed heartily at Bouldon’s pike. Ellis took off his clothes, and wrung them dry, and assisted Tom, who was getting rapidly well, to do the same; and while Ernest put on some of his garments, he lent the remainder to clothe his companions, while theirs were drying. They very quickly got their fishing gear to rights again, and were soon, as eager as before, engaged in their sport.

The disturbance they had made in the water had not frightened away the fish, and they each of them caught several large perch. When they at last got their clothes dry enough to put on, and worked their way up to where Gregson was fishing, they found that he had actually filled his basket completely full; fulfilling his promise that with his old stick, as he called it, he would catch more fish than all the rest put together. He bought his hooks, though he could make them; but the rod, line, and float he had entirely manufactured himself, as he had all the rest of the gear, and thus he certainly had reason to be proud of his achievements.

He was horrified when he heard how nearly two of his companions had lost their lives, while all the time he had been so close at hand. When, however, they were joined by Lemon and Buttar, and Bouldon described the way Ellis had come to his rescue, everybody was loud in their praises of him except Ernest. He said nothing at the time, but as they were walking home, he took Ellis’s hand, and pressing it warmly, remarked, “You have behaved very gallantly to-day, my dear fellow. I was certain that when the opportunity offered, you would do so. No one could have done better, or shown more coolness or courage. Had it not been for you, Bouldon would have lost his life; of that I am certain. He was almost gone when I came up.”

“Why, Bracebridge, I considered that you saved both our lives,” exclaimed Ellis, in a tone of surprise at hearing himself so praised. “Had you not come up, we should both have been lost.”

“Oh! I only used a little judgment, and followed one of the many bits of good advice my father has given me from time to time,” said Ernest. “I neither ought nor will take any of the credit which belongs to you; so pray, my dear fellow, do not talk of what I have done.”

Ellis, however, argued the point; but Ernest took care that the way he had behaved should be thoroughly known and well understood by all the boys, as well as by the Doctor.

The fishing-party had a very pleasant walk home, and seldom had fuller baskets of fish been brought to the school.

That evening, after prayers, the Doctor called up Ellis, and, placing him on his right hand, said that he wished to compliment him, among all his companions, for his bravery and coolness, which had enabled him to have the inestimable gratification of saving the life of a fellow-creature, a school-fellow, and a friend; “and,” added the Doctor, turning to Ernest, “I feel that you, Bracebridge, deserve not less credit for the generous way in which you have acted in the matter.”

Ernest did not obtain less credit, and Ellis found himself in a very different position to what he had before held in the school.

Chapter Eight.

Trials of Edward Ellis—A Game at Golf.

The summer holidays were over, and nearly all the boys had collected at school. Most of them loved their homes; but really our school was so pleasant a place, that very few regretted returning to it. Several new boys came. One of them was called Andrew Barber. He was somewhat of a noisy overbearing character, and showed from the first a strong disposition to bully, and to quarrel with those who did not agree with him. He had, however, a box full of valuables, and a couple of bats, a set of wickets, and two first-rate footballs, and a set of hockey-sticks, so that with a pretty large class he was rather popular. Dawson very quickly made up to him, and Blackall condescended to allow him to cultivate his acquaintance. I write about him from recollection. Perhaps when he first came, the defects I recollect in his character may not have been so apparent. Bracebridge came back quiet and gentlemanly as ever. He had not been idle during the holidays. It is extraordinary how much he had seen, and done, and learned. He had been reading pretty hard both Greek and Latin, and Mathematics. He had made a tour through the manufacturing districts, the commencement of a series his father promised to take him, to show him the true source of English wealth. He had had a very pleasant yachting expedition, and had learned a good deal more about a vessel, and how to sail her, than he had before known. He had become a proficient in archery, and had filled a book full of sketches. Then he had read through a History of France, and made a synopsis of the work, as well as two or three biographies; and he had fished and ridden, and botanised and geologised, and seemed to have seen and talked with a great number of interesting people. Even Buttar, to whom he gave this account of himself, was surprised; and yet Buttar was one of the hardest readers in the school.

“How I can possibly get through so much, do you ask?” said Ernest. “Why, I will tell you. I am never idle. I always arrange beforehand what I want to do, and when I am at work, I give all my mind to that work, and never allow myself a moment to think of anything else. I have the gift, and a valuable one it is, I feel, of being able to concentrate my thoughts on the particular subject in which I am engaged, while I never allow them to be drawn off by anything else. I believe that my mind is so constituted that I should do this of my own accord; but my father has strongly urged on me the importance of the habit, and I accordingly practise it systematically. Whenever I find my mind wandering away from the subject on which I am engaged, I bring it back forcibly, just as if it were a truant, or a deserter from his colours. Some people can think of two things at the same moment; but my father says it is much better to think of one thing well at a time, as likewise to do one thing well; so, as you may have observed, I never attempt more. The consequence of this system is, that I gain some credit, more or less, for nearly everything I undertake.”

“Indeed, you do,” exclaimed Buttar enthusiastically. “I wish that I were like you; but my thoughts are constantly wool-gathering, whatever I am about. Now, Ellis is like you. He can keep his mind fixed on his work, whether mental or physical; and see how rapidly he has got on. I wonder when he is coming. It is extraordinary how I took to liking that fellow; I quite long to have him back among us.”

“He wrote me word a few days ago that he expected to be here to-morrow. He tells me that he looks forward to coming back with great pleasure, though formerly it was always with pain and dread that he approached the school.”

“I am glad of it,” remarked Buttar. “There is a good deal in that fellow. I did not fancy so at first, but I am now convinced that he could beat most of us at anything he tries. He is a right honest good chap into the bargain. I hope that he will be here soon.”

Poor Ellis would have had his spirits much raised, had he been aware how those whom he most esteemed among his schoolfellows talked of him.

The Doctor made a rule of examining all the boys when they returned after the holidays, to ascertain what progress they had made during the time. They had also a holiday task; but they all, except the very idle ones, found it a very easy matter.

Ernest found himself at once put up a class, and the very first day he went up, he took a good place in that class. Bracebridge could not be otherwise than a favourite with the Doctor, and with all the masters. Monsieur Malin especially liked him. He took so much pains to acquire French, and to pronounce it properly, and would repeat words over and over again till he had caught the right sound: then he at once understood the necessity of attending to the idioms of the language, and did not fancy that he was speaking French when he literally translated English into French, as did most of his companions. He moreover (and the Frenchman fully appreciated his delicacy) never allowed a smile to appear on his countenance, however absurd the mistake his master might make when speaking English.

Monsieur Malin was a great linguist, and took a pleasure in imparting a knowledge of his attainments to Ernest, who in that way began to study Italian, German, and Spanish, and found, to his surprise, a wonderful ease in picking them up. He always carried in his pocket a little book, in which he entered the words he wished to learn. When he walked out, he used to learn as many of these words as he could remember. One day he devoted to one language, one to another, and he found that he acquired all three with very little more exertion of mind than was necessary to learn one. He had learned Latin and Greek with his father in the same way, and at an early age he had had a very large vocabulary; indeed, there was scarcely a word in English which he could not readily translate into those languages when he came to school. In consequence, directly he learned a rule of grammar, he was able to apply it. Other boys, following the old system, went hammering and hammering away at their grammar without understanding it, and without being able to apply its rules, and lost their own time and patience, and that of their unfortunate masters.

However, I am not writing an account of the lesson hours of my schoolboy days, but rather of the play-hours. At the same time, I believe that they are more connected, and the importance of the latter is greater than some people are apt to suppose.

Bracebridge, Buttar, Bouldon, and Gregson were waiting to welcome Ellis when he got down from the coach, which passed through the village, half-a-mile from the house. They all, as they walked home, had a great deal to say, and a great deal to tell him. Each one was eager to describe where he had been, and what he had done in the holidays, and to know all that had happened to Ellis during the same period. They then had to tell him of all the changes which had occurred at the school.

“We have loads of new fellows,” exclaimed Bouldon. “There is Milman, and Bishop, and Lloyd, and Taylor, and a fellow named Barber, and Cooper, and Lindsay; and there are five or six little fellows, whose names I don’t know, and several more are coming, and they say two or three big fellows, who will be especially under the Doctor. A capital increase for one half, though, to be sure, several have left in the upper class. It shows, however, that the school is getting up.”

“I know that I wish one fellow had left,” said Buttar. “The school suffers in consequence of him. I wouldn’t have a younger brother of mine come as long as he is here, that I know, to be bullied by him; to be kicked, and cuffed, and abused is bad enough, but to hear him talk—to have to listen to his foul language and stories, and all sorts of ideas which come into his abominable mind, is infinitely worse.”

“You are right, Buttar,” exclaimed Bracebridge, warmly. “That fellow Blackall and his tongue is a pest to society. If he simply bullied he could do very little harm; but, I say, what is the matter with Ellis? how pale and wretched he looks!”

“Bracebridge,” said Ellis, coming round to him hurriedly, “who is this fellow Barber? Where does he come from? Do you know? Oh, tell me!”

“From Doctor Graham’s at Hampstead. I know for certain. He told me so this morning,” replied Bracebridge. “But, my dear fellow, what is the matter with you?”

“Oh, Bracebridge, you’ll know too soon,” Ellis gasped out. They had dropped a little behind the rest of the party. “Yet you’ll not think ill of me. You’ll not believe what he says, will you? Promise me that, without proof, without better proof than he can give. However it may appear, I am not guilty; indeed I am not.”

“What are you talking about?” exclaimed Ernest, thinking that poor Ellis had gone mad. “I have never heard a word against you. Nobody has said anything of which you might complain. Had anyone, I would not believe him, and I am sure your other friends would not. Everybody who really knows you likes you, trusts you, and believes you to be an excellent fellow. You have taken some fancy into your head. Get rid of it, do.”

“It is no fancy, indeed it is not,” said Ellis, more calmly. “Perhaps I was wrong to say anything about the matter. I know that there is a French saying, Qui s’excuse s’accuse. I’ll not excuse myself more than I have done to you. Should anything be said against me, I may rest sure of your friendship at all events. More I do not desire.”

“Indeed, my dear fellow, you may. Whatever others may say, I will not believe you capable of doing anything of which you need be ashamed,” said Ernest, warmly pressing his friend’s hand.

“Thankyou, thank you!” replied Ellis; “you make me feel less miserable. Still your friendship will be sorely tried. Of that I am certain.”

Ernest, during all the time Ellis was speaking, was debating in his mind whether or not he was labouring under some strange hallucination. “Whatever it is that you fear, do not talk about it,” he said, as soon as Ellis had ceased speaking. “It will do no good, and can only make people think things which are very likely far from the truth. I would advise you not to talk even to me about it. Come and have a good game of cricket, or take a turn at fencing, or broadsword, or come and learn golf. There is a Scotch fellow, Macgreggor, who has come this half, and has undertaken to teach us, and it has become all the rage. It’s a capital game for summer, and gives one plenty of exercise. One game or the other will soon knock all such notions out of your head.”

Poor Ellis smiled faintly as he replied, “I am afraid not, but I will try to follow your advice. I will keep up my spirits, and perhaps matters will turn out better than I have a right to expect. I should like to learn golf, if you are doing so. I have once or twice seen it played at Blackheath, and I should think that it would suit me better even than cricket.”

“That’s right, that’s right,” said Ernest. “I say, you fellows, Ellis has a great fancy to join us in learning golf. He is like me; he dislikes the same routine of games year after year, however good they may be. We’ll get Macgreggor to give us a lesson this evening. He seems to be a very good-natured fellow, though he is so big and old.”

Macgreggor was a private pupil of the Doctor’s, who had lately come to prepare for Cambridge. He was a good specimen of a Highlander, who had never before been south of the Tweed. He spoke strong Scotch, but not broad Scotch; that is, Lowland Scotch, with the full forcible expressions which are to be found in such abundance in the language. He was a truly honourable, high-spirited fellow, and most kind-hearted and generous. Had Blackall’s misdeeds come to his notice he would have doubled him up, as our Yankee cousins would say, in no time. The rest of the party willingly agreed to the proposal. As soon as they reached the house, Ellis had to go and present himself to the Doctor, who was struck by his grave and pale countenance.

“My dear boy, what is the matter with you?” asked the Doctor kindly.

“Nothing, sir; nothing,” was the answer. “It is not because I am sorry to come back to school, because I am very happy to find myself here.”

The Doctor looked pleased, and he knew that Ellis was not a boy to make a set speech for the purpose of paying a compliment. He was glad to find also that he had not spent his holidays in idleness, but had studied quite as hard as was wise, and had read a number of useful works.

“You have done very well indeed,” said the Doctor. “If every boy would follow your plan, and read attentively a good history during the holidays, they would become very fair historians at a small expense of labour, and they would save their time which is now, in most instances, so miserably squandered. Most boys during their school-life have from fourteen to sixteen holidays, each about six weeks in length—in fact they are idle for two whole years of the most valuable period of their existence for acquiring knowledge. During that time they might acquire a thorough knowledge of the history of the whole world.”

Ellis thanked the Doctor for his advice, and said that he would follow it, and try to persuade some of his schoolfellows to do so likewise.

Dinner was over, so some was sent in for Ellis, and then he and his friends set off, with Macgreggor and several other boys, to the neighbouring heath, where they were to play golf.

Macgreggor had brought with him a supply of golf sticks or bats, which he generously distributed among those who wished to play. He soon fixed on Bracebridge as being likely to prove one of the best players, and told him that he should be his opponent on this occasion, although he had received only three or four lessons from him.

Ernest chose Buttar, Ellis, and Knowles, who played already very well, and Macgreggor took Bouldon, Gregson, and Jackson, another not bad player, considering that he had only just taken a golf stick in hand. As the ground over which they had to play was very irregular, they marked their three holes in a triangle about a quarter of a mile apart.

“See, Ellis, what a beautiful golf stick Mac has given me,” said Bracebridge, showing his golf club. It was a formidable-looking weapon, about three feet long, formed of ash, curved and massive towards the end, which was made of a lump of beech, the handle being neatly covered with velvet. The thick end of the club was loaded with four ounces of lead, and faced with hard bone. Altogether no weapon could have been designed better adapted for hitting a small ball with a powerful stroke. The golf ball itself was very small, not bigger than a small hen’s egg. It was formed of white leather, which had been soaked in water, and stuffed full of feathers by means of a stick till it became perfectly hard. It was afterwards covered with four coats of fine white paint to increase its hardness.

“You observe, Ellis,” said Bracebridge, “the great object is to get a ball both hard, light, strong, easily seen, and which will not be the worse for a wetting. All these qualifications are possessed by this little fellow. Why golf has gone out so much in England, I don’t know. Two centuries ago it was a fashionable game among the nobility; and we hear of Prince Henry, eldest son of James the First, amusing himself with it. In those days it was called ‘bandy-ball,’ on account of the bowed or bandy stick with which it was played. We now only apply the term bandy to legs. Still farther back, in the reign of Edward the Third, the game was played, and known by the Latin name of Gambuca. Now, are we all ready?”

Macgreggor, who had just come up with his companions, replied that all his party were ready to begin. Each side was accompanied by two boys, carrying a number of other clubs, one of which was of iron, and some were shorter, and some longer, to enable the players to strike the ball out of any hole, or rut, or other place in which it might have got.

“These extra clubs are called putters, and the men who carry them cads, or caddies,” Ernest remarked to Ellis. “This heavy iron club is, you see, to knock the ball out of a rut, which would very likely cause the fracture of one of our wooden clubs. Now you understand all about the matter. Follow me; I’ll tell you what to do when Macgreggor is not near; otherwise, though he is playing against us, he will advise us what to do.”

The ball was thrown up, and the game began. Macgreggor had the first stroke. He sent the ball a considerable distance towards the nearest hole.

Ernest had then to strike his ball. If he struck it very hard it might go beyond the hole, which would have thrown him back; and if he did not send it as far as the ball first struck, Macgreggor’s party would have had the right to strike twice before his would again strike the ball.

Ellis at first thought that there was nothing in the game, but he soon perceived that there was a good deal of science required, and that nothing but constant practical experience could make a person a good player. He, however, as Bracebridge was doing, gave his mind entirely to it, and by listening to the remarks made by Macgreggor, he learned the rules and many of the manoeuvres golf players are accustomed to practise. He very soon got deeply interested in the game, as did, indeed, all the party; and perhaps had they been asked at the moment what they considered one of the most delightful things to do all day, they would all have pronounced in favour of playing golf.

Golf is a most difficult game to describe. I should liken it, in some respects, to billiards on a grand scale, except that the balls have to be put into holes instead of pockets; that they have to be struck with the side instead of with the end of a club, and that there is no such thing as cannoning.

Bracebridge sent his ball very cleverly a few yards only beyond Macgreggor’s, which called forth the latter’s warm approval. Then Gregson struck the ball, and sent it but a very short distance. Buttar next sent theirs nearly up to the hole, and Bouldon then going on, and being afraid of going beyond the hole, sent it not so far, as Buttar had struck their ball.

“Two, two,” shouted Bracebridge. “Now, Knowles, hit very gingerly, and let me see if I cannot send our ball in.”

Knowles rolled the ball within a few feet of the hole, and Ernest, who, in consequence of Bouldon’s miss, was now allowed to strike, guided by his correct and well-practised eye, sent it clean into the hole, to the great delight of Macgreggor, who was pleased at having so apt a pupil.

Bracebridge now took his ball out of the hole, and struck it on. Macgreggor, however, was not long in catching him up, but Tom Bouldon was a great drawback to Macgreggor. He had not calmness enough to play the game well. He was continually missing the ball, or sending it beyond the hole, while Macgreggor, and Bracebridge, and Ellis especially, always considered how far it was necessary to send it, and took their measures accordingly.

Few games show the character of a person more than does that of golf, although all, more or less, afford some index to those who are attentively looking on. A boy, when playing, should endeavour to keep a watch over himself as much as on all other occasions, and he should especially endeavour to practise that very important duty of restraining his temper. Boys are too apt to fancy that they may say and do what they like, and often they abuse each other, and make use of language of which, it is to be hoped, they would be ashamed when out of the playground.

While the game was going on, and drawing near its completion, Bracebridge being ahead, a number of boys came out to see what was going forward. From their remarks, there was not much chance of the game becoming popular. There was not enough activity and bustle in it to please them. It was not to be compared for a moment with cricket, or rackets, or football, or even hockey.

Among the spectators were Blackall and Dawson, and the new fellow, Barber. His eye was ranging over the heath. Ernest and his party were then at a distance, playing up towards the last hole.

“Well, to my mind, after all, it is only like a game of marbles, played with a little leathern ball instead of a stone, and a stick instead of one’s knuckles,” sneered Blackall.

Dawson echoed the sentiment. “How that fellow Bracebridge can find anything to like in it, I do wonder,” he remarked. “In Macgreggor, who has been brought up to it, it is a different affair.”

“Hollo! who is that fellow?” exclaimed Barber, as the players drew near.

“Which do you mean?” said Dawson. “That natty-looking fellow, who is taking the ball? He’s a genius; and if you were to take him at his own valuation, there is not such another fellow in the school, or perhaps in the world.”

Dawson never lost an opportunity of having a fling at Bracebridge, who had passed so rapidly by him in the school, and had beat him at all their games.

“No, no; I mean a lanky-limbed, long-faced fellow, who looks as if his face was made of butter. I think I know him,” said Barber.

“Oh, you mean that miserable wretch Ellis,” snarled Blackall. “He’s a fellow born to be licked. He is of no other earthly use. I’ll give you leave to thrash him as much as you like; it will save me the trouble, and I shall be much obliged to you.”

It might well save Blackall trouble; for had he ventured to touch Ellis, he knew full well that he should have got into it.

“Yes; if Ellis is his name, I am certain it is him,” observed Barber, as Ellis drew nearer. “He was at my last school, and I wish you fellows joy of him.”

“Why, do you know anything against him?” asked Blackall, eagerly, thinking that he might have the satisfaction of annoying Bracebridge, and Ellis’s other friends.

“Oh! you know we never say anything against a fellow out of school, however bad he may be,” said Barber, looking virtuous. “All I can say is, he is not the sort of chap I should choose for my associate. He may have altered, you know. Few fellows remain always the same. When I see a fellow get into rows, smash windows, screw off knockers, and show that he has some spirit, I always have hopes of him; but that fellow was always a sneak, and, in the end, proved something a great deal worse. I’ll not say anything more about him.”

“Oh, I wish you would!” said Blackall. “If there is anything against a fellow, I like to know it. I am rather particular in my company; and though I do not associate with him now, I might be tempted to do so if he came back some week with a box full of grub, or with anything else worth having.”

This sally of wit was fully appreciated by his auditors, who laughed heartily, or I should rather say loudly, at it.

Poor Ellis meantime had been so intent on watching the game, that he had not observed their approach, till the voices reached his ear. He looked up, and then he saw Barber watching him, with a sneer on his countenance. He recognised him at once as his old school-fellow.

Bracebridge was standing near. “I’ll go and speak with him at once,” he said quietly, “It may be that he will not think it necessary to repeat the vile story that was told of me at our former school. If I pass him by as a stranger, it will make him more inclined to think ill of me.”

Ellis acted according to the impulse of the moment. He walked up to Barber, and, putting out his hand, said, “Don’t you remember me, Barber!”

“Perfectly,” said Barber, with great emphasis, and a sneer on his lips. “One remembers people sometimes whom one would rather forget.”

“What do you mean, Barber?” said Ellis. “You are not so cruel, so unjust, as—”

“Put what construction you like on my meaning,” answered Barber. “I am a straightforward fellow. I say what I think; and of all the characters I have ever met, I hate most that of a canting hypocrite. I never trust such an one. You know best what such a fellow is capable of doing.”

Ellis stood by listening calmly, but not unmoved, to this cutting speech. He turned pale and red, and seemed to have difficulty in drawing his breath. He looked for a moment imploringly at Barber, but saw only a sneer on his countenance; so gulping down all the feelings which were rising in his bosom, and which, had he allowed them to break forth, would not have tended to harmony, he turned away and rejoined Bracebridge, who was waiting for him.

“There he goes,” sneered Barber. “Just like him. Had any fellow spoken to me as I did to him, I would have knocked him over with my golf club; but he did not even move his hand as if he would have struck me.”

After hearing these remarks, Blackall, Dawson, and other boys of that set, thought Barber a very fine spirited fellow, and came to the conclusion that Ellis was not only a regular sneak, but that he was probably a convicted thief, or liar, or something fully as bad, if not worse. He said nothing after rejoining his friends, but his spirits sank lower than Bracebridge had ever before seen them. He seemed incapable even of doing his ordinary lessons in the way he had been accustomed to get through them. Even the Doctor and the masters observed the change. By degrees, too, many of the boys with whom he had been accustomed to join in their various games began to look shy at him. One declined to play with him, and then another, and another, till at last he found that he was cut by the whole school, with the exception of the three or four friends who generally sided with Bracebridge—Buttar, Bouldon, Gregson, and little Eden. Poor fellow! it was a sore trial. Whatever the fault of which he had been guilty, he had long ago heartily repented of it. Of that, at all events, there could be no doubt. It seemed hard that he should be compelled to suffer, supposing even that he was guilty, when a new sphere was open to him; and the better disposed boys, even though they mostly went with the tide, could not help feeling that Barber had acted in a very ungenerous way in bringing tales from one school to another, and in injuring the character of one who had always proved himself so harmless and kind-hearted a fellow.

Bracebridge did not hesitate to show his opinion of Barber on all occasions, and took every opportunity of marking his regard for Ellis, and in showing his disbelief of the tales current against him. Thus the last half of the year drew on, and winter was once more approaching.

Chapter Nine.

An Attempt to Introduce Fagging—A Game at Hockey.

The half-year sped on much as usual. Not a gleam of sunshine burst forth to dispel the clouds which hung lowering over the fair fame of poor Ellis. He was either too proud or too indifferent as to what was said of him to take any notice of the various tales—different versions of the same story—flying about the school to his discredit. Now and then Bracebridge heard of them, but he invariably replied that he believed them to be utterly false, and he always treated the boy who ventured to begin to narrate them to him with the scorn which a tale-bearer deserves. The tales at last reached the ears of the masters, but in so indefinite a form that they could take no notice of them, much less report them to the Doctor; but they had the bad effect of making them look upon poor Ellis as a black sheep, and of inducing them to treat him with suspicion. Wrong motives were assigned to all he did, and, with one exception, no one spoke kindly or encouragingly to him. The exception was Monsieur Malin. Ellis’s clever contrivance with the kite and carriage had won his regard; and though, to be sure, his reasoning might have been very incorrect, he could not fancy that so ingenious a boy could have been guilty of the conduct alleged against him, and which had brought him into such general disrepute. He talked the subject over with Bracebridge, who was delighted to find that Ellis had so powerful a friend. Monsieur Malin determined, therefore, to support Ellis. He called him up one day, and asked him if he would like to learn French.

Ellis said, “Yes, of him; if he could get leave.”

“Well, if you cannot get leave, I will teach you myself in the play-hours, or at any odd times. You stay in so much, and play so little with the other boys, that you will not mind that, I know,” he said, in a kind encouraging voice. “You will learn soon, I know, and then we will walk together, and talk French, and you will learn more rapidly than any one else.”

“Thank you, sir! indeed, thank you!” said poor Ellis, the tears coming into his eyes. “It is very kind to take so much trouble with a person like me. I will do whatever you tell me.”

“Then write home, and get leave to learn, and I will tell you what you shall do in the meantime,” replied the French master. “Get into your head as large a vocabulary of words as you can collect. Put down in a little pocket-book the French and English of everything you can think of. Thus: write down, a boy, a man, a book, a desk, and I will show you how to pronounce them properly. Here is a book; accept it from me; I got it on purpose for you. Now write down a boy; now the French, garçon. The c you hear is soft. Roll the r well in your mouth. Repeat it frequently.” Monsieur Malin made him write down numerous other words, and repeated them over to him frequently till he had caught their exact sounds. “Now, my boy, you have learned your first French lesson,” he observed. “Every day add as many words as these to your vocabulary. Begin with the substantives; go on to the adjectives, next the verbs; then study the construction of the language; the simple rules of grammar; and lastly, in the same manner that you have learned single words, collect the idioms of the language. Read constantly aloud, and learn by heart interesting portions of modern French writings especially the speeches of the best orators of the present day, and I can promise you that in a very short time you will become a very fair French scholar.”

Ellis saw the wisdom of Monsieur Malin’s advice, and implicitly followed it. Bracebridge helped him, and they in a short time were able to converse together. In the meantime Ellis got leave to learn French, and some of the boys were very much surprised, and rather indignant, to find him put in one of the upper classes.

“That’s the fellow who pretended that he did not know French, and has all the time been listening to us, and overhearing all we said,” remarked Blackall, whose own knowledge of the language was so limited that, at all events, it would have puzzled a Frenchman to have comprehended him. “It’s just like the sneak,” he continued. “I wonder how a chap like Bracebridge can patronise him, or how a big fellow like Lemon can condescend to speak to him.”

Though these remarks, as it was intended they should, reached the ears both of Ernest and Lemon, they took no notice of them, and thus they did Ellis no further harm. It is very sad that I should not have to recount the pleasant sayings and doings of my schoolfellows; but as in the world the worst actions of people often come most prominently forward, so they do at school, and generally make the deepest impression. I know, however, that even at this time there were many pleasant things said, and amusing things done; that there was much good fellowship among us; that we entered into our games with thorough heartiness; that we made very satisfactory progress in our studies, and were generally happy and contented. Indeed, the school was thoroughly well-conducted and ably ruled. The dark spots I have been picturing arose entirely from the bad tempers, dispositions, and ill-conduct of those ruled. So it is with this world at large. It is admirably ordered, beautifully fashioned, ruled with unbounded love, regularity, and justice. Men, and men alone, have made all the blots and stains to be found in it; they have caused all the irregularities and disorders which abound; all the misery, all the suffering, all the wretchedness; we see they have themselves and themselves only to blame; that is to say, man alone is at fault; man, and sin which man introduced, beguiled by Satan. But up, boys! Do not suppose that you are to yield to this state of things; to say that so you find them, and that so you will let them be. No; far from that. You are sent into the world to fight against them, to overcome them, to strive with Satan, the prince of sin and lies, and all abominations, with all your might and main. It is a glorious contest; it is worth living for, if we did but understand it aright. The knights who went out, as we are told of old, armed cap-à-pie, to do battle with enchanters, and dragons, and monsters of all sorts, had not half so glorious, so difficult, so perilous a contest to engage in. The writers who invented those fables had, I suspect, a pretty clear notion of what is the true destiny of man. The enchanters were the spirits of evil; their necromancies the works of Satan; the dragons and monsters, the ills, the difficulties, the obstacles to all good works which have to be overcome. It was not the fashion to speak out great truths plainly in those days, as it has happily become at the present time; and so philosophers who held them wrapped them up in fables and allegories, the true import of which only the wisest and most sagacious could comprehend. The great truth that all men are sent into this world to work, to fight, to strive with might and main, the Doctor tried to impress on his pupils. He found it difficult, however, to make them understand the matter. Many of them thought that they knew better than he did on that subject. Some of them had been told at home, by ignorant servants or injudicious friends, that they were born heirs to good fortunes; that they were to go to school, and be good boys, and get through their lessons as well as they could, and then they would go to Oxford or Cambridge, because most gentlemen of any pretension went there; and then that they would be able to live at home and amuse themselves for the rest of their lives. Of course, such boys thought that what the Doctor was saying could have nothing at all to do with them, and could only refer to the children of poor people, who had nothing to give them. The Doctor, suspecting what was in their thoughts, surprised them very much by propounding the doctrine that no one was exempt from the rule; that all mankind, from the sovereign on his throne to the peasant in the field, are born to labour—to labour with the head or to labour with the hands, often with both; or if not, strictly speaking, with the hands, at all events with the mind and body.

“And what, think you, is the labour all men ought to engage in? What is the great present object of labour?” asked the Doctor. “Why, I reply, to do good to our fellow-creatures, to ameliorate their condition by every means in our power.”

No boys took in these truths more eagerly than did Bracebridge and Ellis. They talked them over and over, and warmed with the glorious theme. To the former they were not new. His father had propounded the same to him long ago, but the Doctor’s remarks gave them additional strength and freshness.

“It is grand, indeed,” exclaimed Ernest, “to feel what victories we have to achieve, what enemies to overthrow; that if we do our duty we can never be entirely defeated; and that, though success may be delayed, we must be victorious at last; that there can be no hanging down of the hands, no lassitude, no idleness, no want of occupation through life, no want of excitement. I don’t care what grumblers may say; I maintain, with my father, that this is a very glorious world to live in, with all its faults; and still more should we be grateful that we are placed in it, when we remember that it is the stepping-stone to eternity.”

Ernest was, perhaps, somewhat beyond his years in his remarks, but it must be remembered that he was an unusual boy, and that there were not many like him. Still he was but a boy. Anybody observing him would probably have remarked that he was a good-looking, intelligent boy, but might have failed to discover any super-excellencies in him. Indeed I think that I have before remarked that he owed his success at school to the fact, that all the talents he possessed by nature had been judiciously cultivated, and allowed a full and free growth. Certainly no boy stood higher in the estimation both of his master and schoolfellows. He could not help discovering this, and he resolved by all means to maintain and deserve their good opinion. He had sometimes a difficult task in keeping to his resolution.

I have said that Blackall for some weeks had appeared to be much less dictatorial and inclined to bully; but by degrees his former habits returned with greater force, from having been put under some restraint for a time. Ellis and Eden, and even Bouldon and Buttar, came in for a share of his ill-treatment; so did a new boy, John Dryden by name, a sturdy, independent little fellow, who, for his size, was as strong as he was brave, but, of course, could not compete with a boy of so much greater bulk and weight.

A considerable number of fellows vowed that they would stand this conduct no longer; yet what could they do? Blackall alone might have been managed; but several big fellows had united with him, and had taken it into their heads that they should like to introduce fagging. They got, indeed, two or three fellows—Dawson, Barber, and others—to undertake to be fags, just to set the system going, those young gentlemen hoping very soon to become masters themselves. They talked very big about the matter; they thought it would be a very fine thing: their school was first-rate as it was, and if fagging were introduced it would be fully equal to any public school. Of course, the affair was to be kept a great secret. There could be no doubt that the Doctor would approve of it ultimately, but at first he might be startled; though he never hesitated to introduce any alterations which were improvements, he might possibly look upon fagging without that reverence which it deserved as a time-honoured institution. He could not fail to acknowledge that fagging was a very good thing; but then his school was not a public school, however first-rate it might be as a private establishment; and he might not wish to make it like a public school. Thus the important subject was discussed for some time, till at last it was decided that it would be wiser to begin quietly, at the same time in due form. The big fellows who had resolved to be the masters determined to draw up a paper, which the intended fags were to sign, agreeing to do duty and to serve their masters as fags, according to the custom established at all public and first-rate schools. Barber, Dawson, and other advocates of the system, signed the precious document willingly enough, and they managed to get some twenty other boys to do the same.

But when it was shown to Buttar and Bouldon, they turned it over and over, and asked what it meant.

“Oh, don’t you know?” exclaimed Dawson. “It’s a plan we have got up for becoming a public school.”

“I’ll tell you what,” answered Buttar, bursting into a fit of laughter, “I look upon the affair as a bit of arrant tom-foolery; and so you may tell the donkeys who drew it up.”

Dawson grew very red; but he had a respect for Buttar’s knuckles, and so he held his tongue. Bouldon had, meantime, recognised Blackall’s handwriting, and having a considerable amount of contempt for those whose signatures were attached, he exhibited it in an unmistakable, though certainly an unrefined manner, by holding up the paper, and spitting into the middle of it. Then he folded it up, and crammed it into Dawson’s pocket. Dawson and he had had a set-to fight a little time before, and though Dawson was the biggest fellow of the two, he had ultimately declined continuing the combat. The action performed by Bouldon was equivalent to a declaration of war to the knife with Blackall and all the big fellows who supported the system he wished to introduce. Dawson turned redder than ever, and looked very fierce at him; but Tom closed his mouth, planted his feet firmly on the ground, and doubling his fists, said—

“You’d better not attempt it, Dickey; you know me now.”

Dawson did know him, and so he blustered out—

“You’re a beastly fellow, that I know; and so I’ll go and tell Blackall what you say.”

“Go, Dickey, and say I sent you,” cried Bouldon; and, undaunted by the threat which had been uttered, he bestowed a parting kick of very considerable force on the portion of Dickey’s body then turned towards him. Dawson ran off, vowing vengeance.

“You shouldn’t have done that, Bouldon,” said Buttar, who was a very gentlemanly, refined fellow. “The actions were expressive, and could leave no manner of doubt as to what our course of action must be; but perhaps we might have succeeded better had we left them in doubt, and waited till they commence operations.”

“I dare say you are right, Buttar,” said Bouldon; “but, in truth, all my English spirit was roused within me at the preposterous notion of those few big fellows proposing all of a sudden to make slaves of the rest of the school. However, what is to be done now?”

“Let us go and talk to Bracebridge, and hear what he says,” said Buttar.

They soon found Bracebridge, and told him all that had occurred. He was just as indignant as Tom was, and he could not help laughing at the way in which he had exhibited his feelings, though he agreed with Buttar that a less demonstrative mode of proceeding might have been wiser. He was decidedly of opinion that immediate steps should be taken to put a stop to the proceedings of the big fellows, and that a counter-resolution should be drawn up, and sent round for the signature of those boys who had resolved not in any way to submit to fagging. He and Buttar immediately went into the school-room, and drew up the paper which they considered met the object. It was very temperate, and couched in the most simple language, as such documents always should be to be effectual. It ran, as far as I remember, much in the following words:—

“We, the undersigned, understanding that an attempt is being made by some of the big boys to introduce a system of fagging into the school, bind ourselves to resist such a proceeding by every means in our power, and under no consideration to obey any boy who may order any of us to fag for him.”

“That will do,” observed Bracebridge. “The sentence might be better rounded, but the document is short and explicit. We will see what effect it will have. Let Dawson have a sight of it before it is generally signed. Here, you and I will sign it, to show from whom it emanates. They will not begin to try on their tricks upon us, I suspect. They will not know who else has signed it; and we will put the little fellows up how to act, as circumstances may show us to be most advisable.”

“Capital!” exclaimed Buttar, affixing his signature in a clear bold hand to the document. “Would it not be better to tell Lemon what we have done?”

“I think not,” said Ernest. “The resolution emanates from us, so let us carry it out. There is nothing like independence and freedom of action to ensure success. Lemon will not wish to make anybody fag for him; but being a big fellow, he may not see the matter in the same light we do. If we bravely resist the attempt, he is much more likely to assist us in crushing it at the end, than if we were to go whining to him now for aid and advice.”

Buttar agreed in this point also with Ernest, and undertook to let Dawson immediately have a look at the document. Dawson said he should like to show it to some of the big fellows.

“Catch a weasel asleep, and draw his teeth,” answered Buttar. “No, no, Dickey! You may take a copy of it in pencil, and show it to anybody you like. You may say also, that all the school, with the exception of a few miserable sneaks, like some who shall be nameless, will sign it and stick by it. And now, just go and tell the fellows what you have seen.”

Off went Dawson with the copy of the protest to his masters. They laughed scornfully.

“That upstart, conceited young monkey, Bracebridge, is at the bottom of all mischief,” observed Blackall; and the opinion was echoed by two or three other fellows.

“I’ll tell you what,” said Blackall; “the only way will be to begin fagging at once, and to crush this proposed rebellion in the bud. We must parcel out the boys of the lower classes, so that each of us may have four or five fags a-piece. You see we have already each of us got a willing fag. They shall be head fags, and assist to keep the rest in order. We’ll tell them that, and then they will help us to bring the rest under subjection.”

Blackall’s plan was willingly assented to by the rest of the big boys who had entered into this conspiracy against the liberties of their younger schoolfellows; and minor details being arranged, they considered everything ripe for carrying out their plans. All this time neither the Doctor nor masters suspected that anything out of the way was taking place. During the school hours matters went on in their ordinary routine. Some of the boys, who had been thinking over what was to be done, were less attentive than usual, and had more faults in their exercises. Games were got up and carried on by the boys with their accustomed spirit. Hockey and football had now come in. The Doctor did not prohibit any games, but he insisted that all should be played with good temper; and a few he only allowed to be played in the presence of a master. Hockey was one of these, and consequently it was not often played, except when a large number could join in it together. A great game of hockey was to be played one Saturday afternoon in November. Blackall came forward as the chief on one side. He called over the names of a number of boys, but only a few of the younger ones joined him. He remarked that they were entirely Dawson’s companions. Another big fellow stood up to lead on the opposite side, but so few consented to play that he was obliged to throw up his leadership. Then Bracebridge, urged by several standing round him, stepped forward, and he instantly had forty or fifty boys ranged under him. Those who had previously ranged themselves under the other big fellow, Haddon, went over to Blackall.

The sides were now more equal, but still Blackall had not enough on his side. He cried out for followers, but still no one would go over to him. Bracebridge had at last to send off some of his side to make both parties equal. There were thus about forty on each side. Everybody knows what a hockey-stick is like. It is a tough fellow, made of oak or crab-apple tree, and turned up at the end in a crook, flattened somewhat at the convex side. It is a formidable weapon, and it is very disagreeable to receive a blow from it on the shins. In some places a cork bung is used, but I have always seen and played with a light ball made on purpose, and covered with leather. We were very particular at Grafton Hall about our hockey balls. Though late in the year, the weather was fine, so we played in the cricket-field. It was a fine wide extent. A line drawn twenty yards in advance of the hedge on either side formed the respective boundaries. It was nearly due north and south. Ernest’s party were on the north side, and their goal consequently on the south side of the field. Bracebridge and Blackall tossed up to settle which side was to begin. “Heads!” cried Ernest. The shilling came down with the head up. It was considered low by the big boys to employ halfpence on such occasions. Blackall looked daggers at his opponent. Bracebridge took the ball, and placed it about a third of the distance away from his line. His side were arranged behind and on either hand of him. He planted his feet firmly, and lifting his stick above his head, cried “Play!” and, looking first at the point to which he intended to send it, gave a steady blow to the ball. Blackall and his side watched its approach, and rushed forward “to take it up,” or, in other words, to impede its progress, and to send it back in the direction whence it had come. They were boldly met by Ernest’s party, who once more “took up” the ball and drove it energetically back.

All Ernest’s party were young boys. Few were more than a year or two older than he was, and scarcely any were taller or more active; indeed, he was the acknowledged best player of his set. On Blackall’s side, on the contrary, were a number of big fellows, and all those who had undertaken to act as fags, as well as other hangers-on and chums of the big fellows, patronised especially by them because they were well supplied by injudicious friends at home with hampers of cakes and game, and hams and tongues. I’ve heard people say, “I’ll send poor Tom a basket of good things, because it will enable him to gain the friendship of some of the bigger boys.” Now, I will tell those silly friends that it will do no such thing. It will make some of the worst boys make up to him as long as his grub lasts, or while they think that he is likely to get any more; but they will do him much more harm than good, and their friendship he will not get. No; send a boy to school fitted as much as he can be, and let him win friends and work his way onward by his own intrinsic merits; but never let him think of buying favour with gifts of any sort. But we are in the middle of a game of hockey. It was, however, necessary to explain the class of boys who were ranged on either side. Those hockey-sticks looked formidable weapons as they were flourished about in the hands of the opposing parties. Again Blackall’s party met the ball; a dozen hockey-sticks were at it, and one boy, calling off the others, struck it so clear a blow that he nearly sent it up to the goal across Ernest’s line. However, he, Buttar, Bouldon, and some other of the most fearless and active boys rushed at it with their sticks, regardless of all the blows aimed at them by their opponents, and drove it back again into the middle of the ground. Then on they flew to drive it back still farther. Both parties met in the centre. There was a fierce tussle. The hockey-sticks kept striking each other, but none struck the ball. Blackall had gone farther back to catch the ball, should it be driven past the front rank of his party. Ernest had retired behind his friends for the same purpose. His eye, however, never left the ball. He saw a stick uplifted which he thought would strike it. So it did, and the ball came flying towards him. His quick eye saw it coming, and with unerring aim he struck it over the heads of both parties, who, not knowing what had become of it, broke asunder, and enabled him to pass between them. He reached the neighbourhood of the ball at the same moment that Blackall, having seen it coming, got close up to it. They eyed the ball, and they eyed each other for some moments; their eyes flashed fire.

“Out of my way, you rebellious young scamp!” shouted Blackall, irritated by what he considered Ernest’s daring coolness. Ernest did not even look at him, but threw himself into a position to strike the ball. His eye was at the same time on Blackall’s stick. He saw him lift it to strike, not the ball, but him. He had not learned the use of the single-stick for nothing, and throwing himself back, he warded off the blow, and then, quick as lightning, struck the ball, and sent it past his cowardly opponent. Blackall, not in the least ashamed of himself, attempted to repeat the blow while Ernest was unable to defend himself; but before his stick descended another actor had come into the field. It was Ellis, who had been close at hand, and now springing forward, he interposed his own stick, and saved his friend from the effects of the blow, drawing, of course, all Blackall’s rage upon himself. Had any body seen his countenance, they could not have failed to observe the smile of satisfaction which lighted it up as Blackall showered heaps of virulent abuse on his head.

“Go on, I don’t fear you; remember that,” said Ellis quietly; and then hurried on, in the hopes of assisting Ernest to drive the ball on to the goal. The keen eye of Monsieur Malin, who was the master on duty on that afternoon, had observed this little piece of by-play. He noted it, but said nothing at the time. It required all Ernest’s activity and the energetic support of his party to make head against the big, strong fellows of the opposite side. When he had very nearly driven the ball home to the goal, several of them threw themselves before him, and drove it some way back again; but Buttar, Bouldon, Gregson, and some others had now come up, and even little Eden rushed heroically in to stop its course and to drive it back, so that Ernest might once more get it within the power of his unerring stick. The big fellows of Blackall’s party had rushed on, separating widely, and not observing, or rather regarding, little Eden, whom had they seen they would not have supposed daring enough to attempt to hit the ball. He did not hit it very far, certainly; but yet his stroke was one of the most important which had been given, for it enabled Tom Bouldon to send it up very nearly to the goal. Ernest saw it coming. He sprang forward; and almost before it had stopped, his stick had caught it and sent it triumphantly over the line. The big fellows were astonished when they saw how and by whom they had been defeated. Blackall especially was enraged.

“That young scamp, Bouldon, and that little shrimp, Eden, ought not to be allowed to play. There is no guarding against their sneaking, underhand ways,” he observed. I believe, indeed, he made use of still more opprobrious epithets, with which I do not wish to defile my pages. Even some of his own side laughed at his anger, but still no one thought of rebuking him.

“Never mind, we’ll beat them well the next turn,” answered Rodwell, a big, good-natured fellow, on his side. “Now, young Bracebridge, you, sir, look out for yourself. We are not going to let you run over the course in this way again.”

“Oh, we are not afraid of you; we shall do our best to win again, at all events,” said Ernest, taking up the ball, and walking off with it to his side of the ground. “Now look out, old fellows.”

“What’s that the impudent young scamp says?” exclaimed Blackall. “We’ll pay him and his sneaking set off before long, so let him look out.”

Ernest heard what was said, but took no notice of the remark. He appeared to be entirely absorbed in considering in what direction he should drive the ball. He eyed the position of the various players, both on the other side and on his own. He called Bouldon up to him, and whispered various directions to him. Bouldon ran off, and immediately several of his side changed their places.

“Ah! that boy was born to become a general,” observed Monsieur Malin, who was looking on at the game with deep interest.

The opposite side were rather astonished. They were not accustomed to so systematic a way of playing, still less to see directions issued by one boy so implicitly obeyed by others. They could not make it out. Ernest lifted up his stick, and struck the ball. Off it flew in a direction away from all the best players on the opposite side, but some of the most active of his party ran on, and hitting it before them, one after the other, drove it right through the ranks of their opponents. So quickly did one striker succeed the other, that none of Blackall’s boys could get a stroke. He ran to the rescue, but this was one of the many occasions, as he frequently found to his cost, when mere animal strength could avail but little. The ball was carried on, struck rapidly past him, followed up by relays of Ernest’s friends, and finally sent by Buttar, accompanied by a loud cheer from all his side, over the boundary. Such a victory could not have been expected under ordinary circumstances, had even the big boys been the conquerors, but the latter were doubly astounded, till Rodwell sang out—

“Bravo, young Bracebridge! You have had a lucky chance, but we’ll lick you soundly next time, so look out.”

“Chance! yes, it was only chance,” repeated Blackall, glad to find a plausible excuse for his defeat. A third round was to be played, but the younger party were so cocky that they proposed having four rounds. To this, of course, the others were too glad to consent, under the belief that they could at all events make it a drawn battle; while Ernest’s friends gloried in the hopes of beating their big opponents three to one.

Blackall having observed that Ernest placed his men according to a certain plan, thought he would do the same. He, therefore, with not a small amount of pretentious formality, ordered the boys on his side to look out in different directions, and to follow a certain course. Some went where they were told, but others proceeded to where they themselves considered that they should be better placed, and instead of obeying the orders of their leader, acted according to their own judgment, which, to do them justice, was fully as good as that of Blackall. Bracebridge watched the proceedings of his opponents, and smiled as he pointed them out to Buttar. He very soon made his own arrangements. Blackall thought that he was going to act precisely as he had done in the previous game. He had no such intentions. Handing the ball to Bouldon, he told him to strike it up, while he, Buttar, Ellis, Gregson, and several others went scattering up before him. The big fellows looked at him, and gathered thickly in his front. They took no notice of Ellis, who was away to the right. Bouldon looked towards Bracebridge; then, turning suddenly, struck the ball in the direction of Ellis, who followed it up ably as it came by him, and turned it towards Buttar. Buttar had in the meantime broken through the big fellows and though several of them, hurrying on, tried by reiterated blows to stop it, he carried it once more successfully up to the goal. Blackall and some of his party literally stamped with rage at the idea of being beaten three times running by the younger boys, “At all events, that puppy Bracebridge had nothing to do with the affair this time,” he exclaimed, showing the feeling which animated him.

Ernest’s party cheered again and again—they could not help it. Both sides agreed to play out the fourth game. Ernest managed his friends equally well as at first, but his opponents were more alive to his tactics. The battle was very hotly contested; several times he got the ball nearly to the goal, and it was again driven back. This game had already taken as long to play as the other three—defeat would be almost as honourable to the younger party as victory—they kept up the game by sheer activity and good play; not that the bigger boys played ill, but they wanted combination and a good leader. Blackall had now completely lost his head and his temper. Once or twice when Bracebridge came near he felt very much inclined to strike him, but Ernest watched his eye, and was very quickly out of his way. At last, Blackall found himself with the ball directly before him; he lifted up his stick, expecting to strike it right ahead up to the goal. He looked at the point before him to which he intended to send the ball, and he looked at his stick, and he looked at the ball, but he did not look on one side—had he done so, he would have perceived Bracebridge springing along with his stick ready to strike. Strike he did too, and away flew the ball out of Blackall’s very clutches. Blackall’s rage now burst forth—twice he struck Ernest across the shins, and though the latter managed to break the force of the blows, he was much hurt. Then the bully lifted up his stick and struck Ernest on the arm more than once. He was about to repeat the blow on his victim’s head, and the effect would have been very serious, when he felt his own ears pulled lustily.

“Ah, you big coward—is dat de vay you play your games? I’m ashamed dat any boy at de school vare I teach should behave so,” exclaimed the voice of Monsieur Malin. “If I do not take you instantly before de Doctor it is because it is too bad to tell him of, so I will pull your ears myself. Bah!”

Right heartily did the good-natured French master tug away at the bully’s ears till they were red to the very roots. He knew that he himself was doing what in spirit was prohibited, for no master was allowed to strike or punish a boy. He might have argued that pulling the ears was not striking, and that punishing meant flogging or caning. Blackall on another occasion might have resisted, but now he felt that he had been guilty of so cowardly an action that no one would support him, so he submitted tamely to the infliction.

“Go, get out of de ground, you shall not play—you are not worthy of it,” continued the French master, pulling him away by the before-spoken-of appendages of his head.

Meantime the games went on. Ernest, though much hurt, tried to exhibit no symptoms of his suffering. He and his friends strove hard, but the big fellows resolved not to lose this last game as they had done the others, and finally by strenuous exertions drove the ball up to the goal. Never was a game at hockey at our school more hotly contested. A great deal came out of it.

Chapter Ten.

The Bully’s Punishment.

That game of hockey caused a great deal of ill-feeling among the less generous and most ill-disposed of the big fellows towards the younger ones who had so thoroughly beaten them. Blackall bullied more than ever, and several others imitated his example. They had also already begun to carry out their precious scheme of fagging. Some of the little fellows thought it very good fun at first to obey a bigger one, provided he did not order them to do anything very difficult, or likely to bring punishment down upon themselves. Grown bold by impunity, the faggers resolved to divide the boys of the classes below them among themselves as fags by lots. Of course it was the very worst plan that could have been devised; indeed, tyrants generally do form very clumsy and very bad schemes for keeping those weaker than themselves in subjection. The younger boys might willingly enough have served older friends who had been kind to them and had protected them, but it was preposterous to suppose that without force they would obey any big boy who might choose to order them. It was some time before this scheme became known to Ernest Bracebridge and his friends. As he never listened to the tales and tittle-tattle of the school—indeed, he found that the current stories were generally absurd exaggerations of the truth—he might have remained some time longer ignorant, had not Bouldon come to him one afternoon, after school, in a state of great indignation, saying that Blackall had called him up and ordered him to go to a shop two miles off, to buy him a tongue, some rolls, and other eatables.

“When I expostulated, he had the audacity to tell me that I should clean his shoes if he wished it,” exclaimed Tom, with a savage laugh. “And what do you think? that I was his fag, that I was awarded to him, and that he intended to work me thoroughly? I asked him by whom I was awarded to him? He replied, by a vote of my seniors and betters; and that if I did not work willingly I should be compelled to serve him by force. I don’t remember what I said at first—I know that he called me an impudent young scamp for my pains; I concluded by telling him that I should consult you and Buttar and other fellows, and that if you consented to be fags, I should not have a word to say.”

“You were perfectly right—I am glad you said so,” observed Ernest. “Find Buttar, and Ellis, and Gregson, and we’ll talk the matter over. We’ll mention the subject to Lemon; I know full well that he will not wish to fag any boy, yet perhaps for the sake of a quiet life he may not be inclined to interfere with the plans of the other big fellows. However, I do not want him to interfere; whatever we do, we should do ourselves; fortunately, we are well prepared for the emergency. We number fifty fellows staunch and true. Go round and tell them to be prepared—that something is going to happen. That will put them on the alert. When Blackall finds that you have not obeyed his orders, and that he will have to go supperless to bed, he will probably attack you. Tell Eden to watch you—never for a moment to lose sight of you, and directly he sees Blackall attack you, to come up and tell me—I’ll have all our fellows ready, and we’ll rush to the rescue.”

“Oh, excellent,” exclaimed Bouldon, rubbing his hands; “I wish that he’d just begin trying it on. Won’t I aggravate him by what I say and do; I’ll tell him my mind more than he ever before heard it in his life.”

“No, no, don’t enrage him; that’s not right,” observed Bracebridge; but Tom, as he went off, shook his head as if he intended to follow his own ideas on the subject.

While Bouldon, followed at a distance by Eden, strolled about the playground and fields as usual, hoping that Blackall would meet him, Ernest went round to a number of boys who had combined with him to resist any aggression which the big fellows might make upon their rights, and told them to keep together, some in the gymnastic court, and the rest in the fencing-room. Meantime he and Buttar, and a few others on whose judgment he most relied, met together and consulted as to the best course to pursue under the present emergency.

“I’ve an idea,” said Buttar; “let us get some ropes and bind our tyrant. He dare not interfere with me now, but I am determined that he shall not treat others as he treated me.”

Some ropes were easily found which had been used to lash up their play-boxes. Ernest and Buttar were to be the leaders. Ernest went to the fencing-room to take command of the boys there; Buttar to the gymnastic court. They did not remain there idle. One company began twisting and turning and leaping on the poles, while Ernest got his followers to practise with their basket-sticks and single-sticks. Then he proposed a drill, and they all fell in and went through their exercises with as much precision as if Sergeant Dibble himself had been present. They marched and wheeled, and formed in close order and extended order, and various other simple manoeuvres, in very good style. While they were thus engaged, Eden rushed into the room, exclaiming, “Blackall has caught Bouldon, and is half-killing him; he says that he will teach him to disobey his orders. Haste—haste, or I really believe he will do him an injury. I never saw a fellow in such a rage.”

No one needed a second summons. Bracebridge put himself at the head of his companions, who kept their ranks, and, marching out in good order, they met the party in the gymnastic court, whom Eden had likewise summoned.

“Double quick march,” cried Bracebridge; and the two bands rushed on towards the extreme end of the grounds, where Eden told them the bully had encountered poor Tom. The spot towards which they were hurrying was separated from the rest of the grounds by a thick coppice. Several tall trees grew about it, and it was by far the most secluded place in the grounds. It was a favourite resort in the summer time of some of the more studious boys, who went there to read, and, at other seasons, Gregson and a few other boys, who were fond of the study of natural history, used to go there to search for specimens, as Tom Bouldon used to say, of bird’s nests, beetles, bees, and wild flowers. Blackall, also, and two or three of his class, occasionally retired there, but neither to read nor to study natural history, but to smoke and to drink, when he could procure liquor. Bouldon ascertained that he had gone there on this occasion, and, anxious to bring matters to a crisis, went round that way, passing directly in front of him.

Blackall, who was sitting alone by himself, looking at the grass, saw his shadow slowly pass along before him. Lifting up his lack-lustre eyes, they fell on Tom. He immediately started up, and seized him by the collar. “Ah, my fine fellow, I’ve caught you at last, and all alone. I wanted to find you, and now I’ll pay you off with a thrashing which you will remember to the end of your days.”

Bouldon looked up and down to see if anybody was coming to his help. He had missed Eden, who had, however, seen him through the trees in the hands of Blackall, and then scampered off as fast as his legs would carry him, his imagination somewhat supplying the particulars of the thrashing which had not even yet begun. Bouldon struggled hard to release himself when he found that Blackall had got hold of his collar, for he had no wish to become a martyr unnecessarily, as he knew from experience that his persecutor hit very hard and cruelly whenever he had the power.

“I’ll give you a chance yet,” said Blackall. “Will you fag for me, or will you not?”

“Most certainly not,” answered Tom, firmly. “I’ll see you at Jericho, and ten thousand leagues further, rather than lift a finger to obey one of your commands. There, you’ve got my answer.”

“Then take that,” exclaimed the bully, bestowing a thundering lick on poor Tom’s ear. “How do you like the taste of that? Will you obey me now?”

Blackall generally played with his victims as a cat does with a mouse before destroying it.

“Not I,” answered Tom briefly, compressing his lips.

Another heavy box on the ears followed close upon this answer.

“Will you now?” again asked Blackall.

“No,” bawled out Bouldon.

Several cuffs and blows now descended on his head and shoulders. Again Blackall asked him if he would fag. Bouldon did not deign to answer.

“Do you hear me? Are you deaf?” thundered out the bully.

Bouldon made not the slightest reply to this question either by word or look. The consequence was that the bully began striking away at him right and left, till Tom felt that he was getting very severely punished, and he could not help wishing that some relief was at hand. He struggled as much as his strength would allow, and at last, forgetting all the rules of prudence, he broke away, and instead of endeavouring to escape, he clenched his fists and struck at the bully in return. The consequence was, that he was soon knocked down on the grass. He was not very much hurt, so when he saw Blackall about to kick him, he sprang up in time to avoid the blow.

“Ah, you arrant coward, to think of kicking a fellow half your size when he is on the ground!” he exclaimed, standing at a distance, however, so that he might have time to leap out of Blackall’s way. Under any circumstances he would not have deigned to run; that is not the fashion of any English boys I have ever met. On the contrary, he was anxious to keep near Blackall, and to spin out the time till his friends could arrive to his assistance. He would particularly have wished them to find him on the ground, and Blackall engaged in kicking him. Of course Tom’s look, and attitude, and words very much increased the exasperation of the latter, who now, springing after him, caught him again by the collar, and began pummelling him with all his might about the ribs and head, till his face was one mass of bumps and bruises. Still Bouldon would not cry out for mercy, or give in. Whenever he had an opportunity he broke away from his persecutor, and once more stood on the defensive, returning, when he could, blow for blow. He was soon, however, again knocked down with a blow on the forehead, which almost stunned him. He saw the bully advancing with his foot to kick him.

“Oh, don’t, don’t; you’ll kill me,” sang out poor Tom, who really did dread the force of the big fellow’s heavy shoe, given with the full swing of his leg.

Blackall heeded him not, and would have executed his barbarous purpose, had he not that instant felt a heavy load fall down on his back, and a pair of arms encircling his neck. He had once before been treated much in the same manner, but who or what his present assailant was he could not tell. The nails were long, and the hands not a little grimy, while the knees of his assailant kept pressing his ribs in a most unpleasant manner. Blackall’s look of horror showed that he fully believed that he had been seized by a big baboon, or some monster who might strangle him.

“Now at him again, Tom, and don’t let him go till he has promised never to attack you more,” said a voice, which Blackall recognised as that of Gregson.

However, Tom was this time too much hurt to get up, and he lay moaning on the grass, anxiously wishing that some one would come to his rescue. Gregson had, it appears, been up in a tree hunting for young squirrels and various insects. He had remained a spectator of the fight for some time, thinking that he could not do much good by his interference. When, however, he saw how hard it was going with Tom, he resolved to go to his help. Descending a tree, he climbed along one of the lower branches, from the end of which he had easily dropped down on the bully’s back. There he clung, like the old man of the sea who clung to the back of Sinbad the sailor. But, as I have said, Blackall was a very powerful fellow, and after he had got over his terror at this sudden assault, he used every means to get rid of his assailant. He could not shake him off; and Gregson did not flinch from all the pinches and blows behind his back which he received. At last, Blackall bethought him of backing against a tree. Unfortunately for the young naturalist, one with some stout branches grew near, and Blackall backed up to it, till he bumped it with such force that he very nearly broke both his back and his head, and he was very soon fain to let go. No sooner was he on the ground than the bully vented all his fury on him, and knocking him over with a blow of his ox-like fist, kicked and cuffed him till he was even in a worse condition than Bouldon.

“I’ll teach you to play your pranks on me, you young scoundrel,” he exclaimed. “However, you could not have chosen a better place, for there is no one likely to come here to interfere with us, and I intend to pay you both off in a way you will not fancy, let me tell you that. My fists are rather heavy, so I do not intend to use them, lest I should kill you outright, but I have a colt about me, of which you shall now have a taste.” Saying this, the bully pulled out of his pocket a piece of hard rope, covered from one end to the other with hard knots. Seizing poor Gregson, who lay on the grass even more hurt than Bouldon, Blackall dragged him along, and placed him near his friend, and then flourishing his formidable colt, was about to make it descend first on the back of one and then on that of the other of his victims, when a loud shout arrested his arm, and, looking up, he saw from both ends of the glade a strong body of boys, in military order, advancing towards him.

“Hold your hand, you big coward. If you dare strike either of those fellows, well not leave a particle of skin on the flesh of your back, let me tell you,” shouted a voice in a loud tone.

One of the parties was led by Buttar, the other by Bracebridge. The latter had spoken. Buttar uttered a similar caution; but Blackall, seeing that only younger boys composed the approaching bands, and fancying that they would not venture to interfere with him, resolved for very pride not to desist from his purpose, and down came his weapon on the backs of the two prostrate victims of his tyranny. It was equivalent to a declaration of war to the knife.

“On, on, on,” shouted Bracebridge and Buttar.

Their followers required no second appeal.

“Remember what I told you,” shouted Ernest—“Each man to his duty.”

The bully turned round and gazed, first on one side and then on the other, at the approaching bands. He was observed to turn pale, even though he flourished his colt above his head, and uttered loud threats of vengeance against any who might dare to approach him. A scornful laugh was the only answer he received, as the two bands advancing in double quick time completely surrounded him, and then with a shout threw themselves upon him. Some seized his neck, others his arms, and others his legs, in spite of his kicks and blows, while others passing a rope round his body he was speedily tripped up and hauled down to the ground. He swore, and shouted, and threatened more loudly than ever.

“Gag him, gag him,” suggested Buttar. “Don’t let the fellow talk blasphemy.”

“I’ll half murder you some day for this, you Buttar, you,” cried the bully, glaring fiercely at him.

“Pooh, pooh,” was all Buttar deigned to reply. “Here, quick, a handkerchief, and that piece of wood.”

The materials for the gag were handed to Buttar, and though the bully made several attempts to bite his fingers, he succeeded in most effectually fixing a gag in his mouth. Still Blackall struggled furiously; but though not one of his assailants was half his size, they succeeded in dragging him to a tree, to the trunk of which they secured him with the rope they had passed round his waist. Then they lashed his hands as if he was clasping the tree, with his face to the trunk, while his ankles were placed in a still more uncomfortable position.

“He cannot abuse us, or kick, or strike, but he can see,” suggested some one.

The hint was forthwith taken, and he was quickly blindfolded.

“We will draw lots to settle who is to colt him,” said Ernest. “You understand, my friends, that it will be better he should not know who have been his executioners.”

Lots were forthwith drawn with some ceremony. Four boys were chosen, and they, nothing very loth, began to flourish the very weapon with which he had just been striking their friends.

When Ernest and his party came up they found Bouldon and Gregson on the ground, both of them so much hurt as to be scarcely able to rise. Ernest with two or three other boys, having seen Blackall safely secured, went to attend to them. They got water from the pond and bathed their temples, and undid their shirt collars, and in a little time set them up on their legs. As may be supposed, the first use they made of their restored strength was to go and watch the proceedings taking place with regard to Blackall. Their feelings revolted at the thought of thrashing one who had been so lately ill-treating them. They felt that had they done so, they would naturally be accused of being influenced by vindictive feelings; whereas they wished that he should understand that; the thrashing he was receiving was a lawful punishment for the cruelty he had so long inflicted on others. The boys who had been selected as executioners set to work very much in the fashion of young boatswain’s mates on board of a man-of-war. After one had given five or six strokes another came on, till at last some one declared that he had fainted. So he had, but it was chiefly through rage and indignation. However, they took the gag out of his mouth, but the first use he made of his restored power of speech was to abuse and threaten them so dreadfully, that they came behind him and again clapped the gag into his mouth. In vain he struggled. He was too securely bound to get free. Ernest had learned, as every boy should, how to knot and splice properly, and was unlikely to allow any slip knots to be made. When Blackall showed that he was completely recovered, the boys who had been appointed to flog him, once more made ready to go on with the operation, but Ernest stopped them. His feelings revolted at thus punishing a school-fellow, however richly he might have deserved punishment, who had been rendered so utterly helpless.

“Stay,” he cried out. “He has had enough to show him what we have the power of doing, and the pain he has suffered may teach him in future not to inflict pain on others. Take the gag out of his mouth, and let us hear if he will promise to behave properly in future towards all the younger boys of the school, to beg pardon of Bouldon for his unwarrantable attack on him, and especially that he will promise to abandon his absurd attempt to fag any of the boys of the school. You hear what has been said, Blackall. Will you consent to these terms? Take the gag out of his mouth and let him answer.”

Blackall had heard every word that was said, and had he been wise, he would have yielded to the force of circumstances; but instead of that, he began as before to abuse and threaten Ernest and Buttar, and all the boys whose voices he recognised, and to declare that he had a perfect right to fag one and all of them if he chose.

“The gag! the gag! Treason! treason!” was the reply, accompanied by loud laughter from all the party.

The gag was quickly produced; but as Blackall found it being adjusted, his courage, or rather his obstinacy, gave way.

“What is it, do you say, that you want of me, you fellow?” he asked, in a very much humbled tone.

Ernest repeated the terms he had before proposed.

“As to that, I do not mean to say that I am not ready to agree to your terms,” he replied; “only just mark me, you fellows. I don’t think that I am a greater bully than others, and if you fancy that I am going to agree not to lick a fellow who is impudent, you are mistaken. I’m not going to promise any such thing. Fagging is not in vogue, so I’ll give that up for the present, but I don’t know what other big fellows will do.”

This speech of the once formidable bully was received with loud shouts by most of the younger boys, but Ernest, who knew something more than they did of human nature, did not put much confidence in what had been said, still he saw that it would be politic to release him while he remained in that humbled humour.

“Very well, Blackall,” said Ernest; “we are all glad to hear what you say, and we intend to rely on your promise; but remember that we are all united to resist aggression, and that the moment you break your promise, we shall take steps to punish you. Now release him.”

In obedience to the orders of their leader, some of the boys cast off the lashings which secured their prisoner to the tree, but they wisely took care to keep him blindfolded to the last, that he might be unable to injure them. His hands and legs being set free, they all hurried back to their ranks, where they stood in two compact bodies as before, bidding defiance to any attack he might venture to make on them.

“You may take your handkerchief off your eyes and go free,” said Ernest.

Hearing this, the humbled bully began pulling away at the handkerchief round his eyes, much to the amusement of the lookers-on, for he had considerable difficulty in untying the knot, and getting it off his head. His first movement showed clearly that he was much inclined to break the articles of peace, but when he saw the formidable array of boys drawn up on either side of him, with Bracebridge at the head of one party, and Buttar at that of the other, discretion prevailed, and with a sulky, downcast look, he turned round and walked away across the fields in an opposite direction to that which he saw the hostile armies were taking. Ernest suppressed the commencement of a cheer in which his supporters very naturally showed an inclination to indulge.

“Let him go, and treat him with the silent contempt he deserves,” he observed. “He has got a lesson which he will not easily forget; but at the same time we shall all do well not to trust him. He will not let the matter pass without trying to revenge himself on some of us.”

Blackall heard the first part of Ernest’s remarks. He turned round as if to give vent to his feelings; but not finding words to express himself, he stamped with his foot, and continued on in the direction he was going.

“I wonder whether he will go and complain to the Doctor of the thrashing we have given him,” exclaimed Bouldon, as they were marching homeward. “I certainly did not expect to see him take it so tamely. I expected that he would have fought and struggled to the last, like the rover’s crew the song talks about. Instead of that, he struck his colours in a wonderfully short space of time.”

“Oh, those bullies are always white-livered rogues,” observed Buttar, “so are nearly all the tyrants one reads about in history. Conscience makes cowards of them all. Depend on it that he will hold his tongue, and neither tell the Doctor nor any of his own special chums.”

It was to be seen whether Buttar was right. The boys who had not united with Ernest were surprised to see so many of his friends marching about in order the whole afternoon; and even when tea was over, never less than five or six of them were together. They looked about for Blackall, but he did not make his appearance. The elder boys were excused from coming in to tea on half-holidays, so there was nothing remarkable in this, and none of his friends seemed to notice his absence. Of one thing all Ernest’s companions felt certain, that no attempt to fag them would succeed while he remained at school.

Chapter Eleven.

Blackall’s Revenge and its Results.

Everybody remarked the sullen angry expression which Blackall’s countenance bore after the event I have just described. When any of his associates talked to him about fagging, he frowned, and, putting out his lips, declared that there was no use attempting to coerce the young scamps, for that the advantage to be gained was not worth the trouble it would cost. This was very true, but at the same time it was not an opinion anybody would have expected from him. Whenever he met Bracebridge, he always looked at him with an expression of intense dislike, which he was at no pains to conceal.

The Christmas holidays were now approaching, and a long course of bad weather kept the boys in more than usual. They consequently amused themselves with their indoor exercises. Their broadswords and foils were constantly in their hands during their play-hours.

One day Ernest and Buttar were fencing together. They had been at first equally matched, but Ernest was never content unless he was perfect in every exercise he took up, and so he had practised and practised, and thought the matter over, till he could beat his friend thoroughly. Buttar took his defeats very good-naturedly.

“I cannot manage as you do, old fellow,” he used to observe. “You always contrive to send my foil flying out of my hand when I fancy that I am going to play you some wonderful trick at which I have been practising away for the whole of the last week.”

A match was just over when Blackall entered the fencing-room. His eye fell on Ernest. Just then something called Buttar out of the room, and Ernest was left without an antagonist.

“Come, young gentleman, you are both good fencers. Try a pass of arms together,” said Mr Strutt, the fencing-master. “Oh, you must not draw back; I shall fancy you are afraid of each other if you do. Come, take your foils and begin.”

Blackall hesitated. He had not exchanged a word with Ernest since the day he had received his flogging, and he hoped never to have to speak to him again.

“Perhaps Blackall would rather not fence with me, sir,” observed Ernest to the fencing-master.

“Oh, nonsense, nonsense. Take up your foil and begin,” was the answer he received.

“I am ready to fence with you. Come here in this corner of the room, out of the way,” said Blackall suddenly.

Ernest followed him. He remarked that there was a peculiarly evil look in his eye. He did not, however, unfortunately, observe what he was about with his foil in the corner.

“Now, young gentlemen, attention,” cried Mr Strutt to some of his pupils, whose exercise he was superintending, and the words Quarte, Tierce, Seconde, Demi-circle, Contre de Quarte, Contre de Tierce, and so on, were heard resounding through the room.

“Come, let us begin, and have no child’s play,” exclaimed Blackall with vehemence, throwing himself into the attitude to engage. He made several rapid passes, which Ernest parried dexterously. As he did so, he observed that his adversary’s foil had no button on it. Still he thought that it was the result of accident; and as he had very little fear of Blackall’s hitting him, he did not deign at first to take notice of it. Something, however, he observed in the expression of his opponent’s eye made him doubt the wisdom of this delicacy.

“Blackall,” he cried out, parrying a desperate thrust at his breast, your foil has no button. “Were you to hit me, you might injure me very much.”

“What care I?” answered Blackall. “I’ll pay my debts, depend on that. Take that—and that—and that!” As he spoke he lunged rapidly at Ernest, who as rapidly turned aside the point of his weapon. Still Blackall was no bad fencer, and Ernest had the greatest difficulty in defending himself. Now he had to guard against a straight thrust, now against a disengagement, now the beat and thrust, now the cut over the point, and now the double. He saw that it would be too dangerous to attack himself; indeed, his only wish was to disarm his adversary, and then to refuse to fence with him any longer. This Blackall seemed to suspect, and to be on his guard against, while his aim was too clearly to wound, if not to kill, his opponent. Ernest under these very trying circumstances kept perfectly cool. He had parried every thrust which Blackall had made, but the latter at length pressed him so hard that he had to retreat a few paces. Once more he stood his ground, and defended himself as before. As he did so, suddenly he felt his foot slip, and, while he was trying to recover himself, Blackall pressed in on him, and sent his foil completely through his shoulder. One of the boys had just before dropped a lump of grease, which had been the cause of the accident. Ernest felt himself borne backwards, and, before any one could catch him, he fell heavily to the ground. The blood flowed rapidly from the wound; a sickness came over him, and he fainted. Blackall pretended to be very much grieved at what had occurred; but the fencing-master, looking at him sternly, asked him how it was that he could use a foil without knowing that the button was off.

“And what is the meaning of this, let me ask?” he said, stooping down, and with his knife hooking out the end of a foil from a chink in the boards. “The point was broken off on purpose. You have tried to kill that young lad there. I know it; and I shall take you before the Doctor, and let him judge the case.”

“What makes you say that?” asked Blackall, turning very pale. “Why should you suppose I should wish to hurt Bracebridge?”

“I know it—I know it,” was the only answer he got, while Mr Strutt with several of the boys was engaged in lifting Ernest, and binding up his shoulder to stop the bleeding. Blackall knelt down to assist, but the fencing-master sternly ordered him to stand back.

“I will not trust you,” he exclaimed. “You are a bad fellow! I believe it now. I see it all clearly. I ought not to have allowed such an one as you to fence with him. If he dies, you will be his murderer; remember that. You shall know the truth from me, at all events.” Thus did the excitable but kind-hearted fencing-master run on.

As he and some of the boys were about to lift Ernest off the ground, to carry him upstairs, Monsieur Malin came in. When he had ascertained the state of affairs, he immediately sent off Buttar to summon the surgeon who attended the school, which it seemed no one else had thought of doing. The presence of a medical man would, he knew, save the Doctor a great deal of anxiety. Having done this he walked up to Blackall, and put his hand on his shoulder.

“Things do not take place in this school without my hearing of them,” he remarked. “Mr Strutt thinks you wounded Bracebridge on purpose. I believe that you are capable of any crime: but come with me to the Doctor; we will hear what judgment he pronounces on the subject.”

Blackall would gladly have got away or shrunk into himself; but when he found that he had no channel of escape, he seemed to screw up his courage to face out boldly the charges brought against him.

It is a very unpleasant subject. I would rather not have had to describe Blackall and his misdeeds; but as his character is so odious, I hold him up as a warning to some not to imitate him, and to others to avoid, and on no account to trust to or to form any friendship with such a person when they meet him.

There was in the house a strong-room, in which occasionally very refractory boys were locked up. Confinement in it was looked upon with peculiar dislike, and considered a great disgrace. It was furnished with books and slates, and pens, ink, and paper, and the boy who was put in was always awarded a task, which he had to perform before he was let out. Any of the masters might put a boy in there, and incarceration in this place was the only punishment they were allowed to inflict on their own responsibility.

“There, go in there; translate and write out for me these five pages of English into French, and learn these fifty lines of Racine,” said Monsieur Malin, as he put Blackall in, and, locking the door, took away the key. “I will report your conduct to the Doctor, and hear what he has to say to it.”

Blackall was left in a great fright. He did not know what part of his conduct might be reported, and he felt conscious that he was guilty of many things which, if known, would cause him to be expelled. He knew also that Monsieur Malin would not excuse him his task, so he tried to get through with it; but all his efforts were in vain. He could do nothing, and his thoughts would turn to the act of which he had just been guilty. “I did not want to hurt him—I did not want to kill him,” he said to himself; but each time that he said so conscience replied, “You did; you know you did. Cowardly mean-spirited revenge induced you to commit the act, and it shall not go unpunished.”

The Doctor was not told of what had occurred till the medical man had arrived and examined Ernest’s wound. He had him at once put to bed, and washed and dressed the wound, and then he gave him some cooling medicine, but he said that he must see him again before he would pronounce on the matter. He might not materially suffer, but it might prove to be a very dangerous wound. This report got about the school. Buttar, Bouldon, and poor Ellis, and many other boys, were deeply grieved when they heard it. During the evening there was much anxiety and excitement in the school.

It was generally reported that Blackall had endeavoured to kill Ernest; then that the wound had assumed a very dangerous aspect, that the surgeon was very anxious about him, and that there was very little hope of his recovery.

When the Doctor appeared in school in the evening his countenance was very grave, and he seemed grieved and anxious. He spoke very little, and it was observed that while he was reading prayers his voice faltered.

There were many sorrowful young hearts in the school that night; for another sadder report than the first got about, and it was believed that Ernest Bracebridge—the clever, the brave, the spirited one, whom all then acknowledged to be without a rival in the school—was dead.

Naturally, the late attempt to introduce fagging was discussed, and the part Bracebridge had taken in suppressing it was openly spoken of. Thus, not only did all the boys in the school learn all about it, but it came to the ears of the masters, and, finally, to those of the Doctor himself. Monsieur Malin had heard of it before, but he had judged it best to let things take their course. The Doctor, having gathered all the information he thought necessary, collected several witnesses, among whom were Buttar, Bouldon, and Ellis, and summoned Blackall into his presence.

Blackall appeared, led in by two of the masters. He heard all that had to be said against him, and a full account of his barbarous treatment of Bouldon and Gregson, and the flogging which followed.

“I do not excuse Buttar, nor do I poor Bracebridge, for their conduct on that occasion. It was their duty to come and complain to me, and not to take the law into their own hands; but I am fully willing to believe that they acted under mistaken notions. However, I do not wish at present to say anything more against them; but there stands one whose whole conduct I so severely condemn, that I can allow him no longer to be an inmate of this school. To-morrow morning I shall publicly expel him. Retire till then to your respective rooms.”

Although on ordinary occasions the Doctor had a great flow of language, he was very brief when any serious matter was under discussion, as if he was afraid to trust his feelings in words. No one in the school had an opportunity of again speaking to Blackall. He was supposed to have passed the night in the solitary room, as it was called. The next morning, after breakfast, he was brought into the school-room between two of the masters, and there in due form publicly expelled the school.

“Sir,” said the Doctor, “from the numerous charges brought against you, and which you do not attempt to disprove, you will, if you do not alter your conduct, be a disgrace to any community in which you may be found. You have been constantly guilty of drunkenness and tyranny, blasphemy and swearing, idleness, and utter negligence of all religious and moral principle. I deeply regret that I was not sooner informed of your conduct; and I humbly acknowledge that I am much to blame in not having more minutely inquired into the character of every boy under my charge. I trust that you are an exception to the general rule, and that there are no others like you. Lead the unhappy lad away.”

Soon after this a post-chaise came to the door; Blackall with one of the masters was seen to get into it, and from that day forward no one ever heard anything positively about him. His conduct was undoubtedly worse than that of any of his companions. The way he had been punished utterly put a stop to anything like fagging, and even brought bullying into very great discredit.

I have not mentioned Ernest Bracebridge since he had been wounded in so cowardly and treacherous a way by Blackall. The reports which flew about the school proved to have been somewhat exaggerated. The surgeon very naturally ordered that he should be kept quiet, but he had not said that there was any danger. He speedily stopped the bleeding, though, at the same time, he thought it safest to sit up with him, to watch that the wound did not break out afresh and allow him to bleed to death. In a few days even the slightest danger which might have existed was over; and in the course of a week he was able once more to resume his place in school. The Doctor had a good deal of conversation with him with respect to his conduct towards Blackall; and though he acknowledged that there were many extenuating circumstances, still, he pointed out, that he, as master of the school, would not allow the law to be taken out of his hands and exercised by another, however great the provocation.

“The same reasoning, remember, Bracebridge, holds good in society,” he observed. “Private individuals must never take upon themselves the execution of the laws while a duly elected authority exists. Happily, in England, a man need only bring his complaint before a magistrate, and he is nearly certain to obtain ample justice. Remember that, my dear boy, whenever you are tempted to take the law into your own hands. If you yield to passion, or to your feelings, you will be acting against the laws both of God and man; and do not suppose that it is a light thing to do that.”

Ernest thanked the Doctor for his advice, and promised to remember it. Only a couple of weeks remained now before the holidays were to begin—those jolly Christmas holidays which, to boys living in the country, generally afford so much amusement.

The conversation Ernest had had with the Doctor made him feel more inclined to confide in him than he had ever done, and he resolved to open his heart to him about Ellis, who, in spite of his excellent conduct, and his quiet amiable manners, was as much as ever mistrusted by the boys in general. Barber, especially, turned up his nose at him, and never failed, when talking with his own particular chums, to throw out hints that, when Blackall was expelled, it was a pity the Doctor did not clear the school of Ellis, and other canting hypocrites like him. More than once these ungenerous remarks had been repeated to Ernest. He talked the matter over with Buttar, who agreed that they ought not to be allowed to go on unnoticed.

“If Ellis has done anything really disgraceful, he should explain his conduct to us, who have so long supported him through thick and thin,” observed Buttar. “For my part, I believe that he ever was what he now is, a highly honourable good fellow; and if so, he ought to be defended, and his character placed in a proper light before the whole school.”

“I have been long thinking the same,” said Ernest. “I would do anything to serve him; and the life he is now leading is enough to ruin him in health and mind. He looks thin and careworn—like an old man already.”

That very evening Ernest went to the Doctor, and very briefly told him all about Ellis; how fast he was improving, and how happy he had become, till Barber came to the school and spread reports against his fair fame.

The Doctor asked Ernest what the reports were. Ernest told him.

“Poor fellow! how very unfortunate,” he remarked. “When he came here, his father sent me a letter from his former master, saying that he had been accused of stealing some money from another boy; but that, though the evidence against him was very strong, and apparently conclusive, he fully believed him guiltless of the offence. His father, who came to me on purpose, assured me that his son was altogether incapable of committing the crime of which he was accused; at the same time, that he thought it right to mention the circumstance to me, to account for his low-spirited and retiring manner. I appreciated the father’s motive, and accepted the charge of his son, not supposing that any boy from the lad’s former school would come here to accuse him. I have watched him narrowly, and I feel sure, from what I have seen of him, that he is, at all events, now a most unlikely person to commit the crime of which he is accused.”

“I am very glad indeed, sir, to hear you say this,” replied Ernest. “I would myself stake much on Ellis’s honour; but how are the other boys to be convinced of this, when one who professes to be a witness is among them, and constantly repeats the tale?”

“I must think about it,” observed the Doctor. “I may show my disbelief of the truth of the accusations brought against him by honouring him on every fitting opportunity; but unless he can disprove the tales uttered against him, I fear the less generous boys will continue to believe him guilty. However, I have said I will consider the subject. And now, Bracebridge, believe me, I thank you for having introduced the matter to my notice.”

After this conversation, Ernest became much happier about Ellis. For the Doctor, also, a much warmer regard and respect arose in his heart than he had ever before felt. He had from the first looked upon him as a kind, sensible, and just man; but he did not suppose that there was any sympathy between him and his pupils. He knew that they came to school to be taught, and that it was his duty to teach them; but he was not aware of the deep interest which he took in their eternal as well as in their temporal welfare; how he employed his best thoughts and energies for that purpose; how much toil and pains he had taken to bring the school into its present condition; and how much it grieved him to find that, with all the pains he had taken, there was so much to correct and arrange. The Doctor, however, knew the world, and that in no human institutions can perfection be attained—nor can it be expected that they should be without faults; but he knew also that by care and attention those faults may be decreased, if not altogether got rid of, and he did not despair.

Ernest, as I was saying, had never before this thoroughly understood the Doctor. Now he did, and he found him a kind, sympathising, affectionate friend. Indeed, in my opinion, unless a man is this to his pupils, he is not fit to be a schoolmaster. Neither can a parent, unless he is his children’s friend, expect to command their love and obedience.

Ernest now discovered the Doctor to be very like his own father in many respects, and therefore placed unbounded confidence in him. He gladly opened his own heart to him, and with the frankness of a warm-hearted boy, told him all his thoughts, and hopes, and wishes.

The Doctor had always liked Ernest, and felt great satisfaction at watching his rapid progress; but now he discovered qualities and talents which he had not before surmised, and from that time he placed the most perfect confidence in him, and the interest Ernest excited was as great as if he had been his own son.

At the end of the year prizes were given, and, in spite of his accident, Ernest carried off several. One of the performances which invariably created the greatest interest was the speech-making. The speech given to Ernest’s class was that part of Julius Caesar where Cassius endeavours to persuade Brutus to join the conspiracy against Caesar. Buttar also spoke very well, and took the part of Brutus. All the neighbourhood were collected on the occasion, and a sort of stage was erected at one end of the play-room, which was ornamented with boughs of holly and other evergreens, and flags and coloured lamps.

Altogether, it was a very pretty spectacle. Instead of painted scenes, a bower of evergreens and flags was erected on the stage, in which the boys performed their parts.

Some of the bigger boys gained a good deal of applause, for the Doctor taught his pupils not only Greek and Latin, but what he looked on as of not less consequence—to write and speak their own language correctly and fluently.

Many who could scarcely express themselves so as to be clearly understood when they came to the school, had by the time they reached the upper classes become quite eloquent, and were able to write their themes with correctness and precision. Not much was expected from the younger boys, but when Ernest began to speak, the attention of all the guests was arrested: not a whisper was heard; and when he concluded, a loud and continued applause burst forth, and even his school-fellows agreed that he had surpassed himself. Buttar also gained a fair share of the applause bestowed on his friend, and he was not jealous that he did not gain more. No one listened more attentively than did Ellis, for he had declined to speak, though urged by Ernest to do so, and tears rushed unbidden into his eyes at the success which Bracebridge had obtained.

“I tell you, you fellows, that there is not a fellow like him!” exclaimed Tom Bouldon, clapping his hands vehemently. “He is as good, and brave, and clever as any fellow in the world. I always thought so, and now I am certain of it, and don’t mind saying so.”

Happily these remarks did not reach Ernest’s ears. Gratifying as they must have been, they would have proved somewhat dangerous, even to a mind so well balanced as his was. He knew that he had achieved a success, but he was well aware that, after all, it was not a very great one, and that he had many more far far greater to achieve before the victory would be won.

I must not forget one of the amusements which generally terminated the winter half of the year. It was a grand race on stilts. There was a wide extent of flat meadow land in the neighbourhood, intersected with narrow ditches full of water. This was the ground selected for the sport. It was something like the Landes in the south of France. Monsieur Malin had introduced the amusement.

Boys when they first came to the school, who had not been accustomed to walk on stilts, were surprised at the height of those used, and the rapidity with which the older fellows walked along on them. Many of them were ten feet high. The resting-place for the feet was a piece of wood flat on the upper surface, with a strap to it which could be fastened round the feet or not. The upper ends of the poles were held by the hands, with the shoulders pressing against them. By this mode a boy could leap off his stilts without risk. Some are used which do not reach above the knee, round which the end is secured by a strap, but a fall with these may prove a very serious matter, and the Doctor would not allow them to be used.

It was good fun on stilt day to see the greater part of the school mounted up high above the ground, and striding away at a rapid rate over the fields; to hear the shouts and shrieks of laughter, especially if any unfortunate wight put the end of his stilt into a ditch deeper than he expected, and, unable to draw it out again, dropped on his nose. Monsieur Malin generally led the party, and no one cheered and laughed more than he did. This year it was arranged that a steeple-chase should take place; so it was called; but in reality it was not a steeple which formed the goal, but a low object—a white gate, which could only be seen from an elevation; therefore the boys with the highest stilts were the best able to keep it in sight.

Fancy upwards of eighty boys collected on a fine clear frosty afternoon, mounted up five or six feet off the ground, some even more, stalking away as fast as they could go over the fields, shouting, and laughing, and hallooing to each other.

As usual, Ernest was one of the most active. He and Buttar took the lead, but they were closely followed by Tom Bouldon, who was very great upon stilts. The exercise suited his temperament. He had been at the school ever since Monsieur Malin introduced them, and so he was well-practised in their use. He thus had an advantage Ernest did not possess. He went steadily on across hedges and ditches, and across ploughed fields, and moist meadows and marshes, till he overtook Buttar, and then he came up with Ernest, who was beginning to fag, and then he went ahead, and finally got in at the winning-post half a field’s length before anybody else.

Two days after that the school broke up, and the boys, in high spirits at the anticipation of the amusements they were to enjoy, started off in all directions to their respective homes.

Chapter Twelve.

The Christmas Holidays. Skating and other Winter Amusements.

Ernest liked his school very much, but he had good reason to love his home still more, for such a home as his—or rather its inhabitants, which constituted it his home—was well worthy of all the affection of his warm affectionate heart. His father and mother were so wise and sensible and kind, so just and so indulgent. The expression of their countenances and their general personal appearance at once showed that they were above the ordinary run of people; yet, noble as they looked, none but the base and evil-disposed were afraid of them. It was a pleasure to see the smiling faces and the affectionate looks with which they were received as they walked about the village, where they and their ancestors for several generations had lived before them. Often and often they might be seen simply, and, if the weather was bad, roughly, dressed; going from cottage to cottage, with a basket of medicines, or provisions and clothing, for those poor neighbours who were, they well knew, utterly unable to obtain them for themselves. Their daughters followed their example. No more sweet, amiable, and yet refined, girls were to be found in the country. Their brothers declared that no such girls existed in the world; and yet, though they could do all sorts of things, and ride, and fish, and even play cricket with them on a pinch, they were not in the slightest degree proud or conceited. They could sing and play, and when they went to balls, which was not very often, no young ladies appeared to greater advantage, or were more lively or graceful. They were admired, and yet fully respected, by all who knew them.

I have described what Ernest was. His brothers were his equals in most respects. His eldest brother was a very fine young man, and had taken high honours at Cambridge. He was an excellent specimen of an English gentleman of the nineteenth century. Free from all affectation and pedantry, still his whole nature seemed to revolt from anything slangish or low. No oaths, nor anything which would be considered one, nor any cant expressions, ever escaped his lips. Yet he was full of life and spirits, the soul of every society in which he moved. He had numerous friends, and so mild and quiet was his disposition that he seldom or never made enemies; or rather, I may say, if he made an enemy, he quickly got rid of his enmity. All his brothers looked up to him, and loved him heartily.

“My brother John says so and so,” or “My brother John did so and so,” was a constant phrase of theirs, and it was always something good he had said or done. He was at home, and so were indeed all Ernest’s brothers. One was in the navy—Frank. What a light-hearted and merry fellow he was. He had seen some hard service, had been highly spoken of in a dispatch, and had a medal on his breast. He was a gallant, true-hearted sailor, and was as much liked by his companions afloat as his brothers were by theirs on shore.

Such were the inhabitants of Oaklands. The house itself was a fine old substantially-built edifice, with thick walls, standing on a gentle elevation, and overlooking a wide extent of country. The grounds which surrounded it were large, and contained woods, and shady walks, and fishponds, or rather lakes, and ornamental flower gardens, and rich velvety lawns, and kitchen gardens.

A short time before the holidays, Mr Bracebridge had written to his son, desiring to have the addresses of several of them. What was his reason for doing this, his father did not tell him.

The holidays began. What a happy Christmas-day the whole family spent together! It was spent as Christmas-day should be spent—in affectionate family intercourse, and not in a wild gaiety which is calculated to drive away all thought and recollection of the great and glorious event it is intended to celebrate on that day. How happy everybody was both upstairs and downstairs; what long yarns Frank spun of his adventures in many lands, and his hair-breadth escapes; how he made them laugh at some of his stories, and cry, if their hair did not stand on end, at others, so exciting or so full of horror did they appear. I should like to repeat some of them, but I have not time to do so now. Of course everybody was wishing for a frost, that they might have skating.

“Oh, how delightful it will be!” exclaimed the midshipman. “I have not put on a pair of skates for the last five years. I have seen ice enough and to spare in the shape of icebergs, and floes, and fields of ice, but that is not the sort of ice suitable for skating. A big, thundering iceberg is a wonderful thing; we nearly got run down by one, or rather we nearly ran into one, if the truth must be said, when I was in the ‘Stag,’ only, of course, we always lay the blame on anything but ourselves; so in this case we blamed the iceberg for getting in our way, as if it had not just as much right to be there as we had, and as if it had not been our business to get out of its way. We were going round Cape Horn, and the master thought fit to make a considerable offing, and to keep away to the southward. It was my watch on deck. We had a fair wind on our starboard quarter. Jim Holdfast, whom I took out with me, and who promises to turn out a prime sailor, was forward. It was a pitchy dark night. We could barely make out our hands held out before us, and as to seeing across the deck, that was impossible. We had three reefs in our topsails, and though it was not blowing very hard—that is to say, a man might open his mouth without fear of having his teeth blown down his throat—we were running at the rate of nearly eight knots an hour through the water. By the way the stern of the ship lifted, and then by the feeling that she was gliding away downward into the depths of some watery valley, we knew that huge mountainous seas were rolling up astern of us. I frequently looked astern to try and make them out, but I could only hear their loud surge or slush (I must coin a word), as they broke close to our taffrail. Now and then, by keeping my eye on the sky, a vast ominous darkness came up between me and it, and that I knew from experience was a giant billow, big enough, if it once broke over us, to swallow up us, or a ship ten times as large. My watch was nearly out. I was thinking that I should not be sorry to get below, and go fast asleep. Now, ‘you gentlefolks of England, who stay at home at ease,’ will, I dare say, fancy that no one could go to sleep under such circumstances; but for us sailors it would never do if we allowed a gale of wind or any such trifle to keep us awake when it was not our watch on deck. The officer of the watch had just ordered eight bells to be struck, that is to say, it was the end of the first watch, or twelve o’clock at night, when a voice from forward shrieked out—for it was not an ordinary hail, but a cry which showed that life or death depended on the words being heard.

“‘Iceberg ahead! Port the helm!—port—port—luff—luff! Ease away the weather braces—haul taut the lee braces!’

“I recognised the voice as that of Jim Holdfast. I do not think the second-lieutenant, who had the watch, was aware who was speaking, but he was a sensible fellow, and instead of being angry, as some officers would have been at finding anybody venturing to give an order instead of themselves, he repeated it, and discovering that it was obeyed, hurried forward to ascertain more clearly if possible the state of things. I looked out to leeward. There rising, as it were, out of the ocean was an indistinct mass of luminous matter (I can call it by no other name), out of which proceeded a cold chilling air, piercing to our very marrow. High, high above us it seemed to tower. The seas roared against its base. Not a man on deck but held his breath, for no one knew what was next to happen. We were terribly near to it. The sea, as it dashed up the sides of the icy rock—for there was no doubt it was an iceberg—came toppling back in showers of foam, and deluging our decks. As the ship heeled over to the breeze, her mainyard, I verily believe, grazed the iceberg. Had she been a few feet nearer to it, perhaps, I may say, a few inches, I do not believe that the gallant little sloop or any one on board would ever again have been heard of. The watch below had been called, and they came tumbling up in a great hurry, not knowing what was the matter. I could tell by the exclamations of a few near me that they wished themselves anywhere but where they were. The dear little ship flew on, and in another minute the iceberg was left astern. Then a cheer from all hands arose, and I believe many returned sincere, though silent, thanks to Him who had so mercifully preserved us. We hauled our wind and stood to the northward, for we had no fancy to encounter another of those big ice mountains in that dark night, not but what we knew that even then we might still run against one. You see, our sailor philosophy is to do our very best, and then not to trouble our heads more than we can help as to what are to be the consequences. When the excitement had calmed down, inquiries were made as to who had seen the iceberg, and so promptly given the order to ‘port the helm,’ through which the ship had undoubtedly been saved. Jim Holdfast, when he heard the inquiries made, was in a great fright, thinking that he was going to be punished, or well rowed at all events; and he never would have confessed that he had ventured to give the order, had not I gone to him and insisted on his coming forward, and saying how he had seen the iceberg, and had known that, unless what he had ordered was done, the ship would be lost. The next day the sea went down, and we were able before night to haul up permanently on our course for Valparaiso, the capital of Chili. Well, after breakfast I got Jim to come aft with me to the captain, who, with most of the officers, was on the quarter-deck.

“‘I’ve found the culprit, sir,’ said I. ‘Here’s the man who first discovered the iceberg, though he had never seen one before, and—’

“‘And gave the order which saved the ship, and all our lives,’ said the captain, interrupting me, and smiling pleasantly. ‘Holdfast, my man, you did a most seaman-like thing. I shall at once give you a higher rating, for you have shown yourself thoroughly deserving of it.’

“I never saw a fellow so thoroughly astonished. He pulled away a lock of his hair, till I thought he would haul it out by the roots, for he, of course, held his hat in his hand; and he scraped away with his foot, and said that he didn’t think he had done anything out of the common way, and it was only his duty, and that sort of thing; but there was nothing like affectation in what he said. Still more astonished was he when the captain continued—

“‘You shall come to my clerk every day, and perhaps he will give you some instruction which may be useful to you. If you go on as you have begun, I may hope some day to see you on the quarter-deck.’

“The captain said a good deal more to the same effect. As I was saying, Jim was astonished. He said very little in return, but only pulled away harder than ever at his hair. Though before that time I should not have supposed that he had a spark of ambition in his soul, I after this observed a marked change in his demeanour and character. I suspect his eye was never off the quarter-deck. When not on duty, he was always reading and writing, and talking on nautical subjects. He was neater, and cleaner, and more active than before; at the same time that he was just as respectful as ever to all above him. He came home with us, and as soon as the ship was paid off, he went of his own accord to a nautical school to learn navigation, to enable him to do which he had saved up every farthing of his pay. Now, I say that Jim has set an example which many young gentlemen would do well to follow. If our captain gets a ship soon, he will take him with him; and when he hears how he has been employing his time on shore, I am very certain that he will keep his eye on him, and advance him if he can.”

Everybody present had listened with intense interest to Frank’s account of his ship’s narrow escape from destruction, and this of course encouraged him to continue his narrations on subsequent evenings; but as my readers are not his brothers and sisters, and father and mother, who might possibly be somewhat prejudiced in his favour, I will not repeat them.

The young men and boys were all looking out eagerly for a frost; and every night they went out, one after the other, to ascertain whether the smell of the air gave indications of one having set in. Who does not know that peculiar clear, fresh feeling, so invigorating and exhilarating, which the air has when a frost has begun? Night after night, however, passed, and still the frost did not commence; but as the atmosphere grew colder and colder, everybody believed that their hopes would not long be delayed. Skates, which had long lain dormant in tool-chests and cupboards, were got out and polished. Skating shoes or boots were greased, and straps were repaired. At last Ernest, in high glee, rushed in among the family circle assembled around the drawing-room fire one evening, and declared that a right honest frost had, without the slightest doubt, set in, and that in two days he felt sure the ice would bear. The anticipation of the pleasure they all so much enjoyed put them into great spirits; and if either of the younger ones had been asked what he considered the greatest misfortune that could happen to the world, he would very likely have replied, a thaw. When, however, they had exhausted the subject, or at all events the patience of their hearers, their eldest sister proposed that those who were not engaged in any manual employment should read or tell a tale. The proposal was cordially welcomed. Frank gave for his share of the evening’s amusements a further account of his adventures; then a tale was read; and at last Charles, Ernest’s second brother, who had lately returned from Germany, undertook to give a terrible ghost story which he had heard in that country, and which, as he said, had the advantage of being entirely true, though he was not disposed to quarrel with those who would not believe it.

“Is it an ancient or modern story, Charles?” asked Ernest; “I have no fancy for modern ghost stories. They all end in so ridiculous a way that one feels vexed at having taken the trouble of reading them.”

“Oh, this is a true antique tale,” said Charles; “but you shall hear it. Is everybody ready to attend? Well, then. Once upon a time—”

“No! no! no! Don’t begin a story in that old-fashioned, obsolete way,” exclaimed Ernest. “I never can fancy that a story is worth hearing when it begins with ‘Once upon a time.’”

“Heave ahead! and let us hear what it is about,” cried Frank. “Leave out the ‘Once upon a time.’ We are all ready. Just plunge at once into the story—don’t give us a long-winded prelude, that is all.”

“Very well, then; I will leave out the objectionable expression, and will begin at once by telling you all about the hero and his exploits up to the time my story commences. So once more. Listen—listen now! Here goes:—

“Kurd von Stein was a gallant and adventurous knight; he cared not how far he wandered, nor what danger lay in his path. He had travelled to all lands, and in all climates, defending ladies from insult, and the defenceless from oppression. His love of adventure led him through wood and wild, over mountains and across seas; but it was in the night that he loved best to ride forth, when the soft moon shone on the silvery lake and quiet forest; when the stars gazed calmly on the earth, as if seeking to penetrate its future, and mourning over its past; when the hoot of the owl and the cry of the beast of prey were the only sounds to be heard, besides the tread of his own charger, when he left the forest glade for the more beaten track.

“The Castle of Jauf, whose grey ruins may still be seen on a wooded height in the high country of the Rhine, was at that time a stately pile, with battlements, towers, and walls of massive strength; but it was uninhabited even then, and in the country round strange tales were told of sights and sounds which issued from it, not only at night, but even during the day. Spirits were said to hold their meetings there, and the place was shunned by all mankind.

“Sir Kurd, however, knew nothing of these tales; he had come from a great distance, and beyond inquiring his way, and ordering his necessary food, had held no communication with the peasantry, whose dialect was with difficulty understood either by his servant or himself. As he came within some hours of Jauf, he desired his servant to proceed to the castle of a baron whom he had met in the wars in Belgium, and who lived at no great distance, while he himself turned into the forest in hopes of meeting with some adventure. On he rode, through the pleasant oak woods, and by many a wild crag; but he at last found that he had wandered out of the direction he meant to have taken, and had no idea where he was, or which way he ought to turn to find his friend’s castle; but he comforted himself with the old proverb, ‘that every road leads to Rome, and even out of the labyrinth you will reach your destination.’

“The last ray of sunset had disappeared as Sir Kurd entered a wide valley, and faintly through the deepening gloom descried a large building, standing on a height at its further end—it was the Castle of Jauf. His horse was tired, and he himself both weary and hungry; he therefore determined on going to the castle, and asking for food and shelter for the night. He rode slowly up the hill on which the castle stood; but as he came near the walls, the darkness increased so suddenly that it was with difficulty he found the entrance to the court. He called loudly, but no servant appeared at his summons. His shout was given back by a dull echo from the walls, within which night and solitude alone seemed to reign. The court was full with long grass; he led his horse across it to a tall silver pine, whose outline he could faintly trace through the darkness, bound him to it, and then sat down to rest. After a little time he looked up,—and see! A light shone from one of the windows! He rose quickly, found a door, and felt his way up the narrow spiral staircase. At the top of the staircase was a door, which he opened, and found himself in a large baronial hall; but he hesitated to advance when he saw that the only person in it was a girl, who sat by the long table. She wore a black dress, and a string of large pearls confined her soft brown hair; and her attention was so absorbed in a large book which was open before her, and which she read by the light of a lamp, that she did not seem to be aware of the knight’s entrance. She was very lovely, and her expression told of a gentle heart; but she was pale as a cloud, and some deep sorrow seemed to have robbed her cheek of its roses.

“‘Noble lady, I greet you well,’ said the knight, at length.

“She looked up, and thanked him silently by a gentle inclination of her head. He continued:—

“‘In my journey through this wood I have lost my way; may I ask for some food and a night’s lodging?’

“She rose, and with noiseless step left the hall, returning presently with two dishes, one of venison, another of wild fowl; these she placed on the table, and again retiring, brought a goblet of sparkling red wine. Having arranged everything, she signed to Sir Kurd to eat, accompanying the sign with a sad smile. He very willingly accepted her invitation; and though he found that both bread and salt had been forgotten, his modesty prevented his asking for them. It seemed strange, too, that not a single word had escaped the maiden’s lips, and he dared not speak to her. But the spirit of the generous wine, which came from the sunny hills of Burgundy, began to assert its power over him, and prompted him to speak as follows:—

“Much-honoured lady, may I be allowed one question?”

“She bent her head.

“I suppose you are the daughter of the house?”

“Again she bowed.

“‘And who are your parents?’

“She turned to the wall of the apartment, on which hung many portraits of knights and ladies; and pointing to the two last, she said, in a voice so soft, so melodious, that it seemed like the sighing of an Aeolian harp—

“‘I am the last of my race.’

“‘Here,’ thought Sir Kurd, ‘this may turn out as good an adventure as ever knight met with in an out-of-the-way part of the world. To be sure, they sometimes won a princess, sometimes a wicked fairy; but this maiden pleases me, and it is a splendid castle. Ah, poor thing! no doubt it is grief at the loss of her parents which has paled her cheek. Perhaps I may find means of comforting her.’

“He advanced, took her hand, and said—

“‘Believe me, lady, I grieve to hear that death has so early robbed you of your parents; but ladies require the protection of knights. Have you—pardon the liberty I take—have you chosen one to make you happy?’

“She shook her head. He continued, modestly—

“‘In that case, may Kurd von Stein—whose name may have been heard even here as that of a trusty Knight of the Empire, and as having distinguished himself in many wars—may Kurd von Stein offer you his heart and hand?’

“A gleam of pleasure lighted up the pale face of the girl; such a one as you may have seen pass over a meadow when the moon shone suddenly from behind a cloud. She rose, and from a cupboard brought two gold-rings, set in black, and a wreath of sweet rosemary, (See Note 1.) which she twisted amongst the pearls in her hair. She signed to the knight to follow, and went towards the door. As he passed down the hall, he wondered that neither male nor female attendants were to be seen; but at that moment the door was thrown open by two old men in full holiday suit. Their robes were white, and richly embroidered with gold; their black barettes had large silver ornaments. They placed themselves on either side of the knight and lady, and with them descended the long flight of stairs, on which Sir Kurd’s step alone was heard; the others seemed rather to glide than walk.

“Sir Kurd began to feel very uncomfortable; he did not like the style of thing at all, and half repented of having pledged himself; but it was now too late to retract, and an irresistible power seemed to draw him onwards. The old men led them to the castle chapel. Lights already burned on the high altar; monuments of gleaming white marble, ornamented with weapons and golden inscriptions, rose on all sides. It was before one of these that the lady stopped; the iron figure of a bishop rested on it; the eyes were closed, the hands folded. She touched the figure; it instantly rose, and the eyes sparkled, as you may have seen the northern lights sparkle through the keen air of a winter night. He went to the altar, and standing before the bridal pair, said, in a deep and solemn voice—

“‘Say, Sir Kurd von Stein, will you wed with the noble and honourable Lady Bertha von Windeck?’

“As the leaves of the aspen and tremulous poplar shiver when a chilly breeze touches them, so trembled the knight as the lady passed her arm round him. He tried to say—he did not quite know what; but he could not utter a sound, his very blood seemed curdled in his veins. Hark!—the crowing of a cock. A storm swept through the chapel, and the castle trembled to its very foundations. In an instant all had vanished, and Sir Kurd sank down in a swoon. On coming to himself, he lay—where? Amongst the long grass in the castle court, under the spreading branches of the silver pine, and by his side stood his faithful charger, while the cold grey light of morning began to appear in the east.

“‘Was it a dream? Did I really see these awful sights?’ said the knight to himself; and still the cock crew on.

“Sir Kurd mounted his horse, quickly left the castle, and, without looking behind him, rode towards the spot where the cock was yet crowing. He soon reached a hospitable farm-house, standing amongst the meadows in the valley, by the side of a clear stream. Here he dismounted, just as the sun rose, and while partaking of a hearty breakfast, of which he stood in great need, he related to the farmer all his adventures of the past night, who, in his turn, told many others of the same sort. Sir Kurd found that his servant had been unable to reach the castle to which he had sent him, and had spent the night at the farm; so they soon after started together, the knight feeling most thankful to be rid of his ghostly bride.”

Charles’s story met with perhaps more applause even than it deserved. He confessed that it was a very free translation of a German tale he had read somewhere, but it was not admired the less for all that.

Two days after this a carriage drove up to the door, and out of it stepped Buttar and Ellis. Ernest knew nothing of their coming. It was a surprise his father wished to give him. The boys were delighted to meet each other, and kept shaking hands till they nearly dislocated each other’s wrists. Buttar, who had come from a distance, had picked up Ellis on the way. The parents of the latter were glad to have him with a companion like Ernest, from whom, from his account, they believed he could reap so much benefit.

Not long after another carriage arrived, and great was the delight of all parties when Lemon and Tom Bouldon’s faces were seen looking out of the window.

“This is jolly!—how delightful!—how capital!—what fun!” were some of the exclamations which escaped the boys’ lips as they shook hands with each other.

“And the frost has begun here, as I suppose it had with you,” added Ernest. “And the gardener says he is certain that the ponds will bear to-morrow, and if they do, we shall have some magnificent skating. There is not a particle of snow on the ice, and when it set there was a perfect calm, so that it is as smooth—as smooth—what shall I say?—as ice can be. Oh, we shall have some first-rate skating, and hockey, perhaps, and sleighing also, such as people have in Canada. John has had a sleigh built, such as he saw when he went over there in the last long vacation. He proposes to drive young Hotspur in it. We shall fly over the ground at a tremendous rate if he does. There isn’t a horse in the country like young Hotspur for going. My pony, whom we call Larkspur, is first-rate of his sort; but when I am riding out with any one mounted on young Hotspur I feel just as if I was on board a small yacht with the ‘Alarm’ or one of those large fast racing cutters in company. You have all brought your skates I hope. If you have not, I dare say we have some spare ones which will fit you. We have had them given to us at different times, and most of my brothers have outgrown theirs, so that I have no doubt we shall find enough. Oh, Ellis, do you say that you cannot skate? Never mind, you will soon learn. You have learned many things more difficult. I’ll undertake that you will be quite at home on your skates in the course of a week.”

So Ernest ran on, as he conducted his friends round the house, to exhibit to them its numberless attractions, and to show them their rooms. They could not fail to be pleased, for the house, although not fitted up with anything like luxury, contained within itself abundance of objects to afford amusement and instruction to the inmates when confined by bad weather.

There was a first-rate library, in the first place, and a very interesting museum, illustrating all parts of the world. The articles in it were well arranged, and every one had a clearly written and full description attached to it. The articles from each country were placed together, and the countries were arranged according to their respective quarters of the globe. There were good maps, and many pictures illustrating the scenery or habits and customs of the inhabitants. Many hours might be passed profitably in it, which is not often the case with museums. At all events, I have never found that I could carry away much information from one. At the same time, I own that I think very likely I may have a more correct notion of the forms of animals, and of the shape of boats and buildings of foreign countries, than I should possess had I not visited the British Museum, and others of less note. The most advantageous way of visiting a general museum is to go with a definite object each time, and to attend exclusively to that object. I have never seen a museum better arranged than that which had been formed by Mr Bracebridge, aided by his sons, who were great collectors for it, and accordingly took a warm interest in its success. However, not only studiously disposed people found amusement in the house. There was a billiard table, and foils, and boxing-gloves, and single-sticks, and basket-sticks, and implements for all sorts of less athletic games at which ladies can play.

“Why, Ernest, you live in a perfect paradise of a home,” exclaimed Buttar, as at last they reached the sleeping-rooms which Mrs Bracebridge had appropriated to her young guests.

“My father and mother make it so,” said Ernest, enthusiastically. “They regulate everything so well, and yet we have such perfect liberty. Our father trusts us entirely. He tells us that there are certain things which he does not wish us to do—sometimes he gives us his reasons, and very good ones they are; at other times he gives no reason, but simply says we are not to do certain other things, and we know that his reasons are good, so we do not think of doing them. Frequently he leaves us to act according to our discretion, and gives us only general rules for our guidance.”

Buttar could thoroughly appreciate the advantages his friend possessed, for they were advantages of no ordinary kind, and were the cause of the superiority he possessed over the greater number of his companions.

What a merry evening that was on which the boys arrived! Lemon had met Charles Bracebridge in Germany, though it was only just before the holidays he discovered that Ernest was his brother. He now came more especially to visit him. He was of a more suitable age than Ernest for a companion.

There was a Christmas-tree loaded with really useful prizes, so that all the boys were glad enough to obtain some of them, and their distribution caused great fun; then they had a most uproarious game of blindman’s buff. Some of them dressed up in all sorts of costumes, so that when they were caught, the blind man could not tell who they were.

Bouldon made a capital blind man. He rushed furiously here and there, over everybody and everything, never minding where he went, shrieking with laughter all the time, but keeping his hands well out before his head, so that he ran no chance of knocking it against the wall. More than once Tom came head over heels down on the ground; but amid the shouts of laughter, in which he himself heartily joined, having stood on his head for a minute, he leaped up, and made a desperate dash at some of the players. At last he caught Buttar, who also made a very amusing blind man, and though he suffered several mishaps, never for a moment lost his temper.

Among Buttar’s very many good qualities, a fine temper was one. Nothing ever put him out, though he was often much tried. He was good-tempered by nature, but he was also good-tempered from principle. He knew how wrong it is to lose temper, and he despised the frivolous excuses often made by people for doing so. The game of blindman’s buff lasted a wonderfully long time. At last the ladies began to think that it had become almost too boisterous, and Lemon, who was a capital hand at starting games, proposed the game of “baste the bear.”

“What’s that?” asked Buttar. “In all my experience I never heard of that game.”

“I’ll show you, then. Who knows it? Do any of you?”

Tom Bouldon acknowledged that he did.

“Very well, Tom; you must be the first bear. I’ll be your keeper,” said Lemon. “Properly speaking, everybody ought to draw lots as to who should be bear, and the bear selects his keeper. However, we will suppose that preliminary got over. All the rest of the company are to tie their handkerchiefs into knots, with which to baste the bear. Now, I, as keeper, will fasten a rope round the waist of the bear, leaving a scope of about five feet. We take our position within a circle of about five feet in diameter, in the centre of the room. Here the circle is easily formed by tacking a little red tape down to the carpet. If I, as keeper, touch anybody without dragging the bear out of the ring, that person must become bear, and may select his keeper; or if the bear catches anybody by the legs, and holds him fast in the same way, he must take the bear’s place. Now we are all ready. Very well, then, hit away with all your might.”

Tom looked very lugubrious as, taking up his position, he saw the preparations making for his basting.

“Oh, oh, oh! Don’t, kind gentlemen, hit hard,” he cried out in piteous accents; and then in a deep tone he added, “if you do, to a certainty I’ll catch hold of some of you, and make you rue the day.”

Nothing daunted by Tom’s threats, the party began to attack him vigorously; but they ran no little risk of being caught by Lemon, who sprang out on them to the full length of the rope, now and then almost pulling Tom out of his line; Bouldon also was very active, especially when any of his schoolfellows came near him. He growled and roared in a very wild-beast-like way, sometimes springing at Ernest, sometimes at Buttar or Ellis. Frank, the midshipman, also came in for an equal share of his attentions, and he seemed to consider that he was much on a par with him. The moment Frank understood the game, he played as vehemently as anybody. He said that it was a capital game, and that he should introduce it on board the next ship he joined. In spite of all his activity, Tom got many a hard lick, and still he remained a bear. At last he pretended to be so weary of his exertions, that he could not attempt to capture one of his tormentors. Those who were acquainted with Tom best, and saw his eye, knew that he was not to be trusted. The midshipman, however, was not up to him, and rushing in, found himself grasped tightly round the knee by the seeming half-sleeping bear.

“I thought that I should catch you, Frank,” cried Bouldon, shouting in triumph. “Now please go and turn into a bear, and take care that you don’t get into a butter boat.”

Frank had therefore to become the bear. He chose Ellis as his keeper. Never was a more extraordinary bear seen. He stood on his head; he jumped about with his feet in his hands, and rolled round and round as a ball; and when anybody came near to baste him, he jumped and kicked about in so wonderful a way that no one could hit him. Every one also saw that he was very likely to catch them if they ventured near.

At last Charles, the narrator of the German ghost story, got caught, and he chose his brother John as his keeper. They tried to catch one of their sisters, or some of the eldest of the family, but were very glad at length, so pestered were they by Bouldon, to catch him, when in a daring mood he ventured near them. Thus the game went on, and many other games succeeded, till bed-time at last arrived, and the boys exclaimed with one voice, “Well, we have had a jolly evening!”

Note 1. A wreath of rosemary is worn by the dead in many parts of Germany.

Chapter Thirteen.

Christmas Holidays and Winter Amusements.

“Hurra! it was a terrific frost last night! the ice bears, and the gardener says we might drive a coach and six over it,” exclaimed Ernest, rushing into Buttar’s and Bouldon’s room. “Up! up! Let us breakfast, and go down and try it. Get up, do, and I’ll go and tell the other fellows. John has been getting his sleigh ready, and harnessing young Hotspur; so I don’t doubt he intends trying the ice to-day.”

Soon all the merry party were assembled in the breakfast-room. Just before nine Mr Bracebridge made his appearance, followed immediately by the rest of the family, and read a chapter in the Bible, and Morning Prayers. Then, when everybody had selected their places, he advised them to apply themselves to the cold viands, under which the sideboard literally groaned. With wonderful rapidity, eggs and ham, and brawn, and veal pie, and tongues, disappeared down their throats, mingled with toast, and rolls, and muffins, and slices from huge loaves of home-made bread, and cups of coffee, and tea, and chocolate. Bouldon did great execution among the viands, and he did not allow his modesty to stand in his way. At last breakfast was over, and then gimlets, and bradawls, and spare straps were in great requisition, to enable them to fit on their skates before they went to the pond. Some had spring skates, which were very quickly put on, the spring, which was between the sole of the boot and the sole of the skate, keeping all the straps tight, at the same time without any undue pressure. John Bracebridge was celebrated as a first-rate skater. His skates were secured to a pair of ankle boots, which fitted him exactly, and laced up in front. He put them on at the pond. There are two objections to that sort of skate. One is, that the feet get chilled from putting on a cold pair of boots, and if a person is skating away from home, he may not be able to find anybody to take care of his shoes.

“Are all the skates ready?” cried Ernest.

“All! all!” was the answer.

“Then don’t let us lose more time of this precious frost,” he added. “Remember, it may very speedily be over; so let us make the best of it we can.”

In a laughing, merry body, with skates in hand, they hurried down through the grounds to the pond. It might well have been called a lake, for it was an extensive and very picturesque sheet of water, almost entirely surrounded by trees, with now and then an opening bordered by a plot of grass, or a bend of the grand walk which ran round it. Here and there was an island with a few birch-trees or willows growing on it, and over the trees could be seen, rising in the distance, a downy hill, now sprinkled with some snow which had fallen the night before the frost regularly set in, and which had thus not affected the surface of the lake. At the lower end the ground fell, and a long stream-like serpentine channel could be seen winding away, in one place overhung by trees, and in others between green meadows, till lost in the distance. The lower part was, in the summer, the favourite resort of anglers, for it contained some of the finest tench to be found anywhere in the neighbourhood.

No time was lost by those accustomed to skating in putting on their skates. John and Charles Bracebridge and Lemon had soon theirs ready, and rising on their feet, off they struck like birds about to fly, and away they went at a rapid rate, skimming over the smooth mirror-like expanse. Ernest longed to follow, for he had his skates on, and skated almost as well as they did; but he saw Ellis sitting down, having just cleverly enough put on his skates, but unable to move on them.

“Come, Ellis! up on your feet, my dear fellow, and lean on me,” he exclaimed, gliding up to him. “Take this stick in your right hand. Be sure that you can stand on your feet; your ankles are as strong as those of other people, and your skates are as well put on. Look at Buttar, and Bouldon, and me. You will be able to skate as easily as any of us with a little practice. There is no necessity why you should tumble down. You can balance yourself off the ice perfectly, on the gymnastic poles, and in other ways. Now, hurra!—off you go!”

Ernest knew that Ellis required all sorts of encouragement, so he said more to him than he would to any other boy. Ellis at last got up; his ankles slipped about a little, but he was anxious to follow his friend’s advice. In a short time he felt that he could stand firmly on the ice; then he slipped about, pushing one skate before the other. First he helped himself on with his stick, and then he balanced himself with it, and in an incredibly short time could move about so as to feel little fear of falling.

“Now,” exclaimed Ernest, “I have set you on your feet, I’ll go and take a skim over the surface. Remember, the more you practise, and the faster you throw away fear, the sooner you will be able to do the same. Good-bye!”

Away went Ernest, fleet as the wind, holding his right hand up before him to balance himself, and disdaining any stick for the purpose. He did not stop to hear Ellis utter his thanks and regrets at having kept him so long from commencing the graceful exercise in which he so much delighted. Ernest certainly did not enjoy it the less from having first performed a good-natured action for his friend. He, and Bouldon, and Frank looked on with admiration as he went gliding away over the ice; so easily, so gracefully he moved, now inclining to one side, now to the other, moving on apparently without the slightest exertion.

“There is not another fellow like him in the universe,” exclaimed Bouldon, enthusiastically. “It will be a happy day when he is the cock of our school; and that he soon will be, for he could, if he chose, thrash many fellows twice his size already.”

“I’m glad to hear you say that,” answered Frank, not less warmly. “Ernest was always a pet of mine; we never quarrelled when we were together. I wish that I could have him to go to sea with me. He’s just the fellow to be a general favourite in the navy, and to get on in it, too. He must do that.”

Ellis could scarcely trust himself to speak, but he was not the less pleased to hear his friend thus eulogised. He knew that he thought him superior to anybody else, but he was not aware that he was held in such high estimation by his own family. Buttar and Lemon, coming up before the subject had been changed, added their own meed of praise to that which the others had awarded. Meantime Ernest, unconscious of what was being said, after circling the pond with what is called the forward roll, changing it to the Dutch—so denominated because it is the movement employed by the Dutch peasants as they skate over their canals and lagoons on their way to market—then began making figures of eight, the spread-eagle, the back roll, not to mention many other figures and evolutions, which perfectly astonished Ellis as he looked at them. Frank had not skated for a long time; but, undaunted, he soon had on his skates, and away he went, furiously on, as if he had suddenly been converted into a battering-ram. So fast did he go that he could not stop himself, and overtaking a stout gentleman, who was going deliberately along, before he could beg him to get out of his way he ran right up against him, and the consequence was, that he and the stout gentlemen came to the ice together, making a very considerable star, and a noise which was still more terrific. First there was the sudden crash and rending asunder of the thick ice, and then the noise went rolling and mumbling away to the other end of the pond.

“Hallo! young gentleman, we shall be in! we shall be in!” cried the stout gentleman, in an agony of fear.

“I can swim, if we are,” answered Frank, scarcely refraining his laughter. “But beg pardon, sir; my skates ran away with me—they did indeed; and if I hadn’t fallen foul of you, they would have carried me right across the pond. I’ll help you up, though. You are not hurt, I hope.”

“Not much, I believe. I came down on you, and you formed a soft cushion,” answered the stout gentleman, good-naturedly. “But as to helping me up, do not, I pray you, attempt it on any account; we shall both of us go in if you do. Let us both roll away in opposite directions from the crack before we attempt to get on our feet. See how I manage.”

As the stout gentleman spoke, he began slowly to roll himself over and over away from the centre of the star, and Frank imitating him, they were both of them soon again on their legs. Frank was going off again at full speed, having once more repeated his apologies for his carelessness, when the stout gentleman stopped him.

“We must not leave others to fall into the danger from which we have escaped,” he cried out. “I observed, just now, some triangles with labels on the top, marked cracked and dangerous. We will get one and place it over the spot.”

“I’ll go and get the sign-posts you speak of,” said Frank. “Don’t trouble yourself, sir.”

“Then I will keep guard round the spot, to prevent any unwary person from approaching it,” said the stout gentleman.

Frank, on his return, found him going round and round the star.

“By to-morrow, I daresay, the wound will have healed,” he remarked. “By pressing it gradually down, as I have been doing, the water will have risen into the interstices and have frozen the broken pieces together.”

“I hope, sir, that I shall not be so clumsy again. I may not always meet people ready to take a knock-down so good-naturedly as you have done,” said the midshipman.

Frank and the stout gentleman became great friends after this, and Frank obtained from him many useful hints about skating. Meantime, several other people assembled on the lake, which now presented a very animated spectacle. Frank having come back to see how Ellis was getting on, found Ernest with him, giving him some further instruction, from which the pupil was much benefiting.

“Well, Ernest,” said Frank, “we have not had a skate together for a long time. What do you say to a race round the pond? I have got the use of my legs, I find, pretty well, but I don’t think I could come any of those twists and turns, and spread-eagle kind of things.”

Ernest said that he should be delighted to race his brother Frank, but advised him to curb his impetuosity.

“Oh, never fear! I’ve no other notion of going ahead but by putting on all the steam. My engines don’t work at half-pressure,” answered the midshipman. “Who’ll start us? Buttar, will you?”

“With all my heart,” answered Buttar. “Now get in line. Remember, the course is right round the pond, in and out into all the bays, and between all the islands. Now, once to make ready, twice to prepare. Once, twice, thrice, and—” Frank was so eager, that he was off almost before the word was out of Buttar’s mouth—“away!”

Off went the racers, the rest of the party following, but making short cuts so as to observe their proceedings. The contrast between the two brothers’ style was very amusing. Ernest’s was all science or art, which enabled him to move gracefully along without any apparent exertion. All he did was to keep his hands waving slowly, to expedite his movements as he swept round an island or into a bay, and to preserve his balance. Frank, on the contrary, had very little skill or science. All he did was by sheer muscular power, with a determination to keep his legs, and to go on ahead. The skates went deeply into the ice as he struck out, and he seemed rather to be running than skating, with such rapidity did he put one foot before the other. All the time his arms were in violent motion, while he flourished a stout oak stick, thick enough to fell a buffalo, and at the top of his voice kept shouting and shrieking with laughter, calling on Ernest to heave-to for him, or to port or starboard his helm, or to keep along in shore, and not attempt to make short cuts.

Ernest was very much amused at his nautical brother’s mode of proceeding, and he could not help suspecting that Frank was assuming a considerably greater amount of roughness than he really possessed. However, Ernest found that he had to skate his very best to keep ahead of him, when going in a direct line, though he beat him hollow whenever they had to make turns between the islands and the mainland, or to pass along the sinuosities of the bays. Still it seemed surprising, considering the little practice he had had, how perfectly at home Frank was on his feet. Ernest made a remark of that sort to him.

“Not a bit surprising, old fellow,” he answered. “It is simply because I know the skates can do the work I put them to. A fellow who has learned to stand on the deck of a ship, rolling her guns in the water, and pitching bows under, and has had to furl top-gallant sails with a hurricane blowing in his teeth, can easily do anything of this sort, if he has the mind to do it. I am not like you, Ernest; you see I have been scorching under tropical suns, while you have had time to practise the art of skating.”

They could not, however, talk very much as they went flying round the pond. Buttar and Bouldon, and Ellis and others sung out, “A race, a race, a race!” and attracted the attention of the rest of the people on the ice, who all stopped skating to look at them. It seemed still a doubtful point which would get in the first. Perhaps Ernest had not gone as rapidly as he might, that he might give Frank the pleasure of keeping up with him. There was a long clear run nearly from one end of the pond to the other. They were just about to do it. Ernest was a little ahead of Frank, so that he could turn his head over his shoulder to talk to him. Ernest came gliding smoothly on. “Skurry, skurry, skurry; clatter, clatter; ez–z–ez,” came Frank. I cannot better describe the noise made by his skates. Utter fearlessness was evidently the secret of his power. On he came, as little fatigued, in spite of all his exertions, as when he started.

“Heave-to, old fellow, I say; heave-to! Give us a tow, then, for I see how it is; you intend to keep ahead, though how you do it I can’t tell,” he continued to cry out as he approached the end of the pond, where Buttar and the rest stood ready to receive them. Ernest, as might be supposed, came in first, and gracefully wheeled round after he had touched Buttar’s hand. On came Frank, hurrahing and shouting, “Second in, at all events.” Touching Buttar’s hand, on he went. Was the bank to stop him? Not it. Up it he went, across the gravel walk, through the bushes, and down a bank into a meadow below, where was another piece of water, across which he shot, and then over another walk into the long canal pond, down which he went, shouting and laughing louder than ever.

“Our race is to the end of the ponds, Ernest, remember that. Ponds, old fellow! why don’t you come on?”

Tom Bouldon, delighted, went after him, as did two or three other boys from the neighbourhood who were not skating; but Ernest was afraid of spoiling his skates, by giving them such rough usage, and left Frank to enjoy his fun, and to boast that he had beaten him in the long run. It was some time before Frank returned, his exploit causing a great deal of amusement to all present. Some time before this a fire, with a large screen of matting to keep off the wind, had been seen to blaze up, and now a horn sounding, the party on the ice assembled round it. They found servants roasting potatoes under the ashes, which were served out with plates of salt, and butter, and toast, to all who asked for them, while at the same time hot punch was handed about to the visitors.

“Capital stuff this!” cried Tom Bouldon, smacking his lips, after he had quaffed a glass of it, and, turning to Buttar, “I wish that the Doctor would provide us with something of the sort in an afternoon in cold weather. It’s warm lemonade, with a little wine in it, I suspect. I’ll take another glass of it, if you please.”

Of course the servants handed Tom as many glasses as he asked for. Buttar took two or three. Away they skated. At first Tom got on very well, but in a few minutes he declared that the ice had become more slippery than ever, and that he had the greatest difficulty in keeping his legs; at the same time, that he felt a strong inclination to push on ahead.

“I say, Buttar, I believe that I could race the wind. Come, let us try; I don’t mind what I do,” he exclaimed, as he skated on furiously. “I don’t mind what I do—do you?”

Buttar himself felt rather excited, but he suspected the cause, and recommended Tom to come and sit down with him on the bank till they became more composed. It was fortunate that they found out in time the strength of the punch, or they might have been, as some of the visitors to the pond were, by their own imprudence, completely overcome.

Tom was very glad that he had escaped committing himself, and much obliged to Buttar for warning him. He had bully Blackall’s career before his eyes to warn him of the effects of drunkenness, and dreaded by any chance being led into it. He more than once went up to the fire for a hot potato, but each time the punch was offered him he wisely declined taking it. By the end of the day everybody declared that never was known so perfect a first day of skating. Most of the party, except the more practised skaters, were not a little stiff and sore from the exertions and tumbles. Ellis could scarcely move a limb, and Frank declared that he felt as if he had been fighting away the whole day. They had, indeed, been on their feet from half-past ten in the morning till nearly dark.

The next day much the same scenes were enacted.

After luncheon, a jingling of bells was heard, and young Hotspur appeared, drawing an elegant American sleigh. John Bracebridge, who was driving, dashed fearlessly on to the ice. The steed seemed delighted to have so slight a weight after him. The sleigh—so it is called in Canada and throughout America—had a seat in front for the driver, and an easy sloping one behind for two passengers. A handsome fur rug hung over it behind, almost reaching the ground, while there were two or three buffalo skins, in which those in the carriage might effectually wrap themselves up. Instead of having wheels, the carriage was placed on runners, two skates as it were, made of iron, with a frame-work lifting the body of the carriage about a foot, or a foot and a half, from the ground, and giving it a very light appearance. The harness was ornamented with little silvery sounding bells, and fringe, and tufts of red worsted, which made the whole turn-out look very gay. It gained universal admiration, and two ladies were easily persuaded by John Bracebridge to get into it, and to be driven round and round the pond.

“You may fancy yourselves transported suddenly to Canada, and whisking away over the Saint Lawrence,” he observed, turning round as he drove on; “only I assure you that so smooth a piece of ice as this is rarely found to drive over. In Lower Canada especially, the sleighs are driven on the roads over the snow; but the old-fashioned French Canadian sleigh, used by all the country people, is so low that the front part sweeps the snow before it, and thus ridges are quickly formed all across the road. Another sleigh following has to surmount the ridges, and of necessity digs down on the opposite side, and scoops out more of the snow. Sometimes, also, they slide off either on one side or the other, and thus a succession of hills or waves, as it were, are made with slides, which send the sleighs nearly off the road on one side or the other, and make the driving away from the larger cities very far from pleasant. About Quebec, however, the roads are kept in good order, and sleighing is there a very agreeable amusement.”

As young Hotspur could not go trotting round and round the pond all day, John at last drove him home, and then Frank proposed a game of hockey on the ice. He had provided a supply of sticks and a ball, and the proposal was welcomed with applause. The people present were not long in forming sides. Charles undertook to lead one side, Frank the other. Frank got his stout friend to be on his side, but he generally chose boys. He got Ernest and all his schoolfellows, except Lemon, who joined Charles, and there were several other boys who skated pretty well, and, as he said, looked plucky. A person must know how to balance himself well to play hockey on skates, otherwise, after having struck the ball, he is very likely to allow his stick to swing round, and to bring him over. There were twenty people on a side, big and little; but the shorter ones had decidedly the advantage, and ran away with the ball whenever they got up to it, driving it before them before any of the opposite party could overtake them. Ernest gave his brother some useful hints, from which he profited. The same tactics which Ernest had often employed at school Frank brought into play. The chief point in his plan was to keep three or four boys together, one to follow up another. If the leader missed, then number two ran in; if he failed to strike, then number three, and so on. The stout gentleman also turned out to be a capital player. He went on the “sure and steady wins the race” principle. Quietly yet rapidly he glided about after the ball, and when he got up to it, never failed to strike it, and to strike hard too. His exertions indeed mainly contributed to the success of Ernest’s side, which triumphantly gained the day. Several games were played, and each time Ernest’s side was victorious, though the defeated party took it very good-humouredly. Charles, however, observed that he had received several lessons from his opponents, and that he thought they would not find him so easily beaten again.

“Don’t be too sure of that, Charlie,” sung out Frank. “We also intend to-morrow to play twice as well as we did yesterday. Our motto is, ‘We’ll fight and we’ll conquer again and again.’”

The morrow came, and a great game of hockey was the absorbing amusement of the day; even young Hotspur and the sleigh failed to attract so much interest. The stout gentleman was in his glory. He appeared with a hockey-stick of his own manufacture, and in garments which, if not graceful, precluded any of the youngsters from catching hold of his tails. There were the same sides as on the previous day, with several additional players; but none of them were very good, nor did they add much to the relative strength of each party. Ernest was the first to place the ball on the ice to strike it. The instant his stick descended, and the ball went whirling away over the smooth glass-like surface of the ice, Frank, followed by Buttar, Bouldon, and Ellis, darted forth with tremendous speed in the hopes of reaching it before any of the opposite party, and of driving it home; but before they could strike, Charles and Lemon were up to it, and sent it flying back again. The stout gentleman, however, who had only moved slowly on, saw it coming, and gliding up as it slid on towards him, struck it a blow which sent it two-thirds of the way across the pond once more. Frank, Ernest, and Buttar were up to it, Bouldon and Ellis keeping a little way behind them: Frank struck the ball, and sent it flying on, but it was into the midst of their opponents, who quickly drove it back again, when Bouldon, skating up, prevented it getting between Charles and Lemon, who stood prepared to drive it up to the goal, if, as they hoped, they could elude the vigilance of the stout gentleman. He, however, was not asleep, and watching their movements, as Tom Bouldon observed, as keenly as a boa-constrictor, glided swiftly up to the spot where they had driven the ball, and sent it spinning back, till once more Frank and Ernest got it within their power. Thus the game continued fluctuating; but finally, after many a bandy here and there, and many a tussle between the opposing parties, not a few upsets and other catastrophes, it was sent up to Ernest, who struck it a blow which sent it flying along between everybody, nobody being able to stop it up to the goal.

The next game was, however, still more severely contested; and at last, by desperate struggles, was won by Charles’ party. Ellis had made wonderful progress in skating, thanks to Ernest’s lessons, and his own resolution to overcome all difficulties. Of course, he got several severe tumbles, but he always picked himself up and went away again as if nothing had been the matter. In a short time he overcame all fear, and obtained the complete mastery over his feet.

“I should like to have your friend Ellis with me at sea for a few months,” said Frank to Ernest, as they watched him tumble down and get up again, and go several times in succession to practise on the outside edge, undeterred by failures. “I like the fellow’s spirit, and I am sure that there is a great deal to be made out of him.”

“I am sure there is,” was the reply. “At the same time, he is really so talented, and so good-hearted and humble-minded. He is one of my greatest friends. He trusts me, and I trust him, and that is, I suspect, the true secret of friendship.”

Another day, Frank, taking a hint from John’s sleigh, rigged out one with ropes. It was little more than a wide plank on runners, with seats for two people. The boys harnessed themselves to it, and invited the visitors to the lake to come and be dragged along. They had many applications for the honour, and it was a source of great amusement. No one seemed weary of dragging the sleigh, or of being dragged in it. Round and round the pond they went, often at so tremendous a pace that those being dragged shrieked out with terror; but their alarm could not have been very great, for when they were asked if they would go on again they never refused, or if they did, it was to let some sister or friend take their places. The next day three similar sleighs appeared, but they were covered with cloaks or rugs, and each had a flag of a different colour flying in front of it. As each sleigh required several persons to drag it, nearly all the gentlemen skaters were in a short time turned into horses, while the ladies were all eager to be dragged along; so away they all went, skating round and round the lake, and those who looked on could distinguish where their friends were by the colour of the flags. Sometimes they raced, and then the excitement was tremendous. However, one of the sleighs was upset, and the passengers thrown out, and the skaters sent here and there, some on their backs, and some on all-fours, to the alarm of those at a distance, and to the great amusement of those near, and who knew that no one was hurt. Mr Bracebridge, after this, prohibited racing with sleighs, for fear of accidents of a more serious character.

It is impossible to describe minutely all the amusements of those memorable Christmas holidays. A fortnight passed away, and though the glass-like appearance of the ice had somewhat disappeared, owing to the innumerable cuts its surface had received from careless skaters, the skating was continued with unabated ardour. Then came down a heavy fall of snow, which completely covered the ponds with a thick coat. Passages, were, however, swept across the ice, but the interest of skating was somewhat diminished. More snow followed, and then, except on small patches and walks which, with some exertion, were kept clear by the gardeners, there was no room whatever for skating. Notwithstanding this there were abundant sources of amusement. The younger guests were fortunate in having so good a master of the revels as Frank, the midshipman.

“Hurra, boys, a bright idea!” he exclaimed, one morning at breakfast, when some of the party were lamenting the destruction of the ice. “We’ll build a castle of snow; not a puny little affair, but a castle with high walls and parapets, and a deep ditch and outworks, such as cannot be captured without hard fighting. However, as we don’t really wish to kill each other, instead of cutlasses and bayonets, and swords, and pistols, and all those sorts of deadly weapons, we will use good honest snowballs. We’ll build the castle first, and choose sides afterwards, so that no one will know whether they are going to defend or attack it, and no one inclined to be treacherous will leave any weak places. There is a high mound in Beech-tree meadow, which will make a capital foundation, and save a great deal of labour. Who is for it?”

Of course, all the younger guests were delighted with Frank’s proposal. Mr Bracebridge also entered into it. “You shall have the assistance of all the gardeners, who can do nothing during this weather,” he observed; “I will tell them also to engage half-a-dozen men thrown out of work; they with their barrows will much expedite the operation.”

“Thank you, papa; thank you, sir,” exclaimed the boys; and as soon as breakfast was over most of them jumped up ready to go to the scene of action. Ernest, however, said that he had his holiday task to go through, and that he must give one hour to that while he was fresh, and before he allowed his thoughts to be occupied with the amusements of the day. This reminded Buttar and Ellis that they had their tasks, to which they had as yet paid very little attention. Bouldon was inclined to think this proposal to study a very slow proceeding, as he had been in the habit of not looking at his task till the last week of the holidays, and often he did not finish off learning it till he was on his way to school. Now, however, as Ernest and others set the example, he began to think that he ought to do something.

“Very well,” observed Frank; “we will not start for an hour and a quarter; that will give you time to get out your books; and if you all read hard, you will do something. I’ll go to school, too, and rub up my navigation.”

Ernest, followed by his guests, accordingly repaired to the study. Tom Bouldon, on looking into his portmanteau, found that, by the most unaccountable negligence, as he said, the servant had not packed up any of his school-books, but had put in instead a copy of “Robinson Crusoe,” “Tom Cringle’s Log,” and the “Boy’s Own Book.” However, Ernest and Ellis between them were able to supply him; so Master Tom, having no excuse for idleness, set to with a will, and was surprised with the progress he made, and the satisfaction it afforded him.

“Well, I really think I will do a bit of my task every day till it is finished,” he exclaimed, as Frank, pulling out his watch, told the party that time was up, and that they might set off for the scene of action.

When they reached Beech-tree Meadow, they found a quantity of snow already collected from a distance in the neighbourhood of the mound. On one side, a little way off, was a miniature castle, which Frank said he had got up early in the morning to construct, so that everybody might see what they were about. The model was much admired, and Frank acting as architect, the work proceeded with wonderful rapidity. Some carried the snow; others acted as masons, and piled it up and smoothed it off, he, standing in the middle, aiding and directing. A circular tower of fully twenty feet in diameter was quickly raised, and fully fifteen feet high, and finished off at the summit in a castellated form, with a parapet; and then there was an outer wall with a deep ditch; between them and the tower was a gateway, and a bridge, constructed partly of snow and partly of planks, led to it. It really had, when finished, a very imposing appearance, and looked as capable of resisting a foe as one of the Martello towers which guard the coasts of Great Britain.

Frank had, in the morning, despatched an invitation to all the boys he knew of in the neighbourhood to come and join in the sport, and by the afternoon a large army was collected. Everybody was too eager in the work to go in to luncheon, so it was brought out to them. At last all was ready. Lemon undertook to be the leader of one party; of course, Frank acted as general of the other. Ernest, and Buttar, and Ellis were on Frank’s side; Bouldon, with Charles, and some of the other Bracebridges, joined Lemon. There were besides some twenty or more boys on either side, so that there were fully fifty combatants. They tossed up as to which side was to defend and which to attack the castle. Lemon got the first choice, and undertook the defence of the place. A flag on a pole was hoisted in the centre, and till this was hauled down the castle was not to be considered as captured. As soon as these preliminaries were arranged, all hands set to work to manufacture snowballs. Several piles were made at short distances surrounding the castle. These might be captured by a sortie. There were also flags on staffs stuck about which might be taken. On the outworks of the castle and on the walls were several flags. Piles of snowballs were placed inside the castle walls, and there were also heaps of snow out of which others could be manufactured. Lemon had brought his horn, and the besieging army had a couple among them, which had a very fine effect.

Frank, having marshalled his troops, formed them into three divisions, which were to attack simultaneously on different sides. Ernest led one, Buttar another, and Frank commanded the third party in person. These arrangements were made out of sight of the castle; and, to give more effect to the attack, the army marched through the woods sounding their horns, which were answered by a note of defiance from the castle.

“It is getting somewhat cold,” exclaimed Buttar, who was practical in his notions. “The fellows inside must be colder still, waiting for us. All our valour will be frozen up. Let us begin to warm up our blood.”

“Certainly, Colonel Buttar,” answered Frank, laughing. “A very sensible remark. On, brave army to the attack! Death or victory! Don’t mind the snowballs. Turn your heads into battering-rams, and your pockets into arsenals, and the place will quickly be ours. Now, Colonels Bracebridge and Buttar, lead round your men to the positions allotted to you.”

“Too-too-too!” sounded the horns louder than ever, and the three divisions burst at the same moment out of the woods, and advanced to take up their positions near where their ammunition had been piled up, of the existence of which the defenders of the castle were supposed, till that moment, not to be aware.

“Too-too-too!” again sounded the horns, and while a sentinel remained to guard each pile of snowballs and their respective flag-staffs, the rest of the army, having loaded themselves with ammunition, rushed bravely to the attack. Then began a regular snow-storm. The besiegers and besieged pelted away with tremendous energy, till the former were covered with snow from head to foot, while the latter could scarcely show their faces above the walls. Under cover of this heavy fire, or rather snow-storm, Ernest attempted to cross the bridge, which had been allowed to remain, and to force the door. He was followed closely by Ellis and two other boys: but they were almost overwhelmed with the heaps of snow showered down upon them. Still they battered away with their fists and shoulders, as they were unprovided with other weapons; but the door would not yield. In fact, it had been completely blocked up from within, so that no force could have opened it. Meantime, Buttar, by Frank’s directions, was shelling the castle from a distance; but as this produced no effect, and only supplied the besieged with ammunition, he was ordered to draw near to assist in a general escalade. Frank’s plan of dividing his forces had prevented the besieged from making a sortie. He now ordered a general escalade. Scaling ladders were not to be used, but the backs of the combatants were to serve for the purpose. No sooner was the order given than, rushing up together, with masses of snow they filled up the ditch; and then one sprang on the back of the other, and others mounted above them; then Ernest, seeing a good ladder formed, climbed up it to the top, though he was nearly knocked over by the shower of snowballs which assailed him; the top of the castle, also, was so slippery that he had the greatest difficulty in getting hold of it, and his position was anything but pleasant. Meantime, Tom Bouldon, one of the besieged, who was burning to distinguish himself, seeing all the rest of the party engaged, telling Lemon that he had a dodge, and to look out for him, slipped over the parapet amid a shower of snow, so that he was unseen, and then, climbing up the side of the ditch, scampered off to get hold of one of the standards of the enemy, the sentinel left to guard it having deserted his post that he might join in the attack. He seized it, and was hurrying back, scarcely restraining a shout of triumph, when Ernest saw him.

“Tom, you traitor, let go that!” he sung out; but as he was mounted on the backs of four other boys, and fighting away at the top of the wall, he could not enforce his commands.

Tom, hearing him, scuttled away to the other side, where Buttar was endeavouring to effect a breach. Two boys made chase after him, but he got up to the wall before them, and throwing the flag into it, he sprang up on the backs of some of the besiegers, who did not find out in time that he did not belong to their party; and Lemon being on the watch for him, lent him a helping hand, and got him safe into the castle. Then he seized the flag he had brought so gallantly off, and went round the castle walls, waving it in the faces of the besiegers, and crowing as lustily as any young cock. Frank, when he discovered what had been done, felt like a general who has unwarily allowed his camp to be attacked; and now, seeing that the other two standards were unprotected, sent back a guard to each.

It may appear strange that Bouldon should have so easily got into the castle; but in his case he had a friend to help him, while in the case of the besiegers everybody was opposed to them. So strong was the castle, and so manfully was it defended, that it appeared as if it would effectually hold out to the end of the day.

Time after time Frank returned to the assault, and as often he and his troops were tumbled over into the ditch. This, also, was Ernest’s fate; indeed he at last gave up all hopes of taking the castle in the way proposed. Telling the rest of his followers to continue pelting away with all their might, he called Ellis to his councils. Ellis at once advised an attempt to undermine the walls. He had run his head into a soft place, and he thought he might get through. The idea was a bright one. Ernest immediately went round and got some men from Frank and Buttar, to assist by the warmth of their snowballing to cover their proceedings, and then he and Ellis set to work to bore their way through. The other two commanders were all the time to keep up a series of incessant assaults, which might fully occupy the attention of the enemy. No one within the walls suspected what was taking place. They went on firing away with their snowballs as furiously as ever. No one seemed wearied. There was something very inspiriting in the work. It was far pleasanter than real fighting, because all the combatants might hope to live to fight again, for whichever side fortune might declare itself.

Lemon seemed to think, at last, that things were growing rather tame, so he seized his horn and began “too-tooing” away with all his might. It was answered more loudly than before by the horns of the besiegers, followed by a hotter shower of snowballs than ever sent by them into the castle. While Lemon and his followers were busily engaged replying to it, they found their legs seized by Ernest and Ellis, and several other boys, while Frank, mounting on the backs of some of his troops, leaped over the parapet on the opposite side. Lemon was so astonished that he knew not what order to issue. Buttar—a messenger being sent to summon him—came round with some followers to the same side, and forced his way with them through the hole. An attempt was made to throw the daring besiegers over the walls; but they kicked and shoved against them so furiously that a large breach was effected, up which the rest of the assailants poured; while Ernest and Ellis, overcoming all opposition, forced their way up to the standard, and seizing the flag-staff, hauled it down at the moment that one side of the castle fell with a tremendous crash, leaving it utterly defenceless. Lemon’s horn sent forth a long wail of despair, while the other horns sounded notes of triumph, and the castle was declared to be truly and gloriously won.

“It is not your first military triumph, and I hope will not be your last,” said Ellis to Ernest, as they were marching homeward.

“Nor yours either, and I hope will not be your last. If I go into the army, my great delight will be to find that you are going also.”

When the boys reached the house, all the visitors from the neighbourhood found that they were expected to dine and spend the evening. The combatants did ample justice to the fare set before them, and it was announced that a conjuror would make his appearance in the evening, to astonish them with his wonderful performances. Ernest and Bouldon disappeared directly after dinner. Ernest said he had to go and make preparations for the conjuror, and Tom, putting his hand to his heart, said that he felt it his duty to go and help him. When the boys came up from dinner they found one end of the large drawing-room, in which there was a deep recess, fitted up as a theatre, and in the centre a table, at which sat a man with a huge pair of spectacles, a long white beard and moustache, a high conical cap, covered over with all sorts of strange hieroglyphics, and many other curious devices. Round his head was a turban. He wore a tight green waistcoat, a red silk flowing robe over it, while a handsome sash bound his waist, in which was stuck an ink-horn, a wand, a huge knife or dagger, a pistol, and several other articles. Altogether, he was a somewhat formidable-looking character. By his side appeared, when the curtain drew up, a curious-looking clown, with a huge face, with all sorts of twists and curls in it, great big ears, a cock-up nose, and a short stumpy beard. This extraordinary physiognomy was covered with a high cap, which had a tassel and bells. He wore also a party-coloured waistcoat, huge full breeches of all the colours of the rainbow, hose of yellow, and long shoes with rosettes of vast size. He stood forth a veritable clown or jester of bygone days.

The magician rose. He seemed to be a very tall man, and contrasted strongly with his attendant, who was one of the roundest, shortest, most punchy-looking little men ever seen. A symphony was played on a piano behind the curtains, during which the magician waved his wand, and then in a deep voice he explained that he was about to perform a series of wonderful and unaccountable tricks, which no one had ever equalled, or was ever likely to equal while the world lasted; on which the clown clapped his hands and nodded his head in approval, exclaiming, in the oddest squeaking voice imaginable, “Certainly, certainly; my master speaks the truth; who can doubt him? If anybody does doubt him, let him take care of me.”

The conjuror hemmed, and, waving his wand, took up a pile of halfpence. “Now, ladies and gentlemen, you see these halfpence, and you see this cap. The cap I will place on the table, and taking the halfpence in my left hand, as you see, I will pass them from under the table into the cap. Heigh, presto, fly!” Sure enough, he lifted up the cap, and there were the halfpence. “Now I will pass them back again into my hand—listen.” One after the other they were heard dropping into his hand, and when the cap was lifted they were gone. Then he put a die on the table, and covering it with his cap, sent the halfpence back to take its place. There they were. He covered them up; they had disappeared, and the die took their place.

He next produced a round tea-caddy. He asked a lady for a cambric handkerchief. Several were tendered. He took one, and put it into the caddy. Drawing out one end, while examining it by a candle to observe its texture, it caught fire. It had burnt a good deal before he could find the cover to put it out. No sooner had he done so than, pronouncing a few magic words, he opened the canister, and presented the handkerchief uninjured. Loud applause followed. “Now, ladies and gentlemen,” he said, holding up a large silk pocket-handkerchief, “examine this handkerchief. It has no double lining. It is a plain simple handkerchief. Watch me narrowly. I throw it over the table. I hold it up. See what comes forth.” A whole stream of filberts fell from the handkerchief. “Here, Placolett, take them to the company,” said the magician, and the round-faced dwarf, with many odd twists and bounds, handed them round. Again the magician spread the handkerchief, and this time produced a still larger quantity of sugar-plums, sufficient, it seemed, to fill a hat. They also were handed round. Once more the handkerchief was spread, and produced a number of bouquets of beautiful flowers, some real and some artificial. These in like manner were distributed among the young ladies present.

“Will any lady lend me a plain gold ring?” asked the magician. One was handed to him by Placolett. He held it up between his finger and thumb. “Presto, fly!” he exclaimed, and threw it into the centre of the room. Everybody tried to catch it, but could not. It had vanished. Placolett hunted about, and at last found it under a cushion at the furthest corner of the room. Again he handed it to his master, who invited a little girl to take it; but before it reached her fingers it had disappeared, and Placolett, as before, hunting about, found it in the heel of a boy’s shoe. Now Placolett collected a dozen pocket-handkerchiefs from the company, and the magician tied them up in a handkerchief, which he placed on the table. He ordered Placolett to bring him a basin and a jug, meaning, of course, that the jug should contain water, but there was none, so he sent Placolett again to fetch it, and ordered him to bring some soap. Meantime he threw some black balls up to the ceiling, which never came down again; and then he swallowed a mustard-pot, a salt-cellar, and a pepper-box; and then he took three cups and three balls, and made the balls pass under the cups, so that each cup had a ball under it, and then he brought them all together under one cup merely by waving his wand over them; and finally some twenty cups in succession appeared out of one of them. At last Placolett came back, bringing some water, but it was cold instead of hot, and there was no soap, and then an iron was wanted. Before he went for them, his master made him borrow two hats. One the magician placed above the other on the table. Then he took one of his magic cups, and showing that there was nothing in it, turned it upside down. He lifted it, and, lo and behold, there was a walnut inside! This he put into the hat, and as often as he lifted the cup there was a walnut, which, like the first, he transferred to the hat. At last Placolett came back. “Now,” observed the magician, “the hat is half-full of walnuts. Heigh, presto! pass through the upper into the lower hat,” he cried, and lifting the upper hat, that was found to be empty, while the lower one was half-full of indubitable walnuts, for the guests cracked several which were handed to them by Placolett.

“Now, ladies and gentlemen, you gave me some handkerchiefs,” observed the magician. “I shall have much pleasure in washing them for you.” Saying this, he took the bundle on the table, and emptied its contents into the basin, and then began washing in a very unartistic, rough way, evidently tearing them; and one, before wetting it, he held up to the candle, and carelessly set it on fire. Then he spread a blanket, and took them out, and began ironing them; but the iron was too hot, and he was evidently singeing them horribly. “Never mind,” he exclaimed, “I have a magic ironing machine, which will do the work in a moment.” He produced a box, with a handle like a churn, put the wet half-singed bundle in, and giving one turn of the handle, produced the handkerchiefs all washed, neatly folded and scented, and sent them round by Placolett to their owners.

It would be difficult to describe all the clever tricks he performed. He put a ring into a handkerchief, and it disappeared. He passed an awl through a piece of wood and Placolett’s nose, and then put a piece of whipcord through the hole, working it backwards and forwards, to the dwarfs evident agony; and then he produced a funnel, which he held at a boy’s elbow, and by pumping away with the other arm, at last a stream of wine flowed out. Then he put a large die on the table, and covered it with a box and then with a hat. He lifted up the hat and then the box, and the die was gone. He produced it, however, from under the table, through which it had evidently gone.

I will not speak of many other minor tricks which he performed with cards and other things, which elicited a fair share of applause. He next borrowed a sovereign, and produced an apple, which he sent round to the company. He begged some one to mark the sovereign, which was given back to him. He put it on the table, and covered it with a red cup. Then he took a knife, and holding up the apple, cut it in two, when the sovereign was found to be in the middle of it.

“Ah, I forgot; I have still a trick or two more,” he remarked. “Here is a bottle. Will any lady like port, or sherry, or claret, or whisky, or brandy, or liqueur?” Some said one thing, some said another, and Placolett handing a tray of small glasses, he filled one after the other with whatever was asked for. Once he let the bottle drop, but it was not broken, as he was able to prove by handing it round to the company. Then, after considering a moment, he showed a large glass bowl full of ink. He took some of the ink out with a ladle, and put it into a plate, which he showed to the company. Then he covered up the bowl with his silk handkerchief, and on lifting it the ink had disappeared, and the bowl was seen to be full of clear water, with gold and silver fish swimming about in it.

“One exhibition more,” he remarked; “and, ladies, wind up your nerves for a dreadful catastrophe. Here is a pistol, powder, and bullets. Examine them. Will any one load the pistol? See that the powder is genuine.” It was done. The magician took the pistol, and put in some wadding. Then Placolett took it back, and some gentleman having marked three bullets, put them in one after the other. More wadding was then put in, and rammed down. “Who will fire?” asked the magician, holding up a plate at arm’s length. Scarcely had the smoke cleared away when the magician handed the plate with the three marked bullets rolling about in it.

Everybody was expressing surprise at the interesting performance they had witnessed, and wondering where the magician had come from, when he and Placolett, with many bows, retired behind the curtain. Directly afterwards it was opened, and who should appear but Ernest and Tom Bouldon, while the magician and his attendant had disappeared.

Even Christmas holidays must have an end. The guests went back to their respective homes, all declaring that they had never enjoyed themselves so much as they had on this occasion since they first went to school.

Chapter Fourteen.

Return to School—A Grand Game at Football.

“Here we all are again,” exclaimed Tom Bouldon, as he shook Ernest, and Buttar, and Ellis, and his other friends by the hand, as they first met at school after those memorable Christmas holidays. Of course they had a great deal to talk about; the fun they had had at Oaklands, and what they had all done afterwards; then they had to discuss the changes in the school; the qualities of the new boys who had arrived, and what had become of the old ones who had gone away.

Barber had got back, and was as conceited as ever, and as supercilious towards his old school-fellow Ellis, who still seemed always strangely cowed in his presence. In many respects Barber, unhappily, bade fair to rival Blackall. He was not so great a bully, but then he had not the power of being so, as he was not so strong, and not so high up in the school. However, he seemed fully inclined to exercise his bullying propensities towards poor Ellis, and though he did not strike him, he never lost an opportunity of attacking him with the words which wound far more than sharp knives.

“This must never be,” exclaimed Ernest, one day, when he had accidentally heard Barber abusing Ellis, and the latter had walked away without retorting or attempting a defence.

“Your friends, my dear Ellis, must for their own sakes, as well as for yours, insist on your taking notice of what that fellow says, both of you and to you. We must bring him to an explanation, and clear up the mystery. We are certain, as I have often assured you, that his treatment of you is undeserved; and why should he go on insinuating all sorts of things against you, and not dare to speak out?”

“Oh, do not push things to extremities,” answered Ellis, and the tears almost came into his eyes. “That can do me no good. Barber does not act generously towards me, but I think that he believes that he has the right to abuse me; and if he really thought me guilty of the crime of which I am accused, he would certainly be right in not associating with me.”

Ernest was not satisfied with this reply, and Ellis’s behaviour afterwards was so strange, he thought, towards him, that when he and Buttar talked the matter over together, they could not help allowing a shade of suspicion to creep over their own minds that all was not right. They tried not to let Ellis discover it, but he was too keen-sighted and sensitive not at once to perceive that their feelings towards him were changed, and that made him, in spite of all they could do, retire more than ever away from them and into himself.

The weather continued so cold that the ordinary games could not be played with any satisfaction, and none but those requiring a good deal of bodily exercise were in vogue. Lemon, and some of the more actively disposed fellows, determined to get up a game of football, though it was generally played at our school late in the autumn. There were plenty of boys ready to join in it, but the chief question was to decide who should form the sides. A number of the older boys were thought of, but they were not popular, or not active enough, or did not care enough about the game. At last it was decided to offer the command of one side to Ernest Bracebridge. It was a high honour, considering the time he had been at school. He could not, nor did he wish to refuse it. He consulted Buttar, who of course agreed to be on his side, whom they should select. They asked Bouldon, and Gregson, and several others among their immediate friends, and then began to pick out others on whom they could depend, and who generally played with them. Neither of them mentioned Ellis. It was the first time they had neglected to ask him to join any game that was to be played since he had become what they called one of them. He happened to pass by, and heard them calling out the names of those invited to play. He stopped a moment, looked towards Ernest, and then turned away.

“I say, Buttar, do go and try and find him,” said Ernest, in a low voice, relenting in a moment. “Ask him—press him to join us.”

Buttar gladly set off on the mission; but though he looked in every direction, and inquired of everybody he met, Ellis was nowhere to be found.

“It cannot be helped; I wish that we had from the first asked him to join us,” remarked Ernest, when Buttar returned to him with his report.

“Of whom do you speak?” asked Selby, a biggish and very gentlemanly boy.

“Of Ellis,” said Buttar.

“Oh, we are much better without him,” answered Selby. “There cannot be a doubt that he is not a satisfactory person, and you two fellows lose caste a good deal by associating with him. The idea is that he imposes on you; not that you believe he has been guilty of an act of dishonesty, and still consent to be intimate with him.”

“An act of dishonesty!” exclaimed Ernest, with astonishment. “I cannot believe that.”

Buttar repeated almost the same words.

“There can be no doubt about it. I heard the story this winter from a fellow who had been at the same school with him, and whose veracity I cannot doubt. He told me that Ellis was always looked upon as a very quiet, rather sawny sort of a fellow, without any harm; that he kept much to himself, and had no intimate friends. He was also always poor, and spent no money in the way other boys were in the habit of doing.

“There was another boy at the school who had always a good deal of money, sometimes as much as three or four pounds in his purse at a time. He was a very good sort of fellow, so he was thought, but rather soft. Ellis and he became intimate, and were looked upon as great friends, till on one occasion Arden, on going to his desk, found that his purse was gone, and, as he declared, with five pounds in it. A hunt was instituted in every direction; the masters were told of the loss, and the boys began to suspect each other. Soon it was whispered about that one of the boys was the thief. It was very extraordinary that just at this time Ellis appeared to have a good deal of money in his possession. He spent more than he had ever before done. Certainly, in two or more instances it was by giving it in charity. He bought also a microscope and some books, which another boy said that he had heard him remark he wished to have, but had not the money to buy them. These of themselves were suspicious circumstances; and many said that they thought Ellis must have taken the money. Some days afterwards suspicion grew into certainty when, on the master ordering all the boys to get up from their seats, that the school desks might be examined, a purse was found in Ellis’s, which on being held up was claimed by Arden as that which had held his money. Ellis appeared to be struck dumb when he heard this. He stammered out that he had that very morning picked up the purse in the road near a hedge, and that he had intended going round to discover whether it belonged to any of the boys at the school. As it was empty, he knew that it would not be of much consequence, and that he had forgotten to make the inquiries he proposed. Of course everybody believed this to be a very lame defence; but the master inquired into the matter, and to the surprise of the boys said that he was satisfied, and that Ellis had fully accounted to him for the way he had become possessed of the money and the purse. The boys seemed to think that the master was more easily satisfied than he ought to have been, because he did not want to lose a pupil; at all events, Ellis was looked upon as a thief, and sent to Coventry. This treatment affected his health, and he was soon afterwards removed by his friends from the school. That is all I know about the matter.”

“I am glad we did not ask him to play football,” exclaimed Buttar. “The story is a very ugly one. I do not like the look of things.”

Ernest gave a look of reproach at Buttar. “I am far from convinced that poor Ellis was guilty of the theft imputed to him,” he remarked; “knowing him as I do, and as you ought to know him, Buttar, he acted on the occasion just as I should have expected him to do. However, while such stories are going about, it is certainly better for his sake and ours that he should not play in any of our games.”

“Certainly,” said Selby. “If he cannot offer us a proper explanation, I for one should object to play with him. But never mind him at present. It is high time that we should get ready for our game. Have you prepared the football, Bracebridge? It was your business to do so, or to get it done.”

“Oh, I can do it very well myself,” said Ernest, “I have two first-rate new ones hanging up in the play-room; they only want refilling. Come with me, and we will douse them in the pond.” Two large footballs, but very flaccid-looking, were brought out, and by tying a stone and a line to them they were both very soon thoroughly soaked. He then took them out, and brought them into the house. First he took one, and undoing the lacing which confined one side, he drew out a flaccid bladder. “This is the sort of football we use here,” he said, holding it up to Selby. “It cannot be easily rendered unserviceable by thorn, nail, or spike of any sort. If the bladder is injured, its place can be supplied for a few pence, and the leather casing will last for years. This is my blow-pipe,” he added, producing a piece of tobacco-pipe. Undoing the mouth of the bladder, round which a piece of string was tightly fastened, he inserted his pipe, and very soon filled it with air. Before this, however, he had put back the bladder into its case. Having completed the filling of the bladder, he tightly laced up the ball so as to completely enclose it. “You see,” he observed, “should this get pricked, even while we are playing, I can easily stop up the hole by forming a neck, and tying a piece of thin string round it. Buttar, do you take charge of the other ball in case it is wanted. It is high time for us to be on the ground, to see that the goals are properly erected.”

Ernest, Buttar, and Selby on this hurried off to the park field where the game was to be played. The Doctor allowed football to be played, on the understanding that it would immediately be prohibited should one boy intentionally kick another; and two of the masters were required to be present to see that the game was carried on properly. The goals were about a hundred and thirty yards apart. They were formed of two upright poles, eight feet from each other, with a cross-bar to secure them at the top. The aim of the players was to pass the ball through their opponents’ goal, and, of course, to prevent it from being passed through their own.

Ernest could not help feeling proud when he found forty boys ranged under him, many older and bigger than himself. He forgot for the time all about poor Ellis as he ran with one of the big footballs in his hand to the ground where the game was to be played, followed by those who had placed themselves under his leadership. Lemon and his party were there before him. Some of them, it must be owned, rather looked down upon him as a young upstart, and expected an easy victory. Lemon, however, when he consented to have him as opponent, knew well that he was one not to be despised, and endeavoured to impress upon his followers the necessity of playing their best.

“Those youngsters are sharp, active little fellows,” he observed. “You must keep your eyes about you, and your legs going, or they will get the better of us, depend on that.”

Ernest, on his part, addressed the boys on his side, and pointed out to them that those with whom they were about to contend were big and strong, and practised players, and that they could only hope to beat them by activity, watchfulness, and the exercise of their utmost skill.

These principles of action Ernest had learned from his father; they were such as his own mind eagerly grasped, which he brought into practice in his subsequent career, and which were the main cause of his success.

Lemon and Ernest tossed up for the first kick. Ernest won. With the ball raised high in his two hands, he walked rapidly into the middle of the ground. The sky was blue, the air keen and cutting; a brilliant glow of exuberant health sat on the cheeks of nearly all the players. A few only, who had begun to fancy themselves men, and to smoke and to drink, and to imitate other vices of lawless and ignorant youths—no longer boys, and yet unworthy of the true manhood they are assuming,—looked pale. There was a strange mixture of heights and sizes assembled together; big fellows, like Lemon, Selby, Barber; and little ones, like Eden, Dawson, Jones, Tomlinson, and others whose names have not hitherto been mentioned. Ernest, Buttar, Bouldon, and Gregson came between the two sets as to size, but not far distant from the older ones as to intelligence and the respect in which they were held. Bouldon would by himself have been classed differently, but from associating so much with steady first-class boys—first-class as to estimation—by showing that he really wished to do right, he gained a good character among his superiors.

“All ready!” sung out Ernest; and letting the ball drop, he kicked it with all his might in the direction of Lemon’s goal.

Now the opposite party rushed in, and sent it flying back over his head and the heads of several standing behind him; but Buttar and Gregson had fully expected this, and were prepared accordingly to defend their goal. They met the ball hopping along in full career, and sent it back so far that, before anybody could rush in, Ernest had been able to give it an expediting kick, and to send it very close up to his opponent’s goal. Now there was a general and terrific rush up towards Lemon’s goal, and his followers found that they had good reason to dread the impetuosity and courage of the smaller boys. Ernest had chiefly selected his side from among those who possessed most pluck and endurance. Fearless of kicks, overthrows, or crushes, on they dashed at the ball. Now and then a big fellow like Barber would try and get a kick at it; but immediately he was met by a dozen sharp-moving toes, which struck away so desperately that he could never get a fair kick. For a long time the ball kept moving backwards and forwards near Lemon’s goal, the attention of all his side being required to prevent it from being kicked through it. Several times it rose into the air, but was speedily sent back again; yet no one on Ernest’s side could manage to send it back over the heads of their opponents. Buttar and Tom Bouldon were always in the midst of the mêlée. More than once Bouldon was overthrown, but he always picked himself up, and however much damaged, postponed, as he said, an inspection of his wounds till the game was over. Ernest, as in duty bound, had to avoid a mêlée, that when the ball came out of it he might be in a position to direct the movements of his party. Gregson never got into one intentionally; but when he did, he showed that he was as steady and fearless as any one; but his tactics were to keep moving about, to be ready to assist his chief, or to take up the ball when it approached the goal. Some called him the sluggish player; but Lemon’s party found it difficult enough to send the ball through the goal when he was to be found anywhere near it. Dawson and three or four other big fellows had got the ball between them, and were pushing it forward triumphantly, having completely overwhelmed Ernest and his immediate supporters by sheer strength, and were fully expecting to drive it without impediment through the goal, when Gregson, who had been standing a little on one side, saw them coming. Only little Eden and some other small boys were near, but they, one and all, if not for the honour of the game, were ready to risk anything for the sake of Bracebridge. Gregson called them. They all saw what was required of them. Gregson rushed in, fully meeting the ball; with a swinging leg, he gave it a lifting kick, and sent it right over the heads of his opponents. The little fellows rushed in behind them, and began to kick on the ball. This compelled the big fellows once more to separate, and again to retrograde so as to front it. Gregson, Eden, and their companions threw themselves impetuously on it. One after the other went over it, till the ball was hidden under a heap of boys. Barber, and some others, dared not kick, or they would have done so; and while they were lifting up their opponents to get once more at the ball, Ernest, Buttar, Bouldon, and others came up to the rescue, and once more the ball was banded backwards and forwards as furiously as ever. For long the fortune of the day appeared as doubtful as ever. I have observed that big boys never play so well, when opposed to others evidently smaller, than themselves, as they do when their antagonists are of the same age and strength as they are. This, perhaps, was one of the secrets of Ernest’s success in all the matches he played. He chose his side for cleverness, and activity, and daring, and, what was more, they all trusted in him, and were ready to do anything he ordered. Every now and then there was a loud shout and a tremendous rush, and finally the ball would come out of the mêlée and, left in the power of a few trusted players, could be seen flying backwards and forwards between them, each side watching for a favourable opportunity to drive it at once home to the goal. Now, at length, Ernest has got it. It was sent to the extreme right of the players. This was done by a dodge of Gregson’s. He was invaluable for any movement of the sort, and staunch as steel. Onward Ernest kicks the ball; his side rush in to prevent the approach of their opponents, who have mostly been led off to the ground. A few only are fully aware of what is about to occur. A few rush on desperately to stop the progress of the ball; but the young ones are too energetic and too quick for them. They urge it on; the rest stand for an instant aside, to let Ernest give a last kick. It is a grand effort of strength and skill, and the ball flies through the goal, amid the shouts of all his side, echoed by the applause of the spectators.

Lemon and many of his supporters took their defeat very good-naturedly, and with sincerity congratulated Ernest and his side on their success. A few of the less amiably disposed were somewhat sulky, especially among those of his own size; so was Barber, who was afraid that he should lose the influence he wished to obtain from being beaten by the younger boys. This was only one of several games. Ernest was not always successful; twice his side were beat thoroughly, but they made up for it afterwards, and in the end won more games than the bigger boys, much to the surprise of the latter, who could not tell how it had occurred. Some, like Barber, said that there must have been some underhand play, and abused Lemon as the cause of their defeat. Lemon at last heard some of their remarks.

“If big fellows will smoke, and booze, and over-eat themselves, how can they expect to be as active and wide-awake as little fellows, who have not begun such follies?” he remarked quietly. “It matters little, let me assure them, what such fellows say of me.”

Both Ernest and Buttar had thought a good deal about the matter of Ellis. After a lengthened consultation, when their hearts relented towards him, they resolved to press him once more to join their games; but he resolutely refused.

“No,” he replied. “You have believed me guilty, or you would not have treated me coldly. I do not blame you—far from it. If you heard the story about me, as I know it has been repeated, you could not have done otherwise, unless you had thought right to believe my word before that of others. Should the time ever come when I can, to your satisfaction, prove my innocence, we will then be on the same terms as before.”

“Oh, but we do believe you innocent, Ellis,” said Ernest. “Not a shadow of doubt remains on my mind that you are so, and I am sure Buttar thinks as I do.”

“Very well,” answered Ellis, with unusual coldness; “I rejoice to hear it. I have taken my resolution. I cannot bear fluctuations of friendship. If I am ever able to prove my innocence, as I ought to have endeavoured to prove it long ago, I trust that we shall stand on the same footing that we did before.”

Nothing any of his friends could say after this altered the resolution Ellis had formed of not playing in any of the games with the other boys, or of associating on intimate terms with any of them. Still he himself was far from idle in his play-hours. He was a constant exerciser on the gymnastic poles, and never failed to practise, when he could, both with the foils and broadsword. He also took lessons regularly in dancing and drilling, and seemed anxious to perfect himself in all athletic exercises.

However coldly others had treated Ellis, there was one person who ever turned a deaf ear to the stories told of him, and never for a moment altered his conduct towards him. That was Monsieur Malin. From the time Ellis had begun to learn French of him he had become his firm friend. Some believed that Ellis had confided to him the circumstances of his past history; but the less generous could not understand how he had managed to secure the regard of the French master, and fancied that he had invented some tale to gain his sympathy.

Thus the half-year drew on; the cold weather at last passed away. Spring commenced, the flowers bloomed, the leaves came out on the trees, the birds began to sing, the fish to dart and leap out of the water. Ernest and Buttar were reminded of a visit they promised, long, long before, to pay to John Hodge. They agreed to make it a fishing expedition, and to try their luck in the wide stream they had crossed on that day memorable for their hare hunt. They invited Gregson to accompany them. They wished to ask Ellis, but the moment school was over he had disappeared, and had not even waited for dinner. To absent himself he must have obtained leave from the Doctor; so they set off without him. They were very merry. Gregson was excessively amusing, with his quaint anecdotes about animal life and the adventures which had happened to him.

“I would rather go elephant and lion hunting for a year than become prime minister of England,” he observed, laughing. “Nothing could compensate me for not being allowed to live in the country,—the largest fortune would not, had I to spend it in London; and I should prefer Australia or New Zealand, or the wilds of the Cape Colony, or Natal, or the backwoods of Canada. Still I am a Briton, and wherever I might go I should like to live under the flag of old England.”

Ernest and Buttar echoed the last sentiment.

“But,” said Ernest, “for my part I should not wish to live without the society of my equals in knowledge and intelligence. In my opinion, the interchange of ideas and information is one of the charms of existence. In that way we get, in the most agreeable manner, at the pith and marrow of books, at the opinions of other people, and at what is going forward in the world: don’t you think so, Buttar?”

Buttar, though a clever fellow, had not as yet thought much about the matter. He remarked, however, that if he could get information by talking, or rather by hearing others talk, that it would be much pleasanter often than having to pore over books. But that was not what Ernest meant. “Ah, but there must be a fair exchange of ideas and information, to make social intercourse as pleasant as it is capable of being. You must give as much as you take.”

“Well, I never before thought of that,” remarked Gregson. “I have never yet fallen in with people willing to talk of my favourite subjects. Perhaps if I was to meet them I should enjoy their conversation as much as you suppose you would those of literary characters or other well-informed persons.”

“Oh, I am not alluding to literary characters, as you call them,” said Ernest. “I mean well-informed, intelligent, unprejudiced persons; or, what would be still more agreeable, would be to collect people who have devoted themselves to different branches of science, and who are yet fully capable of understanding each other’s peculiar subjects.”

So the schoolboys talked on as they walked briskly towards the scene they proposed for their sport.

“But do not let us forget Hodge,” said Ernest. “Hereabouts he dwells, I believe. Let us inquire at this cottage.” An old woman came forth from the door where they knocked, and told them that John Hodge lived better nor a quarter of a mile down the road, and he, poor man, was sure to be at home, for he had met with an accident, and, she had heard say, was very ill, and had been out of work for many a long day. They thanked her and hurried on.

“Ought we to go and trouble him?” asked Buttar.

“Certainly, he may want assistance,” was Ernest’s thoughtful reply.

A little child pointed to a neat cottage door. That was where John Hodge lived. They knocked, and were told to come in. They started back with surprise on seeing Ellis seated on a chair, reading earnestly to the man they had come to see, while a woman stood by, with her apron to her eyes, and five small children were playing about the humble brick-floored room. How changed was poor Hodge! Thin and pale in the extreme, with an expression of care on his countenance, he sat propped up in an old oak chair. It was evident that he could not move, or indeed breathe, without pain. Ellis was so absorbed in his occupation that he did not perceive at first the entrance of his schoolfellows. They stopped at the threshold, unwilling to interrupt him. He was reading the Bible, and having read some verses he began to explain their meaning. At last he finished.

“Sit down, young gentlemen, sit down, pray,” said Mrs Hodge, offering them some three-legged stools, which she wiped mechanically with her apron.

Her words made Ellis look up. The colour came into his cheeks when he saw the new-comers. They nodded kindly to him, and then explained that they had come in consequence of an invitation they had received long ago, and that they were sorry to find their host in so bad a state. John Hodge said that he recollected them, that he was glad to see them, but he made no complaint, or spoke even of the cause of his illness. After they had sat and talked a short time, Ellis got up to go away; Buttar and Gregson accompanied him, but Ernest lingered behind, and taking out the contents of his purse, offered it to the dame.

“Thank ye kindly, sir,” she replied, motioning him to keep it; “but that young gentleman has given us all we want for some time. He says he gets it from his friends; that we are not robbing him; and we couldn’t be taking it from you or from any one, unless we wanted it very badly. Ah, sir, if ever there was an angel on earth he is one; of that I’m certain.”

“Well, well, when you do want you mustn’t mind taking it from me. I owe your husband some money as it is,” answered Ernest, putting out his hand to the poor woman, and then to Hodge. He took up the children, and gave a kiss to a little rosy boy, who smiled in his face, and then saying he would come back soon, turned after his companions. He felt much gratified at hearing such an account of Ellis. At once an idea struck him. In the story Selby had told him about Ellis, it appeared that one of the causes of suspicion against him was his being possessed of a considerable sum of money. Might not that have been given to him for the purpose of being bestowed in charity, as he undoubtedly had lately been furnished with funds for the same object? Ernest, though not over precipitate usually, at once jumped at this conclusion. It was very delightful to be able to think so, and the conviction that he had wronged Ellis in his thoughts caused him to be doubly anxious to make ample amends without delay, and this added considerably to the warmth of his manner when he overtook him. He pressed him, as Buttar and Gregson had been doing, to accompany them on their fishing excursion. At length he said that he should like to go, but pleaded want of rod and fishing-tackle.

Gregson laughed. “Oh, I can supply you with all you require,” he observed. “My rod you can have, and I can replace it with one to suit my purpose in ten minutes. I have two spare tops, and tackle enough to fit out a dozen fishermen. Come along, you have no excuse.”

Ellis agreed, and with light steps the party proceeded towards the broad stream they had fixed on. The day was warm and slightly overcast, and the water was not too clear, so that they had a fair prospect of success. They were not disappointed. Never before had they caught so many fish. They kept pulling them up one after the other. Many were very fine trout. Ellis had never caught such in his life before. They all agreed that fishing was one of the most delightful of occupations. Their hearts as they walked homewards opened more than ever towards each other. Ernest at last spoke out:—

“Ellis, my dear fellow, we have been doing you great wrong,—that is, Buttar and I,—I don’t think Gregson has. We were certain that you were very sorry, and were quite changed, but we thought you might have been guilty of the thing they talked about; now we are certain you were not. The money you were known to possess was given you for a good object—to bestow in charity. One proof of your guilt falls to the ground.”

“Oh, Bracebridge, I am glad to hear you say so,” answered Ellis. “You are right. I promised not to say from whom I received it, and so I could not. No one accused me to my face. The Master knew that I was innocent. What could I do? I now feel sure that all will turn up right in the end. I am so happy.”

Chapter Fifteen.

The Summer Holidays—A Pic-nic and its Consequences.

An event which made us all very sad took place at the end of that half-year. I remember it as well as if it were yesterday. It was the departure from the school of Monsieur Malin; yet for his sake we ought not to have been sorry. He was going to quit a position which was undoubtedly very irksome to a gentleman, and to return to La Belle France to take possession of a property which had unexpectedly been left him. He announced the fact to each of the classes as they came up to him during the morning, and all heard the information with signs of evident sorrow. Ellis burst into tears.

“Going away, Monsieur Malin; you, my kindest friend, going!” he exclaimed, and his whole look and manner showed that he had an affectionate and grateful heart.

The feeling was infectious. A number of the little fellows, who did not even learn French, and had very little to do with Monsieur Malin, cried. Some, however, had reason to be sorry at his going away, for often had his watchful eye saved them from being bullied by the big boys; they, too, felt that they were about to lose a friend and protector. Why, it may well be asked, should the French master have gained so much more influence among the boys, and be so much more generally liked than any of the English masters? It was simply because he exhibited so much more sympathy for others. He made himself one of them. It was not that he now and then played a grand game of cricket with them, but that he entered into all their minor sports and amusements. He could show them how to make models of all sorts; he manufactured carriages with cardboard, or cut out boats, or carved animals in wood, or made little grottoes with shells; indeed it is impossible to describe all the ingenious things he could do, and how kindly and patiently he taught the boys how to do them. It made some of the English masters quite jealous when they observed the sorrow which Monsieur Malin’s departure caused among the boys. The Doctor remarked upon it, and said that it was the best compliment any master could desire to have paid him, and he trusted that whoever succeeded him might as richly deserve it.

“Bracebridge, I wonder that you are not more sorry than you appear to be at Monsieur Malin’s going,” observed Buttar, the day that the event was announced; “I thought that you were always one of his greatest favourites.”

“I believe that there are no fellows like him better than I do,” answered Ernest; “I am very, very sorry, for my own sake, that he is going; but really, when we come to consider that he is going away from the bother, and trouble, and noise of a school, to go and live on a beautiful property of his own, in a delightful climate like that of France, I cannot but be truly glad to hear of his good fortune. He has been telling me all about the place, and how happy his mother and sister will be to go and live with him; and he has invited me, during some holidays, or when I leave school, to go and pay him a visit; and when I told him that I was afraid he would forget me, he assured me that he would not. Really he is a kind-hearted, good-natured fellow, and I do feel excessively happy at his good fortune.”

Buttar agreed that Ernest saw the matter in its true light, and so did Ellis, and then they bethought them how they could show him their regard. Unfortunately, as it was the end of the half, none of them had any store of pocket-money remaining; so one proposed offering him a penknife, and another a pocket-comb, and a third an inkstand; indeed, there was no end of the number of small gifts which Monsieur Malin had pressed upon him. He was in a dilemma about the matter.

“You see, my dear young friends, that I do not like to refuse, and I do not like to deprive you of these things; yet I am truly grateful to you for this mark of your regard. What I will do is this; I will make a list of your names, and of all the things you desire to give me. You shall keep the articles, all of which you can use, but I could not; and I will keep the list, and when I look at it, I shall be fully reminded of you all, of your generosity, and of your kindly regard towards me.”

Monsieur Malin had to go away a week or so before the school broke up. Just about that time Ernest wrote home, giving an account of the story he had heard about Ellis, of the injustice that he felt that he himself had done him, of the strong evidence he had discovered in his favour, and consequently of his wish to make him all the amends in his power. By return of post he received a letter from his father, enclosing one to Ellis, warmly inviting him to spend a portion of his holidays at Oakland Ellis could not fail to be gratified, as were his parents, who gave him leave to accept the invitation. Buttar’s family were spending the summer in the neighbourhood; and curiously enough, Tom Bouldon and Gregson had been invited to visit some friends living not far off. The schoolfellows thus found themselves near together during the early part of the summer holidays. No long time passed before they all met. How they did talk of fishing expeditions, of cricket-matches, of boating, of pic-nics, of riding, of archery meetings, of bathing, of sports of all sorts, in the water and out of the water, on sea and on land! Ellis talked a great deal of yachting also, but they were too far from the sea to have any hopes of indulging in the amusement. He was much more at home in a boat than on horseback, for riding was not an accomplishment which he had enjoyed any opportunity of practising. One of the first amusements which Mrs Bracebridge had arranged for her young guest, and the other friends of her son, was a pic-nic to Barton Forest, a large and picturesque wood in the neighbourhood. There were long open glades, and green shady walks, through which the deer alone were in general wont to pass, except on such an occasion as that at present in contemplation, or when an adventurous couple strayed into its retired precincts. I ought to have spoken of the cordial way in which Ellis was received, not only by Mr Bracebridge, but by Mrs Bracebridge and all the family, and the wish they exhibited of placing him at his ease, and making him quite at home. He showed how much he valued their kindness by looking far more lively and happy than he had done for a long time. The day of the proposed pic-nic broke bright and fair, with every prospect of the continuance of fine weather. Several families joined in it from far and near, and all sorts of vehicles were put in requisition: barouches, and pony carriages, and gigs, and even carts and waggons. The merriest, and certainly the most noisy party, went in a long spring waggon, and to their charge were entrusted several hampers, containing part of the provender for the rural feast. Ellis, Bouldon, Buttar, and others were of this party. Ernest, with his brother Charles, rode, and frequently came up alongside to have a talk with their friends. The boys gave way heartily to the excitement of the scene; they laughed they sang, they shouted to their heart’s content—no one hindering them. Never, perhaps, have a merrier party ever collected in a waggon. Tom Bouldon, and one or two others, only regretted that they had not pea-shooters with them, as he said, to pepper the passengers in their progress, but Ellis cried out against this.

“No, no!” he exclaimed; “it may, or may not, be all very well on a high road, where people expect such things when they see a parcel of schoolboys together, and if they don’t like it, will not stand on ceremony about heaving stones in return; but in a country district they take us for young gentlemen, and would never dream of throwing anything at us in return. The cottagers would only wonder what had come over us—perhaps would think us gone mad; at all events it would be very cowardly to attack them.”

Buttar agreed with Ellis, and they soon won over the rest to their view of the case. They, however, found plenty to amuse them as they drove along. The early days of the holidays are generally very jolly days—all the fun is to come; the amusements in store are almost uncountable; and though they may have been disappointed during a former summer, they are sure, so they think, not to be this. If they are, they will make amends for it next year. At last the pic-nickers reached the ground. Carriages drove up, and ladies and gentlemen, the fathers and mothers, and elder brothers and sisters of the schoolboys. Some ladies and gentlemen came on horseback and ponyback, and several even, besides the boys, in waggons, while the provisions and servants arrived in spring-carts and dog-carts, and altogether there was a very vast assemblage. It was arranged that, having walked about a little, and seen some of the views which the wood afforded, and some old ruins within its borders, the party should dine, and then that various sports should take place, pony races, archery, quoits, nine-pins, skittles, throw-sticks or batons, single-stick; indeed, more than I can well remember; while swings were hung up between the trees, and two or three long planks had been placed on some felled trees, to serve as see-saws, so that all ranks and ages could find amusement. Never were better arrangements made. People may wander the world around and not find more pleasing, heart-enlivening scenery than England affords—scenery more rich or full of fertile spots, or which should make its inhabitants grateful to Heaven for having placed them in such a land. There were fields already waving with corn, and bright green meadows full of fine cattle, some grazing, others standing under trees chewing the cud, or in shallow bends of the river, or in reedy ponds; there were sheep scattered thickly over sunny hills, and still further off downs; and there were copses of hazel, and alder, and willow, and woods of beech, and oak, and birch, and tall elms dividing fields and orchards innumerable, among which peeped many a white-washed cottage; and here and there were pretty hamlets, with their village green or common; there was a bright sparkling stream, swelling as it advanced into the dimensions of a river, and high hills, and valleys, and glens branching off in all directions.

“A fair and truly attractive scene,” said Ellis, turning to Ernest, who cordially agreed with him as they gazed at it together.

A gentleman who stood by turned round and watched the countenance of the speaker. “That is not a common boy, I am certain,” he observed to a friend. “He is capable of doing much in the world, and I suspect will do it.”

Ellis could not help hearing the last remark, and it gave him great encouragement.

Now came the time to prepare for the rural banquet. It was great fun unpacking the hampers, and carrying their contents to the tablecloths which had been spread on the grass. What number of chicken-pies, and veal-pies, and rounds of beef, and hams and tongues, and cold chickens and veal, and fruit-tarts and pies, and cakes of all shapes and sorts, and what heaps of fruit, strawberries and gooseberries, and currants and raspberries! indeed there was no lack of anything; and what was most wonderful, nothing was forgotten, and there was a fair proportion of each joint or dish. I have been at a pic-nic where, from want of a preconcerted plan, everybody brought veal-pies, or chicken-pies, or hams, and there was no bread, or salt, or mustard. Somebody had a French horn or cornopean, and at its sound people came trotting pretty quickly in from all directions through the woodland glades and up the avenues leading from the ruins, or bypaths coming from the side of the stream. The long drive and the exercise they had since taken had given them good appetites, and none lingered behind. The boys, especially, were in good time, and in the course of a few minutes everybody was seated in every possible attitude convenient for carrying food down their throats. Not that anybody sat quiet many minutes together. Somebody was always jumping up to help somebody else, or to go in search of some tongue for their chicken, or some chicken for their tongue, or for a glass of ale or wine, or for a piece of bread, or for some mustard or salt; indeed it seemed wonderful how many things were wanted to make out a dinner which are procured with so much ease in a dining-room, as things of course, that no one ever thinks about them. In this way the first course lasted a long time. Just at the end of it the servants brought some dishes of hot potatoes, which had been cooked gipsy fashion, and then several people began again for the sake of eating them. The tarts and fruit-pies were very good, but the juice of some had run out, and one or two had been tumbled into, and Tom Bouldon, in jumping across the tablecloth, had stepped exactly into the middle of one of them, splashing his trousers all over with currant juice, and considerably damaging the pie itself. It was in consequence the last consumed, but a facetious gentleman helped it out to the people who sat at the further end of the tablecloths, and knew nothing of the catastrophe. Then there was champagne, which some of the boys in their innocence called very good gooseberry wine, greatly to the disgust of the gentleman who brought it: the truth being, however, that they liked gooseberry wine just as much as the finest champagne to be procured. Healths were drunk, and toasts were given, and sentiments and speeches were made, which, if not very witty, caused a good deal of merriment and laughter; and at last the dinner part of the pic-nic came to a conclusion. Then, of course, the servants had to dine, which they did at a little distance from the spot their masters had chosen, and seemed to enjoy the fun, for they also drank toasts in ale, made speeches, and laughed heartily at all their jokes. The ladies and gentlemen, meantime, walked about, or sat down and admired the scenery, and the boys got ready for their games. Targets had already been erected. After the grown-up people began to get tired of looking at the views, the gentlemen marked off the distance, and the ladies taking their bows, shooting began. Ernest, Buttar, and some of the bigger boys joined them, but they soon voted it very slow work, and Bouldon proposed taking a roving expedition.

“We have not much time, so let us be off at once,” said Ernest. “Nine shall be the game. Are you all provided with blunt-headed arrows? That is right. Twelve a-piece we should have. Let us take half-an-hour’s turn round the wood, and then be back for the races. By that time the servants will have the dinner things cleared away and the ponies saddled for racing.”

Away went the party whom Ernest had enlisted right merrily. First they fixed on an old oak-tree for their butt, and at a word given by Buttar, who was chosen leader, every one shot from the spot where they were standing. Some shafts hit the tree, others just glanced off, and others flew altogether wide of it. Buttar had his note-book out, and the distance each shaft had fallen from the tree was measured by the length of the bows, every boy measuring with his own, and noted in the book. They again ran on. “Halt!” said Buttar. “That elm, the third from the gate, shall be our target. Shoot!” Every one shot his best, but Ernest and Buttar only hit; Bouldon’s arrow glanced off; no one else struck the tree. The distances being measured and noted, on again they went. A white post at a considerable distance was next fixed on as the mark. Ellis hit it, Ernest went near, and the shafts of the rest of the party flew wide or short of it.

“Ah, I calculated the range,” observed Ellis. “I shot my arrow with a considerable curve, for I saw that the mark was further than my bow could send it at point-blank range.”

“Why, Ellis, you will make a good artillery officer,” said Buttar, laughing. “Whenever we shoot with sides, I shall know who to choose. I had no idea you were a scientific archer.”

“I very seldom have shot before, but directly I got a bow I began to study the subject, and to learn all that has been said about it,” answered Ellis. “I always read what I can about it when I begin anything which is new to me.”

The half-hour spent in roving passed very quickly away. Those who had never shot before in that way agreed that it was far more amusing than shooting at a target, and that they found they learned to measure distances much better in the former than in the latter way. When they got back they found a variety of other sports going on. Some of their friends were playing quoits. It is a capital game for exercising the arms. Two iron pins or hobs were stuck in the ground, about eighteen yards apart. Quoits, as everybody ought to know, were derived from the ancient game of discus. They are circular plates of iron, with a hole in the centre, one side being flat and the other rounded. The game is played often with sides. The aim of each player is to pitch his quoit on the hob, or, if he cannot do that, as near it as possible, the parties throwing from one hob to another. Charles Bracebridge and Lemon were playing on opposite sides when the archers came up. First Charles threw. One quoit was close to the hob, and the other quoits he sent were within a few inches of it, and of each other. Then Lemon threw. His first quoit was just outside Charles’, but nearer than any of his other quoits, but his other quoits fell outside the rest. Thus both only counted one. Had a second quoit of Lemon’s fallen close to Charles’ first, Lemon would have counted two, though his other quoits might have fallen to a greater distance. The nearest, it will be understood, count and cut out all outside them. The servants were amusing themselves during the interval with skittles and nine-pins, so that everybody of the party, high and low, old and young, were engaged; and in that I consider consists the chief zest of a pic-nic of the sort. Sometimes a pic-nic may take place at a spot of peculiar interest, where the party may find abundant matter of amusement without games of any sort; or in other instances people merely meet in a pretty spot, to dine in a pleasant unrestrained way in the open air, and generally manage to become better and more quickly acquainted than they can at a formal dinner-party. The boys, however, were most interested in the proposed pony races, and a general cry of “The race!—the race!—the race!” rose among them. It was echoed by others, both ladies and gentlemen, and all the ponies, and horses, and, we may say, four-legged animals the party could muster, were brought forth. As the race was entirely impromptu, no arrangements had before been made. It was first settled that everything was to run. The larger riding-horses were to have a longer distance to run, and were not to start so soon as the others; the carriage-horses came next, then the ponies, then the cart-horses, and lastly the donkeys. One very big, stout gentleman, who pleaded that he was not fit to be a jockey, and that his horse would run away with a lighter weight on him, undertook to clear the course. That was settled. Then came the question as to who were to be the riders.

“All the boys, except a few of the little ones,” cried a sporting gentleman. “Of course they can all ride. Come up, youngsters. Mount—mount! let us see what you can do. You must have your proper colours. We can find scarfs and handkerchiefs enough to fasten round your caps.”

No one liked to say that he could not ride. Much less did Ellis, though he had only mounted a quiet pony’s back a few times in his life: still he thought that he could manage to stick on for a short distance, and was unwilling to confess how little experience he had had.

“I congratulate you, Ellis,” said Ernest, nodding to him when he saw him mounted. “You seem to have got hold of a clever little animal. He’ll go, depend on that. If I had not my own little Mousey to ride, I should like to have had that pony. He belongs to Mr Seagrave, does he? Oh! he always has good animals. If you do not win, you’ll be in one of the first, I’m pretty certain of that.” So Ernest ran on.

Buttar came up and congratulated Ellis in the same way, and gave him a hint or two how to sit and manage his steed, which he saw that he wanted.

“Ah, ah, capital, capital!” exclaimed Tom Bouldon, as he rode up on a big carriage-horse. “Really, Ellis, you are to be envied. That is just the little beast I should like to have had. How I am ever to make my fellow go along I don’t know. You won’t change, will you?”

Ellis laughed. He certainly did not wish to change. At the same time, had it not been for the observations of his friends, he felt that it would have been wise not to have ridden the race at all.

Instead of a bell, a horn was used to guide the proceedings. The horn sounded, and the steward of the course requested the spectators to arrange themselves on either side of a wide, open glade, at the further end of which there was a clump of trees. Round this clump the racers were to go, and to come back to a tree near where the party had dined, which was to represent the winning-post. The next thing was to place the racers at their proper distances. All were at last arranged. Ernest, Buttar, and Bouldon, who could ride well, were in high glee, and it must be confessed that they thought very little about poor Ellis. The gigantic steward of the course having ridden over it, to see that all was clear, retired on one side, and taking his horn, blew a loud blast; that was for the donkeys to start. Away they went, kicking up their heels, but making good progress. Two blasts started the cart-horses, three the carriage-horses, four the ponies. They, of course, afforded the chief amusement. Whips and heels were as busy in urging them on as if the safety of a kingdom depended on their success. The riding-horses came last. The owners had entered them more for the sake of increasing their numbers than for any wish to beat the rest, which they believed they could easily do. Away, away they all went; if not as fleet as the racers at the Derby, affording far more amusement, and as much excitement, in a much more innocent way. The pony on which Ellis was mounted did not belie the good opinion Ernest and the rest had formed of him. As soon as the horn, the signal of the ponies to start, was sounded, off he set, and very soon distanced all, except Ernest’s and Buttar’s steeds, which kept up close behind him.

“Bravo,” shouted Ernest, delighted at his friend’s success. “Keep him up to it, and you’ll win the prize. I knew you’d ride well when you tried.”

Ernest was, however, not quite right in his conjectures. Ellis stuck on very well, but as to guiding the pony, he had no notion of it. As long, however, as the donkeys, and cart and carriage-horses, were before them, he went very well, but they were caught up before they reached the clump of trees round which they were to turn. They reached the clump, but Ellis, to his friend’s dismay, shot past it. The pony’s home lay in that direction, and seeing a long green glade right before him, he got his bit between his teeth, and away he went, scampering off as hard as he could lay his feet to the soft springy grass. Ellis held on with all his might. He in vain tried to turn the pony’s head. He felt that he was run away with, and had lost all control over the animal.

Ernest saw the pony bolt. At first he was inclined to laugh. Then he recollected with dismay that there was a very steep hill just outside the wood, and a little beyond it a deep chalk-pit, with precipitous sides, down which he feared that the pony, if it became alarmed by anything, might in its excitement plunge. How to stop Ellis was the question! To follow him he knew would only increase the speed of the pony. There was, he remembered, a short cut to the precipice through a green narrow path to the right. Without a moment’s hesitation he galloped down it. Buttar, divining his object, followed. The rest, not seeing where they had gone, fancied that they had turned the clump, and continued the race.

Mousey, Ernest’s pony, behaved magnificently. On he galloped, as if he knew that a matter of importance depended on his speed. Some boys running out of the wood fancied that he was running away, and, clapping their hands, tried to turn him aside, but he heeded them not. The wood was at length cleared. Ernest looked up the road to his left, in the hopes of seeing Ellis coming along it, but he was afraid that he had already passed. On the ground were the marks of hoofs, which looked, he thought, very like those made by a pony at full speed; so he and Buttar galloped along the road they thought he must have taken. Down the steep hill they went at full speed, keeping a tight rein, however, on the mouths of their little steeds. They thought they made out poor Ellis in the distance.

“He sticks on bravely, at all events,” cried Ernest. “He’s a fellow to be proud of as a friend. Oh! he must not come to harm.”

Away they went. They thought that they were too far off to frighten Ellis’s pony, and as Ernest knew the country well, he hoped that they might still overtake him by cutting across some fields. The gate leading into them was shut, so they knew that Ellis had not gone that way. A boy was sitting whistling on a stile hard by. Ernest asked him if he had seen a young gentleman on a pony going fast along the road. He nodded, made a sign that he was going very fast indeed, but showed that it had never entered his head to try to stop the pony. Ernest forced open the gate without waiting for the lout to do so, and they galloped through and along over the turf. There were two or three slight hedges, but they forced their way through them. The road, after winding considerably, crossed directly before the path they were taking. They heard a horse’s hoofs come clattering along the hard road. They were just in time to be too late to meet Ellis. He passed them a moment before they could open the gate. His cap had fallen off; his hair was streaming wildly, and he was holding on by the mane with one hand, though he still tugged at the rein with the other. He saw them. He did not shout or cry for help, but his eye showed that he understood their object. Now was the most dangerous time. They were approaching the chalk-pit. If they followed too close they might frighten the pony, and produce the catastrophe they were anxious to avert. With great presence of mind they pulled suddenly up, and Ernest believed that their so doing had the effect of decreasing the speed of the runaway pony. They then trotted slowly on, till they trusted that Ellis had passed the point of extreme danger. Once more they put their ponies to their full speed. They almost dreaded to approach the spot, lest what they feared might have occurred. Ernest rode close to the brink of the pit. To his joy, there was no sign of the pony having gone near it, and they thought that they saw him in the distance. On they pushed after him.

Ellis himself, when he found that he was run away with, determined to do his best to stick on, hoping that by going up some hill or other the pony might be brought up. He forgot how high the forest was situated, and that it was chiefly downhill the pony would have to go. He did stick on, and bravely too, but very frequently he thought it would be in vain, and that he must be thrown off. He felt happier when he saw the attempts made by his friends to overtake him, even though they failed to accomplish their object.

At last Ernest despaired of catching the runaway, when he saw him at the commencement of a long straight road, with no short cut to it, by which he could hope to get ahead of Ellis. Still he and Buttar pursued. Ellis went on, how many miles he could not possibly tell; he thought a great number. He was getting very weary; his knees ached; so did his shoulders. The road was picturesque, overhanging with trees. There were houses ahead—a village, he thought. A boy in a field heard the pony coming along the road. He had on a white pinafore. As he jumped over the gate, it fluttered in the pony’s face: that made him start, and poor Ellis was thrown with considerable violence against some palings on the opposite side of the road. His foot remained in the stirrup. On he was dragged, when a gentleman, hearing the cry of the little boy with the pinafore, came to the gate at the moment the pony was passing, and caught his head. The little country-lad came to assist, and held the pony while the gentleman disengaged Ellis’s foot, and carried him into his cottage, which stood near the road. Not long after, Ernest and Buttar rode by.

“Are you companions of a young gentleman whose pony ran away just now?” asked a voice from the shrubbery.

They said yes, and were requested to come in.

“He is not materially injured,” said a lady, who had spoken to them as they dismounted. “My husband has gone off, however, for a surgeon, a clever man, who lives near, and my son is sitting by him while I came out to watch for you. His great anxiety was that you should not miss him. Now we will go in.”

They found Ellis already in bed. He complained of a great pain in the neck, and shoulder, and head, and the lady seemed to fear that he might have dislocated his shoulder, and received a concussion of the brain, and injured his spine.

Ellis, however, seemed not to be alarmed about himself, and only expressed his regret that he was giving so much trouble.

After a little time the surgeon came, and pronounced that no bones were either dislocated or broken, though the patient had been terribly shaken, and ought not to be moved, but said that he thought that in a day or two he would be all to rights.

The gentleman and lady, who said that their names were Arden, begged Ernest and Buttar to remain with their friend; but at last it was arranged that Buttar should ride back, to announce what had become of the other two, and that Ernest should remain to help to look after Ellis.

In the evening, when Ellis went to sleep, the rest of the party, with the exception of Mr and Mrs Arden’s son, who sat watching by his side, were in the drawing-room.

“You are not a stranger to us,” said Mrs Arden to Ernest. “We have the pleasure of knowing your family; and, if I mistake not, my son and your companion are old friends. My son thought so when he saw him, but was afraid to ask, lest he should agitate him. The meeting is most fortunate. My son, who was at school with him, has long been wishing to find him, but he could not discover his address. He was the means of causing a most undeserved suspicion to be cast on your friend’s character, though he had the satisfaction of knowing that his master fully exonerated him. It must be acknowledged that there were suspicious circumstances against Edward Ellis, but my son felt sure that he was altogether incapable of the act imputed to him.”

Mrs Arden then told Ernest all the circumstances which he had already heard from Selby.

“Now comes the part of the story most grievous to my son. Many months afterwards, he discovered the money he had lost in the secret drawer of his desk, where he put it that he might carry some silver in his purse. The silver he spent, and he has no doubt that he dropped the purse when pulling out his knife and some string from his pocket, exactly at the place where it was found.”

Ernest was overjoyed at hearing this. “I am certain Edward Ellis would consent gladly to be run away with a hundred times, and have his collar-bone broken each time, for the sake of hearing this,” he exclaimed, warmly.

After a time Henry Arden came down, and expressed his sorrow at his carelessness, and earnest wish to make all the amends in his power; and Ernest told him that the best amends he could make would be to come to school, and thoroughly to exculpate Ellis by telling the whole story. This he promised to do, and when Mr and Mrs Arden heard an account of the school, they declared their intention of sending their son to remain there permanently.

I need not describe the heartfelt satisfaction of Ellis, when he got better, at meeting his old school-fellow, and hearing from him the explanation of the mysterious circumstance which had so long really embittered his existence. Those were truly happy holidays, and he looked forward eagerly to the time when he might return to school, and lift up his head among his companions without a sense of shame, or the slightest slur attached to his name.

Chapter Sixteen.

Eton and its Amusements.

Edward Ellis felt very differently to what he had ever before done when he returned to Grafton Hall. He was one of the first. His particular friends had not come back, but the other boys, not knowing what had happened to him, could not help remarking the change. He walked with a firmer step, he held his head more erect, and seemed altogether a changed being; yet he was at the same time the like good-tempered, kind, gentle, generous-minded fellow he had always been. In a few days the whole school were collected, and Ernest, and Buttar, and Bouldon and others welcomed him with even more than their usual cordiality. A new boy also had arrived,—it was said, indeed, several had come, for the school was rapidly increasing; they had been seen and judged of, but this one had not made his appearance. At last it was known that he was an old school-fellow of Barber’s and Ellis’s. The morning after his arrival he entered the school-room, holding by the hand of the Doctor, who led him up to his desk.

“Silence, boys,” said the Doctor; “I have to introduce to you a new pupil of mine, but before he takes his place in the school he has made it an especial request that he may endeavour to make amends for a great wrong he was unintentionally the cause of inflicting on one who has for some time been your school-fellow—Edward Ellis. He will now speak for himself.”

On this Henry Arden, in a clear distinct voice, repeated the account I have already given of the cause which led to the suspicion that Ellis had stolen his purse; blaming himself, at the same time, for his own neglect and stupidity.

“Since then I find,” he added, “that the money of which he was possessed was entrusted to him by a wealthy relative, who had formed the highest possible opinion of his integrity and judgment, that he might distribute it as he thought fit among objects of charity. From henceforth I hope that you will all think as highly of Edward Ellis as those who know him best do. Three cheers for Edward Ellis!”

Three cheers were given, the Doctor leading, and three hearty cheers they were, such as the Doctor delighted to hear his boys give on fit occasions. Ellis tried to get up and speak, but his heart was far too full. After two or three brave attempts he was obliged to sit down.

“Bracebridge,” he said, “do you get up and tell them all I feel. You know.” Ernest got up, and made a very fitting speech for his friend, which was loudly applauded, and then three cheers were given for Ernest, as the “Favourite of the School.” Ernest himself was somewhat taken aback at this, but he was very well pleased, and replied in a way which gained him yet further applause. From this time Ellis made still more rapid progress than before, and many people thought him not much inferior in talent to Ernest Bracebridge. He got up several steps, one after the other, but his success did not make him less humble than he had ever been. Out of doors, he made as great progress in his amusements. Cricket was now in, and in that finest and most interesting of English manly games he soon gained considerable proficiency. He used to play, and then only occasionally, with two or three small boys at single wicket; now he entered boldly into the game, and played whenever he could. Ernest, who was becoming one of the best players in the school, always got him on his side when he could. Soon after the commencement of the half there was to be a game between the six best players in Ernest’s class and five others from any class except the highest, whom they might choose on one side, and five of the second class and six others from any other class below them. No school in England could boast of a better cricket-field than did that of Grafton Hall. It was, too, a lovely day when that game was played, and there were a good many spectators. Ernest and Ellis, Buttar, Bouldon, and two others of their class, together with several good players from other classes, formed their side. They were all resolved to play their best, and to fear nothing. They had the first innings.

“Now, Ellis,” said Ernest, “you remember our first game at rounders. You thought you could do nothing with that, but you tried, and did as well as anybody. So you can with cricket. You have had fair practice, you know the principles, and you have no vices to overcome.”

“I’ll do my best, depend on that,” answered Ellis, resolving to exert himself to the utmost. He had thought over and thoroughly studied the principles of the game, and as his eye was specially correct, he played far better than many who had infinitely more practice. To make a good cricketer, a person must have physical powers for it; he must study the principles of the game; why he should stand in certain positions, and why his bat should be kept in a particular way; and also he should practise it frequently, so as to make his hands and arms thoroughly obedient to the will. Buttar and Bouldon first went in. They made some capital hits. Bouldon scored twelve by as many runs from four hits in succession.

“Bravo, Tom!—bravo, Bouldon!” resounded on all sides. Bouldon got into high spirits; he felt as if the whole success of the game depended on him, that he could work wonders. He made one or two more capital hits, but every instant he was growing vainer and more confident. He began to hit wildly; to think more of hitting far than of where he sent the ball, or of how he guarded his wicket. Proper caution and forethought is required at cricket as well as in all the other affairs of life. A ball came swiftly and straight for his wicket. He hit it—off it flew, but the watchful eye of one of the other side was on it, and ere it reached the ground it was caught. Tom threw down his bat, and declared that he was always out of luck; that having done so well he hoped to have stayed in to the end. Another boy took his place. He also did good service to his side, but at length was bowled out. Buttar, who always played coolly, remained in. He got several runs, but seldom more than two at a time at the utmost. Ernest now went in. He had become a first-rate cricketer. He possessed strength, activity, eye, and judgment, all essential requisites to make a good player. Great things were therefore expected from him. He, of course wished to do his best. He quietly took up the bat, weighed it for a moment, and finding that he had a proper grasp, threw himself into the position ready for the ball. His first hit was a telling one. Often had he and Buttar played together, and they well knew what each could do. They ran three without risk. They looked at each other, to judge about trying a fourth one, but it was too much, they saw, to attempt. Had they, Ernest would have been out. Hit after hit was made, several, however, without getting runs, for the field was exerting itself to the utmost. If they could put these two players out quickly they might win easily; if not, they would have a hard struggle to beat them. Buttar played capitally, but at last he was growing weary, and a new bowler was sent in. The very first ball he delivered came curling round, and sprung in between the wicket and his bat, and down went his stumps. A very good player succeeded him, who, though he did not get many runs off his own bat, enabled Ernest to get them. He, however, after doing very well, made an imprudent run, and he was stumped out. Still Ernest kept in, and it was Ellis’s turn to take the bat. All his former awkwardness of gait was gone. He stood well up to his bat. His first stroke showed that he was no despicable opponent, and he got four runs. This awakened up the field again, who had been expecting soon to get in. The two played capitally, and made their runs rapidly and fearlessly. They knew that the opposite side must play well to score as many as they had done. It was fine to see the two friends hitting away, and crossing each other as they made one run after another, almost insuring the success of their side. However, the best of players must be out at one time or the other. Ernest was caught out, and ultimately Ellis was run out by the next player who went in. At last the other side got their innings, and played well; but when the game was concluded it was found that Bracebridge’s side scored thirty more than they had done,—an immense triumph to the lower class.

His success did Ellis a great deal of good, and he now made even more rapid progress than before, both in and out of school. It was the last time either he, or Ernest, or Buttar played in that class, for by Michaelmas they got another step, and by the Christmas holidays Ernest and Ellis got into the first class, distancing Buttar and Bouldon, who were only in the second. This rise was of the very greatest benefit to the school. The two first were now above Barber, and thus were able to exercise a considerable influence over him and fellows of his sort. They could look down also on Bobby Dawson, and several others who were inclined to patronise them when they first came to school. They also received all the support they could desire from Selby and other gentlemanly if not clever boys like him, and from warm-hearted enthusiastic ones like Arden and Eden. They completely, in the first place, put a stop to anything like systematic bullying. Of course, they could not at all times restrain the tempers of their companions, or prevent the strong from oppressing or striking the weak when no one was present. Bullies and tyrants, or would-be bullies and tyrants, are to be found everywhere; but when any little fellow complained to them, they never failed to punish the bully, and to bring to light any act of injustice, making the unjust doer right the wronged one. They did their utmost to put a stop to swearing or to the use of bad language. They at once and with the exertion of their utmost energy put down all indecent conversation; and if they found any boy employing it, they held him up to the reprobation and contempt of their companions. Falsehood of every description, either black lying or white lying, they exhibited in its true colours, as they did all dishonest or mean practices; indeed, they did their very utmost to show the faults and the weak points of what is too generally looked on as schoolboy morality. The system of fudging tasks, cribbing lessons, deception of every sort they endeavoured to overthrow. Some people might suppose that they undertook far more than they could perform, but this was not the case; all they undertook was to do their best. They did it, and succeeded even beyond their own expectations. Of course they at first met with a great deal of opposition. They knew well that they should do that. Some fellows even asked them for their authority in acting as they presumed to do.

“Here is our authority,” answered Ellis, the colour coming into his cheeks and his eye flashing. He lifted up a Bible which he held in his hand. “We are ordered to do all the good we can in this world: we are doing it by trying to improve the character of the boys in the school. We are ordered to exert our power and influence to the utmost to do good: all the power and influence we possess we are exerting for that purpose. You see we are doing nothing strange; only our duty.”

Some few of the boys sneered at Ellis behind his back for what he had said, but they were the meanest and worst boys in the school. No one uttered a word before his face; the greater number applauded him, and wished they could follow his example.

It is impossible to describe the various events which took place at Grafton Hall during the time Ernest was there. He gained more and more the good opinion of the Doctor, and of all the masters, and at length reached, more rapidly than any boy had before done, the head of the school. He gained this distinction by the employment to the best advantage of a bright, clear intellect; by steady application to study; by an anxious wish to do his duty; by never losing an opportunity of gaining information; and more especially, by not fancying himself a genius, and that he could get on without hard reading. Those were very happy days at Grafton Hall, both for him and his immediate friends, as also for the boys below him.

Another Christmas passed by, and another summer drew on. It was understood that he would leave at the end of another half. As the boys rose to the top of the school at Grafton Hall, they had many privileges and advantages which, of course, the younger ones did not possess. They had separate sleeping-rooms, where they might study, and they enjoyed a considerable amount of liberty. One day Bouldon came into Ernest’s room in high glee.

“Come along, Bracebridge; it’s all settled! You are to go, and so is Ellis. We are to be back in four days; but we will enjoy those four days thoroughly.”

“I have no doubt that we shall,” said Ernest quietly, looking up from his desk. “But where are we to go?—when are we to go?—what are we to do? Tell me all about it; you have not done so yet.”

“To be sure I have not! How stupid of me!” said Bouldon, laughing. “I forgot that you did not know anything about a plan I formed long ago. You know that I have a brother at Eton—a jolly good fellow—a year older than I am. There is not a better brother in the United Kingdom than my brother Jack. Well, for the last two years, I should think, he has wanted me to go down to see him while he’s at school; but as our holidays are much about the same time, I’ve not been able to manage it. Lately, he has been writing home about it; and, at last, he has persuaded our father to get leave for me to go from the Doctor, and to invite two friends. I fixed on you at once, and it was a toss up whether I should ask Buttar or Ellis; and I thought that the trip would be more novel and amusing to Ellis than to Buttar. The Doctor did not give in at first; but then he said you were both of you deserving of reward, and that if you wished to go you might. Of course, you’ll wish to go; you’ll enjoy it mightily.”

Ernest thought that he should, and so did Ellis, who was quickly summoned to the conference; and the Doctor having been prepared to grant their request, gave them leave directly they asked it, giving them only some sound advice for their guidance during their stay among strangers. In high spirits they all set off for London, and were soon carried by the Great Western down to Eton. Tom had told his brother when to expect them, and Jack Bouldon was at the Windsor Station ready to receive them. He fully answered the description which had been given of him.

“I’m so glad you are come!” he exclaimed. “We have a fine busy time of it—lots to do. I’ve luncheon for you in my room. We are to dine at my tutor’s, to meet our father, you know, Tom; and after it we’ll go and see the boating. I belong to a boat; but I have sprained my arm, and mustn’t pull, which is a horrid bore. Come along, though.”

It is extraordinary how quickly Ernest and Ellis became acquainted with their new friend, and how fine a fellow they could not help thinking him, though he was scarcely older than either of them. They had not gone far when Jack stopped in front of Layton’s the pastry-cook’s.

“Come in here, by the by,” he exclaimed, pulling Ernest by the arm. “I ordered some refreshment as I came along; we should not be able to do without it, do you see.”

The visitors required but little persuasion to enter, and as soon as they appeared a supply of ices and strawberry messes were placed before them.

“No bad things!” they pronounced them.

“No, indeed!” said Jack, carelessly. “They slip down the throat pleasantly enough. We don’t patronise anything that isn’t good at Eton, let me assure you.”

All present fully concurred in this opinion, the food they were discussing being a strong argument in its favour; but at last the strawberry messes came to an end, and they continued their walk into Eton. Although the town itself did not exactly excite their admiration, they expressed their pleasure when they saw the college buildings, and the meadows, and the rapidly-flowing clear river, and the view of Windsor Castle, rising proudly above all, a residence worthy of England’s sovereigns.

“Now,” said Jack Bouldon, “come along to my tutor’s. You’ll want some rest before the fun of the day begins.”

His tutor’s house was a very comfortable, large one, not far from the college gates. Jack ushered them into his room. He was not a little proud of it. It was all his own, his castle and sanctum. It was not very richly furnished, but it looked thoroughly comfortable. There was a turn-up bedstead, and washhand-stand, which also shut up, and prevented it having too much the appearance of a bedroom. A good-looking, venerable oak bureau served to hold most of the occupant’s clothes, below which, in the upper part, were his cups and saucers; and in the centre his writing materials. In one corner was a chest, containing a quantity of miscellaneous articles too numerous to name; and in another was a cricket-bat and fishing-rod, while the walls were adorned with some prints of sporting scenes, one or two heroes of the stage, and another of the Duke of Wellington; a table, an arm-chair, and three common chairs completing the furniture of the apartment.

“You are cozy here, Jack,” said his brother, throwing himself into a seat, and pulling Ernest into the arm-chair. “There’s nothing like independence!”

“As to that, we have enough of it, provided we stick to rules,” answered the Etonian. “However, I don’t find much difficulty in the matter. I like my tutor, and he is very considerate, so I get on very well.”

“But, I say, Jack, what do you do? How do you amuse yourselves all the year round,” asked Tom Bouldon. “You Eton fellows seemed to me, as far as I could make out, to do nothing else but play cricket and boat. All other games you vote as low, don’t you?”

“Not at all,” answered Jack. “Let me see. At the beginning of the year, between Christmas and Easter, we have fives. You know how to play it. We have very good fives-courts. We play fifteen up. Then we have hockey; that’s a capital game. You play it at your school, don’t you? But, after all, there is nothing like making up a party to go jumping across country. It is rare fun, scrambling through hedges, tearing across ploughed fields, leaping wide ditches and brooks, and seeing fellows tumbling in head over heels. Then we have running races in the play-fields, of about a hundred yards, which is enough considering the pace at which fellows go. Better fun still are our hurdle races; and a fellow must leap well to run in them. But the greatest fun of all are our steeple-chases, of about two and a-half miles, over a stiffish country, let me tell you. There are no end of ditches, streams, and brooks with muddy banks, into which half the fellows who run manage to tumble, and to come out very like drowned chimney-sweepers. Those are all good amusements for cold weather. From Easter to the end of July is our great time for games. Of course, cricket and boating are the chief. You understand that our playing-fields are divided between different clubs. Every fellow subscribes to one or the other of our clubs. The lowest is called the Sixpenny; that belongs to the lower boys; they are, you will understand, all those in the upper school below the fifth form. Then there is the Lower Club, to which those in the fifth form belong who are not considered to play well enough in the upper club. Only, of course, first-rate players can belong to that. It is the Grand Club to which the eleven belong, and those who play equally well, and will some day become one of them. There is another club called the Aquatics, which belongs exclusively to the members of the boats. Cricketing is fine work; but, for my part, I like boating even better. Here, before a fellow is allowed to go on the river, he is obliged to learn to swim. It is a very necessary rule, for formerly many fellows lost their lives in consequence of being unable to swim. There are numerous bathing places on our river devoted to our especial use, and at each of them is stationed, with his punt, a paid waterman belonging to the college, whose sole duty it is to teach the boys to swim. Twice every week during the summer one of the masters in turns examines into the swimming qualifications of the boys, and he gives a certificate of proficiency to those whom he considers can swim well enough to preserve their lives if capsized in a boat. After a boy is qualified he is allowed to boat on the river. The masters generally make him swim thirty-five yards up and down the stream, and then about ten across it, round a punt, and back again to the point from which he started. Some fellows very quickly do this, if they are strong and not afraid; in fact, if they feel that they can do it. Others never gain any confidence, and if they were capsized could do very little to help themselves. In most cases, the first thing a fellow does when he wants to begin to boat is to agree with some chum to take a boat between them. This costs them five pounds for the summer-half. It is called a lock-up, because when it is not being used it is supposed to be carefully locked up in the boat-house. Sometimes fellows who do not care so much about boating, and don’t want to give five pounds, pay a smaller sum, and take any chance boat which may be disengaged. The boats we generally use are called tubs, tunnies, and outriggers. Besides these there are ‘The Boats’ especially so called. There are seven of them, all eight-oared. Anybody can join these who is in the fifth form. There are three upper and four lower boats; that is, three belong to the upper and four to the lower fifth form. Each has her captain, who fills up his crew from the candidates who present themselves. The higher boats have, of course, the first choice, according to their rank. Each crew wears a different coloured shirt from the others, and have different coloured ribbons on their straw hats. On grand occasions, as to-day, we all appear in full dress, and a very natty one I think you will agree that it is.”

Ernest and Ellis listened attentively to the description, and could not for the moment help wishing that they also were Eton boys. Luncheon was soon over, for the ices and strawberry messes had somewhat damped their appetites. Then they went out into the playing-fields, where a cricket-match was going forward. Jack Bouldon pointed out some of their crack players with no little pride.

“There’s Jeffcott; he’s at my tutor’s,” he observed. “The tall fellow with the light hair; he’s just going in. Did you see how beautifully Strangeways was caught out? See! Jeffcott is certain of making a good hit. I knew it! He’ll get two runs at least. There’s Osbaldiston, the fellow who is in with him. It’s worth watching him. He’s even a better player than Jeffcott, though he is still so young. There! I knew it! What a grand hit! Run! run! three times, you’ll do it! Capital! He’s at my tutor’s. A first-rate fellow, and expects to be one of the eleven next half.”

So Jack Bouldon ran on, his companions heartily joining in his enthusiasm. Then they went back to his tutor’s, as dinner was to be early, to be over in time for the boating in the evening. They there found Mr Bouldon, who expressed himself much pleased at meeting Ernest and Ellis, as friends of his son’s. Dinner they thought the slowest part of the day’s amusements, and were very glad when the time came for them to repair to the Brocas. That is the name given to the field by the river whence the boats start.

The Brocas presented a very gay and animated appearance as the crews of the boats, and the other boys, and the visitors began to collect from all directions. As Jack Bouldon had said, the costume of the boats’ crews was very natty. It consisted of a striped calico shirt of some bright colour; white trousers, with a belt round the waist; a coloured necktie, to suit the shirt; a straw hat, and a ribbon round it to match, the rest of the dress; silk stockings, and pumps with gold buckles. The ribbons round the hats had the name of the boats on them, with some appropriate device, and generally a wreath of flowers worked on them. Nothing, indeed, could well exceed the neatness and elegance of the boating dresses; so Ernest and his friends agreed.

The crews now quickly took their seats in the boats. They went about the business easily, as if they were going to take part in a naval review rather than in any serious engagement. The boats, as they were ready, began to leave the Brocas, the lowest boat going first, and laying off in the stream till all were ready. Then a signal was given, and away they started, the highest boat leading, and the rest in order taking one turn up and down before the Brocas, that the spectators might have the opportunity of admiring them.

At about three miles from Eton is a place called Surly. Here a repast, on tables spread in the open air, was prepared for them; and as the boats’ crews were expected to be not a little thirsty after their long pull, some bottles of champagne were provided for each boat. After the boats had been sufficiently admired by the spectators on the Brocas, off they started, as fast as the pullers could bend to their oars, with long and sweeping strokes towards Surly, accompanied by a boat with a band of music playing enlivening strains.

Jack Bouldon, though he could not pull himself, had secured a boat for his father and his friend, and a crew to man her; and as soon as the boats had gone off, they all jumped into her, that they might follow and see the fun. Each boat had her sitter jealously guarding the exhilarating beverage.

They were not long in reaching Surly. The crews landed, and lost no time in seating themselves to enjoy their cold collation, or in quenching their thirst in the hissing, popping, sparkling champagne. The viands were quickly despatched and thoroughly relished, aided by music and champagne, and good appetites; and then toast after toast succeeded in rapid succession, all drunk with the greatest enthusiasm,—“The Queen,” and “Floreat Etona,” however, calling forth even a still greater amount of applause. Capacious as champagne bottles may be, their contents will come to an end; and this consummation having occurred, once more the crews embarked in their boats and commenced their homeward voyage, music, fun, and laughter enlivening the way.

It was dusk as they approached Eton, where, in the centre of the river, a vessel was moored, whence, as they began to pull round her, burst forth a magnificent display of fireworks. Then the crews of the boats stood up, and, waving their hats, cheered vociferously. Up went the rockets, surrounding them, as it were, with a sparkling dome of fire, and afterwards, in succession, burst forth Catherine wheels, spiral wheels, grand volutes, brilliant yew-trees, and showers of liquid fire, and a number of other productions of the pyrotechnic art too numerous to describe.

The boats continued pulling slowly round and round the vessel all the time of the exhibition, producing a very pretty and enlivening effect.

As Jack Bouldon and his friends walked back to his tutor’s, of course he enlarged on the excellencies of Eton, and the amusements of the school.

“Oh, I wish that you would come back at the end of the half, and see our pulling matches, and swimming and diving matches! We have several of all sorts. We have a grand race between two sides of college, the upper and lower boats. Then there is a sculling sweepstakes, open to all the school. The prize is a cup and a pair of silver sculls, which the winner holds for a year, and on giving them up has his name inscribed on them; so that he has the honour of being known ever after as a first-rate sculler. Then there is a rowing sweepstakes for a pair of oars, which is also open to all the school; and each of the houses have their own private sweepstakes, when they draw lots for pairs. The distance we row is about two and a-half miles. Now I must tell you about the swimming matches which we have at the end of the half. There is one prize for the best swimmer in the school, and another for the best swimmer of those who have passed that half. In the diving matches we dive for chalk eggs, and out of fifteen thrown in, I have seen as many as twelve brought up. I have brought up nine myself, and I cannot boast of being first-rate. Another prize is given to the boy who takes the best header from a high bank; and those are all the prizes given. We have another grand day, called Election Saturday, the arrangements for which are very like to-day. The chief difference is, that the eight are chosen out of all the boats, and row by themselves, in their dress of Eton-blue shirts, and blue hat-bands and ties, as I have described to you.”

It was nearly half-past ten when the boys got back to Jack’s tutor’s, and he had to leave them, while they went to the inn with Mr Bouldon, who had undertaken to see them off the following morning, on their return to Grafton Hall.

They all declared that they never had enjoyed so amusing a day as that spent at Eton.

Chapter Seventeen.

Conclusion.

“Had anybody told me when I came to this school that three years would so rapidly pass by, I would not have believed them,” said Ernest, addressing Ellis, Buttar, and Bouldon, as the four old friends were walking up and down the playground, ready to form for proceeding to church the last Sunday they were to spend together at Grafton Hall before the summer holidays. “I should have been glad to have remained here another half, or even a year, but my father wishes me to read with a tutor whose exclusive occupation it is to prepare fellows for India; so I am to go to him in a few weeks. I intend to read hard, for I am resolved not to be idle wherever I go.”

“Oh, I envy you!” exclaimed Bouldon, “for I know that you will get on; and I wish you may, that you may come back again safe and sound to old England.”

“Oh, I must not think of coming back for years, I fear,” answered Ernest. “The less one calculates in that way the better. I suspect that people are too apt to neglect the present when they allow their thoughts to dwell too much on the future. The great thing is, as my father says, to do our duty during the present, and to enjoy life as it was intended that we should enjoy it, and to allow the future to take care of itself. I do not mean to say that we are to neglect the future, but that we are not to fancy always that the future is to bring forth so much more happiness than the present time can afford. You understand what I mean, or rather what my father means. Now, Gregson is an example to the point. See how happy he always is. He is happy in doing his lessons, because he gives his whole mind to them; and though his talents are not brilliant, he always does them well. Then the moment they are done, he turns to his favourite pursuits. Then he is as happy as he can desire to be in this life. He is not idle for a moment; every book he opens on natural history gives him pleasure; every walk he takes he finds something new and delightful. The birds of the air, the beasts of the field, the creeping things on the earth and under the earth, the trees, the flowers, their numberless inhabitants, all are matters of intense interest to him. He cannot look into a horse-pond without finding subjects for study for days together. Every stream is a mine of wealth; and as for the ocean the smallest portion affords objects the study of which is inexhaustible. Depend upon it, that it would be worth living for the sake of enjoying the study of natural history alone. Then see what vast fields of interest does each branch of science exhibit. The more I inquire into these matters, the more convinced I am that life ought to be a very delightful state of existence, and that it is our own fault if it is not so.”

Thus Ernest gave expression to his opinions. He laid considerable stress on mental occupation, but he did not altogether forget that man is susceptible of a very considerable amount of physical enjoyment, which he is too apt, through his own folly, to lose. It is not often that lads of Ernest’s age think as he did, nor is it often that those who do have listeners so ready and eager to imbibe his opinions.

The signal was given, the boys fell into order, and marched off to church. It is matter for thought, and solemn thought too, when one feels that one is visiting a place of interest for the last time; but there should be something peculiarly affecting when one kneels for the last time in a place of worship where one has knelt for years, and offered up our prayers and petitions, and sung our songs of praise, to that great and good Being who is our life, our protector, our support, united with many hundreds of our fellow-creatures. Perhaps with not one of them may we ever kneel or pray again, but yet one and all of them we shall meet at that great and awful day when we stand before the judgment-seat of Heaven. How shall we all have been employing ourselves in the meantime? What will then be our doom? How vain, how frivolous will earthly ambition, wealth, or honours appear!

Such thoughts as these passed rapidly through Ernest’s mind as he sat and listened to the good, the kind, and faithful minister of the parish.

Ernest had many last things to do before he left school. He had to play his last game of cricket, to climb the gymnastic pole for the last time, to take a walk over his favourite downs, to pay many last visits to rich and poor alike. John Hodge was not forgotten. The assistance given by Ellis, and him, and Buttar helped the poor man along till his strength returned, and once more, to his great satisfaction, he was able to resume work. Ernest could not feel altogether sad: that would not have been natural; and yet he was truly sorry to part from his friends and schoolfellows, and from the old familiar scenes he had known so long. He had, however, plenty of work to keep his mind employed. There were examinations to be gone through, speeches to be made, and prizes to be bestowed. The parents of the boys, and the residents in the neighbourhood who took an interest in the school, were invited to attend. All the examinations which admitted of it were vivâ voce, and took place in the lecture-halls, to which the visitors repaired as they felt interested in the subject, or in the boys who were undergoing their examinations. Several people followed Ernest through the whole course of his examinations, and were much struck by the clear, ready way in which he replied to all the questions put to him, and the evidence he gave of having entirely mastered all the subjects he had studied. All those capable of judging were convinced that, numerous as were the subjects he had studied, he was in no way crammed, but was thoroughly grounded in them all.

After the examinations, the visitors and the boys assembled under a large awning, which had been spread for the purpose. At one end was a raised platform, where several of the most influential gentlemen, many of them clergymen, and others, as well as the head-master, took their seats with the boys of the first class, while the rest were arranged below. First an oration was spoken by several boys, candidates for a prize, to be bestowed on the best orator. Ernest, Buttar, Ellis, and several others tried for it. All spoke well, but Ernest was found to have double as many votes as any other boy. Then the gentleman who had been placed in the chair got up, and expressed his approbation of the system on which the school was managed, and his satisfaction at finding the very great progress it had made; and he concluded—“I consider those boys truly fortunate who are under such a master, and in so delightful an abode.” Then the names of the boys who had gained prizes were called over, and one after the other, with looks of satisfaction, ascended the platform to receive them. Ernest came down literally loaded with prizes. He looked surprised as well as pleased. He was first in everything. The reason that he was so was simple enough. He had bestowed the same attention and energy on all the subjects he had studied; he had given them his entire mind; all his talents had been employed on them; consequently, he could scarcely fail to obtain a similar success in all.

The prizes consisted chiefly of books, mathematical instruments, and drawing materials. After they were distributed, the chairman once more rose, and congratulating Ernest on his success, complimented the Doctor on having educated so promising a pupil and on the admirable discipline of the school itself.

The visitors and boys repaired to the large dining-hall, where a handsome dinner was spread.

“Why, Doctor, you have given us a magnificent feast,” exclaimed Mr Bouldon, who had come to see his son. “I suspect you youngsters don’t get such a dinner as this every day.”

“But indeed we do,” shouted out Tom Bouldon. “Ask the Doctor; he’ll not tell you an untruth.”

“Your son states what is the case,” replied the Doctor, “except, perhaps, with regard to quantity—we have certainly the same quality of food every day, and served in the same way. My object is to make my boys gentlemen in all the minor as well as in all the more important points of breeding. I believe that it is important for this object to give them from the first gentlemanly habits which can never be eradicated. They all, I hope, love their homes for their domestic ties, but for no other reason do I wish them to prefer any place to their school. The result is, I rejoice to say, that we have no Black Monday at Grafton Hall, and that I see as happy, smiling faces in most instances at the commencement of a half-year as I do at the end of it, when they are about to quit me.”

Ernest had never made an impromptu speech before, but he could not now resist the impulse he felt, so rising, he exclaimed—

“What the Doctor says, ladies and gentlemen, is very true. I, as the head of the school, and just about to leave, may assuredly be considered good evidence. He has made the school a happy home to us all; he has made us like learning by the pleasant way in which he has imparted knowledge to us, at the same time that he has shown us the importance of working out most branches of it for ourselves. He has invariably treated us justly; and while he has acted towards us with strictness, he has also never failed in his kindness under all circumstances, and at all times. He has always been indulgent when he could, and has done everything to insure our health, our comfort, and amusement; I cannot say more. It is my belief that Grafton Hall is one of the happiest and best schools in England, and that Dr Carr has made it so. Heaven bless you, sir.”

Amidst thundering rounds of applause from all his schoolfellows Ernest sat down. The Doctor was very much affected at the way Ernest had spoken. The party at last broke up. The next day the boys went home, and Ernest found himself no longer, properly speaking, a schoolboy. Still he was in no hurry to shake off his schoolboy’s habits and feelings. After spending a few weeks at home, he went down to his new tutor at Ryde, in the Isle of Wight. The house stood high up, overlooking Portsmouth and Spithead, where England’s proud fleets are wont to assemble at anchor. It was the yachting season, and the place was full of visitors.

The day after his arrival he went out, and one of the first people he encountered was Ellis. The friends were delighted to meet. The latter soon explained the cause of his being there. His father and mother had come to Ryde, and had secured a very nice little yacht for him, small compared to the large vessels which form the navy of the different clubs, but quite large enough to sail about in every direction on the waters of the Solent.

“It was one of my favourite amusements,” said Ellis. “In truth it was the only one, till you taught me to like cricket and other games at school. Now you must come and learn about yachting with me.”

Ernest said that he should like it much, but that he must read hard with his tutor.

“The very thing to help your reading,” pleaded Ellis. “Ask him, and if he is a sensible man he will tell you that if you take a trip now and then on the water it will refresh your brains, and you will be able to read all the better for it.”

To Ernest’s surprise, his tutor fully agreed with the advice Ellis had given him, and it was not long before he found himself on the deck of the “Fairy.” Such was the name Ellis had given to his yacht. Scarcely had Ernest stepped on board than he set to work to make himself acquainted with all the details of the vessel. The use of the helm and the way the wind acts on the sails he understood clearly. He had studied theoretically the principle of balancing the sails with the wind, and also the mode in which the water acts on the hull. He had read about leeway, and headway, and sternway; and now that he had an opportunity of examining the practical working of these theories, he hoped to master the subject thoroughly, so as never to forget it, and to be able, when called on, to make it of use. At first the old sailor, who acted as the master of the yacht, and for that matter crew also, for there was only a boy besides, seemed inclined to look on Ernest as a green hand, and to turn up his nose at him. Ernest, however, did not show that he perceived this, and went about very quietly, gaining all the information he required.

“What is this rope called?” he asked of the old man while Ellis was below, before he got under way.

“The main sheet, sir,” was the answer.

Ernest made no other remark, but he examined where one end was secured; he ran his eye along it from block to block, and calculated how much of it was coiled away.

“These are the shrouds, I know; and this?” he asked.

“The backstay, sir,” replied the old man.

He underwent a thorough examination.

“And this, I see, must be the topmast backstay; and this the forestay; and that the topmast stay. Is it not so?” he asked.

Thus he went on, rapidly learning not only the names, but the uses of all the ropes, and of everything on deck. By the time Ellis returned on deck he was surprised to find that Ernest had already made himself at home on board, and, as he said, was ready to lend a hand to pull and haul if required.

“The tide will soon have made, and we shall be able to get to the westward,” said Ellis, looking about him. “We’ll set the mainsail, Hobbs, and be all ready for a start.”

Preparations were accordingly made to set the mainsail. The throat was hoisted nearly up; the peak was half hoisted; then the jib was bent on, and hauled out to the bowsprit end.

“Come, Ernest, bowse away on the bobstay,” cried Ellis.

Ernest was for a moment at fault, but when he saw his friend hauling away on a rope forward, he took hold of it, and soon guessed its object.

“Let us tauten the bowsprit shrouds a bit,” said Ellis. Ernest knew what that meant. The jib was hoisted and bowsed well up, then the backstays, and the topmast-stays were tautened. “Now, Hobbs, go to the helm; we’ll get the foresail up.” Ernest helped Ellis to hoist away on the fore-halliards; the old master overhauled the main sheet while Ellis overhauled the lee-runner and tackle. The throat he settled a little, that is, he let the inner end of the gaff drop a little, and then he and Ernest gave all their strength to hoisting the peak of the mainsail well up. The mainsail now stood like a board; the wind was light, so the gaff-topsail was set, and then, as Ellis wished to cast off-shore, he watched till the wind came on the port or left side of the foresail. Instantly he let go the moorings, and the Fairy’s head turned towards the north, or across channel; the jib sheet was hauled in, so was the main sheet; the foresail was let draw, and the little vessel, feeling the full force of the breeze, glided swiftly along through the sparkling waters.

Ernest clapped his hands. “Oh, this is truly delightful,” he exclaimed, after they had been skimming along for some time, enjoying the view of Spithead, where several large ships were at anchor; of Ryde, climbing up its steep hill; of Cowes, to the westward, and the wooded shores of the Solent extending in the same direction as far as the eye could reach. The wind freshened up again, and they had a magnificent sail, looking into Cowes harbour and standing through the roads, where some dozen fine yachts were at anchor, and some twenty more cruising about in sight. They passed Calshot Castle on the north, and beat on till they sighted Hurst Castle, at the entrance of the Solent passage to the westward, while the little town of Yarmouth appeared on the island shore, and Lymington on the mainland.

“The wind is likely to fall towards the evening, and if you young gentlemen wishes to get home before night, we had better be about,” said old Hobbs, looking up at the sky on every side.

Although Ellis was very fond of anchoring whenever he felt inclined, or the tide and wind made it convenient, and of sleeping on board, or of keeping under way all night, Ernest was anxious to get back to read during the evening; the helm was therefore put up, the main sheet was eased away, and the “Fairy” ran off to the eastward before the wind.

Ellis was at the helm. “As we are in a hurry, we will make more sail, and see how fast the little barkie can walk along; Hobbs, get the square-sail on her.”

“Ay, ay, sir,” was the reply; and the sail being hauled up from forward, was bent on to its yard, and soon being swayed up, presented a fine wide field of snowy canvas to the breeze. Thus the little craft bowled along, till once more she approached her moorings off Ryde. Then the square-sail was taken in, and the jib being let fly, Ellis put down the helm, and shot her up to the buoy, which old Hobbs, boat-hook in hand, stood ready to catch hold of and haul on board.

“I have never enjoyed a day more,” exclaimed Ernest; “now I must go home and read as hard as I can to make up for lost time.”

“You will read all the better, as I said, and come as often as you can; we will do our best to get back so that you may not lose all the day.” This was said by Ellis as they parted.

The next time Ernest came down to sail in the “Fairy” he found Arden, whom Ellis, having met at Ryde, had invited to join them. Arden was a very nice little fellow; the only and treasured child of his father and mother, and had always been delicately nurtured; too delicately, I suspect, for he had been prevented from engaging in many of the manly exercises which are so important in fitting a boy to meet the rough usage of the world. He could thus neither climb nor swim, and as Ellis said, was very much like a fish out of water on board a boat, though he was very unlike one in the water. He was, however, now anxious to remedy some of his defects, and finding sailing pleasant, was glad to accompany Ellis whenever he asked him.

The old schoolfellows got on board, as merry and happy as lads who feel conscious that they have been working hard and doing their duty can be. Those, I hold, who are viciously employed and neglecting their duty can never be happy. The wind was from the same quarter as the last time Ernest was on board, though there was rather more of it. The “Fairy” having been got under way, stood over to the north shore, and then tacked and stood towards Cowes. As she bounded buoyantly over the waves, the spirits of the three schoolfellows rose high. Ernest added considerably to his stock of nautical knowledge, while Arden was exercising his muscles by climbing up the rigging, hanging on to the shrouds by his hands, and swinging himself backwards and forwards. All this time the breeze freshening, the gaff-topsail had just been stowed; old Hobbs was at the helm, and Ellis himself was to windward, when Arden, in the pride of his newly-acquired accomplishment, as he was running forward on the lee-side, as he said, to take a swing on the shrouds, his foot slipped, he lost his balance, and before he could clutch a rope, over the slight bulwarks he went, head foremost into the water. Ernest was sitting on the same side of the little vessel. Quick as thought, before Ellis, who had been looking to windward, knew what had happened, or Arden could cry out, Ernest sprang overboard. He knew that every instant would increase the difficulty of saving his friend: he threw off neither shoes nor jacket; there was no time for that. Arden came to the surface, and stretching out his arms towards him shrieked out, “Save me, save me! O my mother!” Ernest struck out bravely through the water towards him, while the little cutter flew on; it seemed leaving them far behind: such was not the case, however. Old Hobbs giving a look behind his shoulder to see where they were, put down the helm, that he might put the vessel about as rapidly as possible, and heave-to, while Ellis could jump into the punt to their rescue.

Ernest had no time to consider what was to be done; his first aim was to get hold of Arden and to keep his head above water. The poor lad, unaccustomed to the water, quickly lost all presence of mind, and was striking out wildly and clutching at the air. Ernest saw the danger there would be in approaching him, and therefore, instead of swimming directly for him, took a circuit and then darted rapidly at him from behind. Grasping him by the collar, by a strong turn of his arm he threw him on his back, and then he held him while he himself trod water, and assisted himself to float with his left hand.

“Don’t be alarmed, now, Arden, my dear fellow; keep your arms quiet and you will float easily,” he exclaimed. “There, just look up at the sky; now you find that your face is perfectly out of the water; never mind if your head sinks a little; steady, so, all right, old fellow.”

With words to give confidence and encouragement, Ernest tried to calm poor Arden’s fears; yet he himself turned many an anxious glance towards the yacht.

The instant Ellis had heard Arden’s cry and saw Ernest in the water, he leaped up and hauled the punt, towing astern, up alongside.

“Wait, sir, wait till we are about,” said Hobbs; “you’ll be nearer to them then, and on the same side they are.”

Ellis saw this, and as the cutter came round he jumped into the punt and shoved off. Ernest saw his friend coming. He began to feel more anxious than before. The punt was small, and he was afraid, should Arden struggle, she also might be capsized. He therefore urged Arden to remain perfectly quiet, while Ellis hauled him in. The moment Ellis reached them he threw in his oars, and wisely leaning over the bows, caught hold of Arden’s collar and lifted him partly out of the water, while Ernest swam round to the stern and climbed in over it. He now was able to come to Ellis’s assistance, and together they hauled in poor Arden, more frightened than hurt, over the bows. They soon made him safe in the little cabin of the cutter, with his clothes stripped off, and he himself wrapped up in a blanket. The clothes quickly dried in the warm sun and air, and he was able to be the first to describe his accident to his parents, and to speak of Ernest’s gallant conduct in saving him.

“My dear Arden,” replied Ernest, when the former was overwhelming him with thanks, “I learned to swim, and know how to retain my presence of mind. Had you been able, you would have done the same for me; so say no more about it.”

Young Arden did not say much more about it, nor did Mr Arden to Ernest himself; but he had powerful friends in India, and when, after some months Bracebridge arrived there, he found himself cordially welcomed, and placed in a position where he had full scope for the exercise of his talents.

For some time Ernest Bracebridge had not heard from any of his old schoolfellows. War was raging. His regiment, with others, was appointed to attack a stronghold of the enemy. He led on his men with a gallantry for which he had been ever conspicuous, but they met with a terrific opposition. Almost in vain they struggled on. Again and again they were beaten back, and as often encouraged by their brave leader, they charged the foe. At length he fell. His men rallied round him to carry him off, when there was a loud cheer—a fresh regiment was coming to their support. Ernest looked up. They were Queen’s troops. He saw the face of the officer who led them, as, waving his sword, he dashed by. Ernest shouted, “Ellis—Ellis!” The enemy could not stand the shock of the British bayonets. They fled in confusion. Ernest heard the cry, “They run—they run.” Then he sunk, exhausted from loss of blood.

At length the blood was stanched, a cordial was poured down his throat, and looking up, he saw the countenance of his old friend Edward Ellis bending anxiously over him. Ellis bore him to his tent, and nursed him with the care of a brother. Together in many a hard-fought fight they served their country, and often talked of their old schoolfellows, of the kind Doctor, and of the happy days they spent at Grafton Hall.

W.H.G. Kingston

"Exiled for the Faith"

Chapter One.

A tale of the Huguenot persecution.

The two cousins.

“Just what brought you to France, fair cousin?”

The question was put by a beautiful girl scarcely yet verging on womanhood to a fine intelligent youth, two or three years her senior, as they paced slowly on together through the gardens of the Louvre on the banks of the Seine, flowing at that period bright and clear amid fields and groves. Before them rose the stately palace lately increased and adorned by Henry the Second, the then reigning monarch of France, with its lofty towers, richly carved columns, and numerous rows of windows commanding a view over the city on one side, and across green fields and extensive forests, and far up and down the river on the other.

The walk along which the young people were proceeding was shaded by tall trees, the thick boughs of which kept off the rays of the sun, shining brightly on the gay flowers and glittering fountains, seen in the open space beyond them.

The young girl had the air and manner of a grown-up person, with that perfect self-possession which seems natural to those brought up in the atmosphere of a court.

Her companion’s manner formed a contrast to hers; but though evidently not at all at his ease, as a brave man does when called upon to encounter danger, he had braced himself up to face those he might have to meet, who would, he naturally felt, look down on him on account of his travel-stained dress, his Scottish accent, and rustic appearance.

“In truth, Cousin Mary, I left Scotland as many of our countrymen are compelled to do, to seek my fortune abroad, and have come with letters of introduction to several noblemen and others; among them to Admiral Coligny, my father’s old comrade in arms. Our castle is well-nigh in ruins, and my estate yields scarcely revenue sufficient to supply me with clothes and arms, much less to restore it as I wished to have done. I have already made two voyages to far-off lands, and come back no richer than I went, and have at length resolved to take service in the navy of France, in which I may hope to carve out my way to distinction, with the help of the admiral.”

“He may be ready enough to receive you and afford you his patronage; but I warn you, Cousin Nigel, that he may be less able to forward your interests than you may suppose. He is known to hold the principles of the leaders of those dangerous people the Protestants, who are hated and feared at court, where the Guises, the brothers of the Queen Regent of Scotland, have of late gained the chief influence. Take my advice, Cousin Nigel, seek some more profitable patron, and have nothing to do with the Huguenots.”

“I thank you for your advice, cousin. I must confess, however, that I do not hold the opinion you express of the Protestants, but on the contrary, am greatly inclined to agree with their principles. I lately heard a wonderful preacher, one John Knox, who has appeared in Scotland, and brought thousands to see the gross errors of the papal system. He proves clearly that the Pope of Rome has no real ground for his pretensions to be the head of Christ’s Church on earth; that he cannot be the successor of the apostle Peter, who never was Bishop of Rome; but that he is rather the successor of the great heathen high priest, whose idolatries he perpetuates and supports, and that therefore he and his cardinals and priests are impostors, who should on no account be obeyed. He clearly explains indeed that those who rule in the Seven-hilled city represent no other than the Scarlet Woman spoken of in the Apocalypse, their system being in truth the Mystery of Iniquity.”

“Oh, dreadful!” exclaimed the young lady. “Why, Cousin Nigel, you are a rank heretic, and were you to express such opinions as these in public, your life would be in danger. Hundreds of Frenchmen have already been burned for holding opinions not half as bad as those you have expressed. I am almost afraid to listen to you; not that we trouble ourselves much about such matters at court, where people are allowed to think what they like, provided they do not utter their thoughts too loudly, or in the hearing of the doctors of the Sarbonne (the theological college of France), who have of late become rigidly orthodox, and are resolved to put down the reformers. I must advise you, at all events, to keep your own counsel; and if you are still determined to apply to Admiral Coligny, as your views agree with his, they will be in your favour.”

“Thank you for your advice, sweet cousin,” answered Nigel. “I will follow it so far as not to parade my opinions; but should they be attacked, I shall be ready, if necessary, to defend them either with my tongue or my sword.”

“You are not likely to be called upon to use either of those formidable weapons, provided you are discreet,” said the young lady, laughing. “You may occasionally at court hear the Protestants satirised, or made subjects of lampoons; but it would be folly to take notice of such trivialities, and you would be in continual hot water with worthy people, perfectly ready otherwise to treat you as a friend. I will speak to some I know, who will assist your object and forward you to the admiral, should you determine to seek his patronage.”

“I would rather trust to so great and good a man than to any one else I have heard of in France,” said Nigel; “and am anxious, as soon as possible, to make myself known to him.”

By this time the young people had got within a few paces of the termination of the shady walk, when before them appeared a gay company of ladies and gentlemen, most of the former being very young, while the latter were, on the contrary, advanced in life, as their snowy locks and white beards betokened, though they were richly dressed, and were doing their utmost to assume a youthful and debonair manner. Nigel on seeing the gay company instinctively drew back into a recess by the side of the walk, unwilling, if possible, to present himself before them. His cousin being ready to humour him, placed herself on a garden seat, and invited him to sit by her. Perhaps she was unwilling that the interview with her near relative should be brought to an end sooner than could be helped. They could from this spot observe what was going forward without being seen. Merry laughter came from the party of gaily dressed people who passed along the walks, several approaching near enough to allow their features easily to be distinguished.

“Who are those?” asked Nigel, as several young people came slowly by, following a fair girl, whose beautiful countenance and graceful figure distinguished her from the rest, though many of her companions were scarcely less lovely. So thought the young Scotchman, as he stood watching them with admiring eyes.

“The first is our Lady Mary, about to wed the Dauphin of France,” answered his cousin. “You must, as a loyal Scot, be introduced to her. Perchance if you are inclined to take service at court you may obtain a post, though his Majesty King Henry does not generally bestow such without an ample equivalent.”

(Note: Three Scottish young ladies were sent over to France to attend on Queen Mary. They were Mary Seton, Mary Beaton, and Mary Carmichael, and were named the Queen’s Maries.)

“My taste does not lead me to covet such an honour,” said Nigel. “I should soon weary of having to dress in fine clothes and spend my time in idleness, waiting in ante-chambers, or dangling after the lords and ladies of the court. Pardon me, sweet cousin, for saying so. I came to France to seek for more stirring employment than such a life could afford. I will do my devoir to our young queen, and must then proceed on my journey to find the admiral. Had it not been for the packet of letters with which I was entrusted, as also for the sake of seeing you, I should not have come to Paris at all. But tell me, who are her Majesty’s attendants? There is one whose countenance, were I long to gaze at it, would, I am sure, become indelibly fixed on my heart. What a sweet face! How full of expression, and yet how modest and gentle!”

“They are my two sister Maries, Mary Beaton and Mary Carmichael; but it is neither of them you speak of. I see now; the damsel you describe is Constance de Tourville, whose father, by-the-by, is a friend of Coligny’s. The admiral, I am informed, is staying with the count at this very time, and when I tell Constance who you are, she will, I am sure, find an excuse for despatching an attendant with you to her father. I can without difficulty make you known to her, as the etiquette of the court is not very rigid, or I should not have been allowed to wander about the gardens with a gallant young gentleman like yourself, albeit you claim to be my cousin and an old playmate.”

“I see several gentlemen among the fair damsels, so I conclude that my presence is not altogether an irregularity,” said Nigel.

“They are privileged persons, however,” said Mary Seton. “That sickly youth who has just joined the queen and is awkwardly endeavouring to make himself agreeable is her affianced husband, the Dauphin. For my part I would rather not be a queen than be compelled to wed so miserable an object; but I am talking treason. Here comes one of the queen’s uncles, the Duke de Guise—that tall, dark, ill-favoured gentleman. He is, notwithstanding, one of the most powerful men in France, and intends to be more powerful still when his niece and her young husband ascend the throne. But come; the party are moving on, and as Constance de Tourville is lingering behind, we can quickly overtake her, and when I have made you known to her, you can tell her of your wish to see the admiral.”

Nigel felt very unwilling to quit his hiding-place, but his cousin, taking him by the hand, playfully led him forward. They quickly overtook the interesting girl of whom they had been speaking. Nigel, as he was introduced, made a bow which would not have disgraced the most polished gentleman at court. The young lady smiled as she cast a glance at his handsome, honest countenance, with the glow of health on it, increased somewhat by the blush which rose on finding himself in circumstances so unusual to him.

“My cousin Nigel Melvin has come with an introduction to the admiral, who is, I understand, staying with your father, and he desires to set out to the chateau, though I would fain persuade him to take service at the court, instead of tempting the dangers of the sea, which he has the extraordinary taste to desire.”

“Our house steward, Maître Leroux, is at present in Paris, and will return to-morrow; and should your cousin desire his escort, I will direct him to await his orders,” said the young lady in a sweet voice. “Where are you lodging, fair sir?”

“I arrived but this morning, and left my valise at L’Auberge de l’Ange,” answered Nigel.

“I know not where that is; but Maître Leroux will easily find it out, and will call for you at any hour you may name.”

“A thousand thanks, lady, for your kindness,” answered Nigel. “I gladly accept your offer, and shall be ready to set out at early dawn if the landlord will permit me to depart at that hour.”

“Maître Leroux will be at the palace this evening to receive a letter I am sending home, and I will direct him to call as you desire, though, as he loves his ease, he perchance may not be ready to commence the journey at quite so early an hour as you name.”

While Constance was speaking, one of the ladies in attendance on the young queen turned back and beckoned to Mary Seton, who, hurrying forward, left Nigel with her friend.

“You will surely not take your cousin’s advice, and seek for a post at this frivolous court,” said Constance hurriedly, again looking up at Nigel’s countenance. “Catholics alone are in favour, while the Protestants are detested. To which party do you belong?”

“I might say to neither, as I am not a Frenchman,” answered Nigel, surprised at the young lady’s question. “At the same time I have heartily abjured the errors of Rome.”

“I am glad to hear it; I thought so,” said Constance. “I myself am a Protestant. I am here on sufferance, or rather a hostage, and would gladly return to my home if I had permission. Persevering efforts have been made to pervert me, but I have had grace to remain firm to the true faith, and now I am simply exposed to the shafts of ridicule, and the wit and sneers of those who hold religious truth in contempt. You may be astonished at my thus venturing to speak to you, a perfect stranger, but I am sure that I may trust Mary Seton’s cousin; and if you have the opportunity, I will beg you to tell my father or the good admiral what I say. I dare not write on the subject, nor can I venture to send a verbal message by Maître Leroux.”

“I faithfully promise to convey your sentiments to either one or the other,” answered Nigel, casting a glance of admiration at the young girl, who could thus stand alone in her innocence amid the follies of that vicious and frivolous court. “As to accepting a place at court, even should it be offered me, I would refuse it, for my tastes lead me to seek my fortune on the wild ocean or in foreign lands; and it is with this object that I am about to visit the admiral, who will, I have been led to hope, forward my views.”

“You cannot apply to a wiser or truer man in France,” answered Constance. She was about to say more, when they were rejoined by Mary Seton, who came-to conduct Nigel into the presence of the queen.

“As a loyal Scot you are bound to pay your devoir to her Majesty,” she said. “Though neither of us have much recollection of our native wilds, we still regard our country with affection.”

Nigel felt that there was no escaping, and mustering courage, went boldly forward till he reached the spot where the young queen was standing with several lords and ladies in attendance. Though unaccustomed to courts, he had too much native dignity to be overawed, and bending on his knee he lifted the hand of the young queen to his lips and reverently kissed it. Mary bestowed on him one of those fascinating smiles which in after years bound many a victim to her feet, and bidding him rise, questioned him about the affairs of Scotland, and various particulars regarding her lady mother the Regent, from whom he had been the bearer of a package. Nigel, gaining courage, replied discreetly to the young queen’s questions. The Dauphin, however, made some remark which induced her to dismiss her countryman, when Nigel fell back to where he had left Constance, who had been rejoined by his cousin.

“You comported yourself admirably, and I congratulate you,” said the latter. “You will, I am sure, after a little experience become a perfect courtier.”

“I would not advise him to make the experiment,” said Constance.

“There is little fear of it,” answered Nigel. “I hope ere long to find myself on the wide ocean, where I may breathe the free air of heaven, which I much prefer to the atmosphere of a court; but I must crave your pardon, fair ladies, for showing a disinclination to live where I might bask in the sunshine of your smiles.”

“That speech is truly worthy of a courtier,” said Mary Seton, laughing. “Come, come, cousin, change your mind. Constance, you will help me to bring this gentleman to reason?”

“I would not attempt to influence him, even if I could,” answered the young lady. “He has decided wisely. In your heart you know, Mary, that he is right; you yourself despise the miserable butterflies who hover round us with their sweet speeches, empty heads, and false hearts.”

Constance de Tourville was continuing in the same strain, when the young queen, with her attendants and the other ladies and gentlemen of the court, was seen moving towards the palace, and she and Mary Seton were compelled to follow them. While Nigel was paying his parting adieus to the young ladies, a sigh escaped his cousin as he pressed her hand to his lips, for she knew the probability that they might not meet again. Her heart was still faithful to Scotland, and she loved her kith and kindred.

“Remember,” said Constance, as he paid her the same mark of respect. “Be careful what you say to strangers; but you may trust Maître Leroux; he is honest.”

Chapter Two.

A walk through Paris.

On reaching the gate of the palace, Nigel had met the captain of the Scottish guard, Norman Leslie, a distant relative, by whose means he had gained admission to the palace, and had been able to enjoy the interview with his cousin, Mary Seton.

“How fared it with you, Nigel, among the gay ladies of the court?” asked the captain, one of those careless characters, who receive their pay and fight accordingly, very little troubled as to the justice of the cause they support.

“I had a talk with my cousin, and had the honour of paying my devoirs to the queen,” answered Nigel, cautiously. “Having now no longer any business in Paris, I am about to set out on a visit to Admiral Coligny. Can you direct me to my hostelry, at the sign of the Angel, and tell me where I can find a steed to carry me on my journey? for, albeit it would best suit my purse to trudge on foot, I would wish to present myself to the admiral in a way suitable to the character of a Scottish gentleman.”

“As I am off guard I will accompany you, my good kinsman, and will assist you in procuring a horse,” was the answer.

Nigel gladly accepted Leslie’s offer, and the two Scotchmen set forth together. Nigel, being totally ignorant of the city, had no notion in what direction they were going. They were passing through the Rue Saint Antoine, when they saw before them a large crowd thronging round a party of troopers and a body of men-at-arms, who were escorting between them several persons, their hands bound behind their backs, and mostly without hats, the soldiers urging them on with the points of their swords or pikes; Nigel also observed among them three or four women, who were treated with the same barbarous indignity as the men.

“Who are those unhappy people?” he asked.

“Heretics on their way to prison, to be burnt, probably, in a few days for the amusement of the king, who, ambitious of surpassing his sister sovereign, Queen Mary of England, and to exhibit his love for religion, manages to put to death ten times as many as she ventures to send to the stake, unless they recant, when they will have the honour of being strangled or hung instead,” answered Leslie, in a nonchalant tone. “He and his counsellors are determined to extirpate heresy; but as the Protestants are numbered by hundreds of thousands, and as there are a good many men of high rank and wealth among them, his Majesty has undertaken a difficult task.”

“I pray that he may alter his mind, or fail in the attempt,” exclaimed Nigel, indignantly.

“I may whisper amen; although, as the foolish people bring the punishment on their own heads, I am not inclined to throw down the gauntlet in their cause, and must e’en do my duty and carry out the orders of the master whose bread I eat,” said Leslie.

Nigel did not reply, but he felt more than ever determined not to take service on shore, however tempting the offers he might receive. Leslie told him that of late years, throughout France, many hundreds, nay, thousands of persons, after being broken on the wheel, or having had their tongues cut out, or being tortured in some other way, had been burnt at the stake for their religious opinions; but that, notwithstanding, the Protestants increased in numbers, and that, for his part, though himself a faithful son of the Church, he thought that a wiser plan might have been adopted.

“For my part, I believe that had not the Pope and the priests and monks interfered, and worked up some of our fanatic nobles and the ignorant populace to persecute their fellow-countrymen, they might have lived together on friendly terms; and, for the life of me, I cannot see why people should not be allowed to worship God according to the dictates of their consciences,” added the shrewd Scotchman, with a shrug of his shoulders.

Nigel, who had only heard rumours of such proceedings, felt his blood boil with indignation, and instinctively touching the hilt of his sword, he vowed that he was ready to do battle in the cause of justice and humanity. His kinsman, who saw the act, smiled; and divining his thoughts, said, “Let me advise you to avoid interference in quarrels not your own, unless you receive a due recompense in pay, and then the less you trouble yourself about the rights of the case the better. Come along. The first thing we are to do is to look out for your steed. Honest Jacques Cochut will supply you with one which will bear you from one end of France to the other, and an attendant to bring the animal back. It will be more economical than purchasing a horse, unless you have a long journey to make.”

Nigel accompanied his friend to the stables of Jacques Cochut, to whom Leslie was well known. A strong and active steed was soon engaged, with the promise that it should be ready at the door of the hostelry at an early hour next morning.

Leslie, leaving Nigel at the Angel inn, returned to his duty at the palace, while the latter, having ordered his supper, retired to his room to think over the events of the day.

It is needless to say that Constance de Tourville frequently recurred to his thoughts. He had heard enough to make him understand the dangerous position of the Protestants in France, even of the highest rank, and the fearful persecutions to which all classes were exposed. From the remarks Constance had made, it was evident that she herself was exposed to much annoyance, if not danger, even within the precincts of the palace, and he earnestly hoped that he might have an opportunity of speaking to her father, and obtaining her release.

He had sat for some time when he was aroused by a knock at the door, and the servant of the inn announced that a person desired to speak with him.

“Let him come in,” said Nigel; and a respectable-looking man, somewhat advanced in life, as was shown by his silvery locks, stepped forward.

“I am attached to the house of the Count de Tourville, whose daughter despatched me to seek you out, and place myself at your service.”

“Come in, my friend,” said Nigel, offering him a chair. “You are, I presume, Maître Leroux, and I am grateful to the young lady for her kindness, of which I will gladly avail myself. Shall you be ready to set out to-morrow morning?”

“I had intended to do so, but business will keep me in Paris for another day,” answered Maître Leroux; “and if you, fair sir, do not object to remain, I will gladly set forth with you at any hour you may name on the following morning. You may, in the mean time, find amusement in this big city of Paris.”

Nigel, who was pleased with Maître Leroux, though anxious to continue his journey, willingly agreed to wait for the purpose of having his escort.

“But I have engaged my horse for to-morrow,” he added.

“I will easily settle that matter with Jacques Cochut; and if you will accept of my company I will call for you, and show you some of the sights of our city, as you will, alone, be unable to find your way about the streets, and may chance to lose yourself, or get into some difficulty.”

“Thank you,” said Nigel. “I shall indeed be glad of your society, for, except a kinsman in the guards, I know no one in the whole of Paris.”

These arrangements having been made, Maître Leroux took his departure; and Nigel was not sorry, soon after supper, to throw himself on his bed, and seek the repose which even his well-knit limbs required.

Nigel, who slept longer than was his wont, waited at the inn some time for Maître Leroux. He was afraid to go out, lest the steward might arrive during his absence. At length his guide appeared.

“I have been detained longer than I expected,” said Maître Leroux; “but monsieur will pardon me. We have still time to see much of the city.”

They set out, and during their walk visited many places of interest, of which the steward gave the history to the young Scotchman.

“Your Paris buildings surpass those of our bonny Edinburgh in size and number, I must confess,” remarked Nigel; “but still we have our Holyrood, and our castle, and the situation of our city is unrivalled, I am led to believe, by that of any other in the world.”

“As I have not seen your city I am unable to dispute the point,” answered the steward. “Would you like to visit one of our courts of justice? Though not open to the public, I may be able to gain admittance, and I am deeply interested in the case, albeit it would be wise not to show that, and having a stranger with me will be a sufficient excuse.”

“Under those circumstances I will gladly accompany you,” said Nigel.

They soon reached the portals of a large building, through which, after some hesitation on the part of the guards, the steward and his companion were admitted. Nigel observed that Maître Leroux slipped some money into the hands of two or three people, this silver key evidently having its usual power of opening doors otherwise closed. Going through a side door they reached a large hall, crowded with persons. Among those seated were numerous ecclesiastics, a judge in his robes, and lawyers and their clerks while a strong body of men-at-arms were guarding a party of some fifty or sixty persons, who, from their position and attitudes, were evidently prisoners. They were men of different ranks; several, from their costume, being gentlemen, and others citizens and artisans. There were a few women among them also. All looked deadly pale, but their countenances exhibited firmness and determination.

“Of what crime have these people been guilty?” asked Nigel.

“Of a fearful one in the eyes of their judges,” answered Maître Leroux. “They have been worshipping God according to the dictates of their consciences, and were found assembled together in a house at Meaux, listening to the gospel of the mild and loving Saviour. They have already been put to the torture to compel them to recant and betray their associates, but it has not produced the desired effect. In vain their advocate has pleaded their cause. Listen! the judge is about to pronounce their sentence.”

Dreadful indeed that was. With blasphemous expressions, which cannot be repeated, the condemned were sentenced to be carried back to Meaux; fourteen, after being again put to the torture, were to be burnt alive in the market-place; most of the others were to be hung up by their shoulders during the execution of their brethren, and then to be flogged and imprisoned for life in a monastery, while the remainder were to receive somewhat less severe, though still grievous punishment.

The hardy young Scot almost turned sick with horror and indignation as he heard the sentence; and putting his hand to his sword, he was about to cry out and demand, in the name of justice, that instead of being punished, the prisoners should be released, when his companion grasped him by the arm, whispering, “Be calm, my friend; such events are so common in France, that we have grown accustomed to them. Hundreds have already died as these men are about to die; and we, their countrymen, have been compelled to look on without daring to raise our voices in their cause, or, as you are inclined to do, to draw a sword for their defence.”

Maître Leroux, after exchanging a few sentences in an undertone with three or four people they met, whose sad countenances showed the interest they took in the condemned, led his young friend from the so-called hall of justice. On their way they looked into the magnificent church of Notre Dame. Priests in gorgeous dresses were chanting mass; music was pealing through the building, and incense was ascending to the roof.

“Impious mockery,” muttered Nigel. “Well may Calvin and John Knox desire the overthrow of such a system, and desire to supplant it by the true faith of the Gospel.”

“Hush! hush! my young friend,” whispered Maître Leroux, hurrying him out of the church, regretting that he had entered it. “Though many may think as you do, it’s dangerous to utter such opinions in this place.”

“Can nothing be done to save these poor men?” asked Nigel. “Surely the king cannot desire the destruction of his subjects?”

“The king, like Gallio, cares for none of these things. He is taught to believe that the priests are the best supporters of his crown: and, at all events, he knows that they allow him full licence in the indulgence of his pleasures, which the Protestants, he supposes, would be less inclined to do.”

“I would that I were out of this city of Paris, and away from France itself,” said Nigel.

“Many think and feel as you do, and are acting upon it,” answered the steward. “Already many thousand men of science and clever artisans have left, to carry their knowledge and industry to other lands; and others, in all directions, are preparing to follow. You will hear more about the matter when you visit the admiral, and my good master, who does not look unmoved on such proceedings. More on the subject it would not become me to say. Not long ago an edict was issued, by which all the old laws on heresy were revived, it being the resolution of the king to purge and clear the country of all those who are deemed heretics. Magistrates are ordered to search unceasingly for them, and to make domiciliary visits in quest of forbidden books, while the informer is to obtain one-third of the heretic’s confiscated property. Should a person be acquitted of heresy in any ordinary court of justice, he may be again tried before an ecclesiastical tribunal, thus depriving him of all chances of escape. Even interference on behalf of a heretic is made penal, and should a person be suspected, he must exhibit a certificate of orthodoxy, or run the risk of being condemned. You see, therefore, young sir, that I am right in recommending caution as to what you say; not that these edicts have the effect expected, for Calvinism increases rapidly, and the stream of emigration continues from all parts of the kingdom.”

They walked on in silence, Nigel meditating on what he had heard.

“Some fresh air will do you good after the scenes we have witnessed,” observed Maître Leroux. “We will take a turn in the Pré-aux-Clercs. It is but a short distance past the Invalides.”

It was evening, and a number of people were thronging that pleasant meadow on the banks of the Seine, the Hyde Park of that period. A party of young men coming by struck up one of the hymns of Marot, a translation of one of the psalms of David, written some years before by the Protestant poet. Others joined in, and evidently sang them heartily; several other parties, as they passed along, were indulging in the same melodies.

“How is it, after what you have told me, that the people venture to sing these hymns?” asked Nigel. “I know them well, for they have already been introduced into our Protestant congregations in Scotland.”

“They became the favourites of the king and court before they had the significance they now possess,” answered the steward; “and it is only thus that many who hate the papal system can give expression to their sentiments. Before long, however, I fear that they will be prohibited, or those who sing them will be marked as suspected. Alas, alas! our lovely France will be deprived of all freedom of thought, opinion, and action.”

The worthy Maître Leroux seemed greatly out of spirits as they took their way back to the inn. They parted at the door, for Nigel felt no inclination to go forth again, and the steward had business, he said, to attend to. He promised to call for Nigel at an early hour the next morning to set out for Meaux, undertaking to direct Jacques Cochut to have his horses in readiness.

Chapter Three.

The visit to the Admiral.

Maître Leroux did not call at as early an hour as Nigel expected. His own horse and attendant had been at the door for some time before the steward made his appearance. He had an ample apology to offer, having been employed in an important matter till late at night.

“Come,” he said, “we will make up for it. The lateness of the hour matters not, for, with your permission, we will halt on the road, so as to arrive early at the chateau to-morrow.” They set out, followed by their two attendants. After leaving the gates of Paris they continued some distance along the banks of the Marne. The road was rough in places, and often deep in dust; full of holes and ruts in others, which made it necessary for the riders to hold a tight rein on their steeds, and prevented them generally from going out of a walk.

Maître Leroux carried a brace of huge pistols in his holsters, while Nigel had a sword and a light arquebus, both their attendants being also armed; so that they were well able to defend themselves against any small party of marauders such as infested the roads in the neighbourhood of the capital.

“We must make but a short stage to-day,” said Maître Leroux. “In truth, I am unwilling to travel late in the evening, and prefer stopping at the house of a friend to taking up our quarters at an inn where we might meet with undesirable companions.”

“But I shall be intruding on your friend,” said Nigel.

“Pardon me; you will, on the contrary, be heartily welcomed. I am very sure of your principles, and they agree with those of our host and his family, so you need not be under the restraint which would be necessary were we to sleep at a public inn.”

These arguments at once overcame any scruples Nigel might have felt at going to a stranger’s house uninvited.

It yet wanted a couple of hours to sunset when they reached a good-sized mansion, though not possessing the pretensions of a nobleman’s chateau. The owner, a man advanced in life, of gentlemanly refined manner, received Maître Leroux in a friendly way, and on hearing from him who Nigel was, welcomed him cordially. Nigel was conducted into a saloon, where he was introduced to his host’s wife and daughters and several other members of the family. Supper was quickly prepared, and Nigel found himself at once at home.

As soon as the meal was over several other persons came in, some apparently of the same rank as the host, and others of an inferior order, but all staid and serious in their demeanour. The doors and windows were then carefully closed, and Nigel observed that two of the party went out armed with swords and pistols, apparently to watch the approach to the house.

A large Bible was now produced, and several of the party drew forth smaller editions from beneath their garments. The host then offered up a prayer, and opening the Bible, read a portion, commenting as he proceeded. A hymn was then sung and more of the Scriptures read, after which the host delivered an address full of gospel truth, while he exhorted his hearers to hold fast to the faith, but at the same time remarked that they would be justified in flying from persecution if no other means could be found of avoiding it at home. He reminded all present, however, that their duty was to pray for their persecutors, and however cruelly treated, not to return evil for evil. Nigel was reminded of various meetings of the same character he had attended in Scotland, where, however, every man could speak out boldly, without the fear of interruption which seemed to pervade the minds of those present. He now knew that his host was one of the many Protestants existing in the country who ventured thus in secret to worship God according to their consciences, even though running the risk of being condemned to death as heretics.

After the guests had retired, the family spent some time in singing Marot’s hymns.

“Ah!” said the host, “it is only in praising God and reading His blessed words that we can take any pleasure. It is our consolation and delight, and enables us without complaining to endure the sad condition to which bigotry and tyranny have reduced our unhappy country. The only prospect now before us is exile, or imprisonment and death.”

Nigel answered without hesitation that he felt much satisfaction in again having the opportunity of worshipping, as he had been accustomed to do at home, according to his conscience, and hearing the Bible read and faithfully explained.

His host wishing him and his companion a friendly farewell, and expressing a hope that he should see him again, they took their departure at an early hour the next morning.

They had proceeded some distance when they entered a forest, through the centre of which the high road passed. They had been pushing on rather faster than usual, Maître Leroux being anxious to get through it as soon as possible, when they saw before them a body of soldiers. As they got nearer they found that they were escorting a number of prisoners seated in rough country carts, into which they were fastened with heavy chains.

“Who are these unhappy people?” inquired Nigel.

“The same we saw condemned in Paris,” answered Maître Leroux with a sigh. “If we do not wish to share their fate we must exhibit no sympathy for them, as the wretches who have them in charge would rejoice to add to their number. As it will be impossible to pass them at present, we will drop slowly behind.”

“Would that I had a band of Protestant Scots with me, we would soon set them at liberty!” exclaimed Nigel.

“Hush, hush! my friend,” whispered the steward; “it becomes us not to fight with carnal weapons; such is Dr Calvin’s advice.”

Just at that moment a voice exclaimed, “Brethren, remember Him who is in heaven above!”

Some of the rear-guard immediately turned round, and with drawn swords dashed furiously towards Nigel and Maître Leroux, believing, evidently, that one of them had uttered the exclamation they had heard. They both drew up, for flight would have been useless, when, just as the troopers had got some fifty yards from them, a man advanced from among the trees and repeated the words in a loud tone. He was instantly seized by the soldiers, and being dragged back along them, was thrown into one of the carts among the other prisoners. His appearance probably saved the lives of Nigel and his companion, for the doughty Scot had drawn his sword, and would have fought desperately before he would have yielded himself a prisoner.

“Pull in your rein, I entreat you,” said the steward; “we must not turn round, and the sooner we let these people get to a distance from us, the better.”

Nigel, seeing that it would be hopeless to attempt assisting the unfortunate man, did as his companion advised, and they accordingly waited till the troopers were out of sight, taking good care not again to overtake them. Their progress was thus considerably delayed, and not till they came to a road passing outside the town of Meaux did they again venture to push forward.

They managed before sunset to reach the Château de Tourville, a high conical-roofed pile, with numerous towers and a handsome gateway. Maître Leroux, conducting Nigel to a waiting-room near the entrance, went at once to the count, taking his letter of introduction. Nigel had not been left long alone when the steward returned with the request that he would accompany him to the hall, where, he told him, he would find the count and admiral with several other persons. Nigel, not being troubled by bashfulness, quickly followed his guide.

The count, who was of middle age and handsome, courteously rose from his seat at the top of the table to welcome him. At the right hand of the count Nigel observed a person of middle height, ruddy complexion, and well-proportioned figure, with a calm and pleasant, if not decidedly handsome countenance. On the other side sat a tall man, whose sunburnt features, though regular, wore an expression which at the first glance gave Nigel the feeling that he was not a person in whom he would place implicit confidence, though directly afterwards, as he again looked at him, his manner seemed so frank and easy, that the impression vanished. Several other persons of different ages, and apparently of somewhat inferior rank, sat on either side of the table.

“Which of those two can be the admiral?” thought Nigel; “the last looks most like a naval commander.”

“The Lady Mary Seton, your cousin, and my daughter, have written in your favour, young sir, and I am glad to see you at the château; you have, I understand, also a letter of introduction to Admiral Coligny, to whom allow me to make you known.” Saying this, the count presented Nigel to the gentleman on his right side, who requested the person next him to move further down, bidding Nigel to take the vacant seat.

Nigel observed that the meal was over, but the count ordered the servant to bring in some viands for the newly arrived guest.

“As I take no wine you will allow me to read the letter brought by this young gentleman,” said the admiral, turning to the count; “I never defer looking at an epistle if it can possibly be helped.”

The count bowed his acquiescence, and the admiral quickly glanced over the letter which Nigel had presented to him.

“I shall be glad to forward your object,” he said, turning round with a calm smile, and playing with a straw, which he was wont to carry in his mouth.

“Fortunately, I have an opportunity of doing so. I am about to fit out an expedition to form a settlement in the southern part of America, and if your qualifications are such as I am led to believe, I will appoint you as an officer on board one of the ships. You will have but little time to remain idle in France, as we wish the ships to sail as soon as the emigrants who are going on board them can be collected. They will undoubtedly be anxious without delay to leave our unhappy country, where they are constantly subjected to the cruel persecutions of their opponents in religious opinions. Would the service I propose suit your taste?”

“Though I might wish to engage in some more warlike expedition, yet I am willing and glad to go wherever you, sir, may think fit to send me,” answered Nigel.

“Well spoken, young man,” said the admiral. “War is a necessity which cannot be avoided, but there are other employments in which a person may nobly engage with far greater advantage to himself and his fellow-creatures. Such is the work in which I desire to employ you—the noble undertaking of founding a new colony, and planting the banner of pure religion and civilisation in the far-off wilds of the Western world.”

The admiral spoke on for some time in the same strain, till Nigel felt inspired with the same noble enthusiasm which animated the bosom of the brave and enlightened nobleman who was speaking to him.

Many questions were put to him concerning his nautical knowledge and religious belief, to which he answered in a satisfactory manner.

“I believe you are well suited for the undertaking, and I will forthwith make you known to the commander of the expedition, my friend Captain Villegagnon,” said the admiral.

The dark man Nigel had remarked, hearing his name mentioned, looked toward him. Nigel bowed. The admiral, after explaining Nigel’s qualifications, went on to inquire what posts were vacant in the squadron?

“That of the second officer on board my own ship, the Madeline; and I shall be pleased to have a seaman of experience to fill it, although he is not a native of France,” answered the captain.

“You may consider your appointment as settled, my young friend,” said the admiral. “I will desire my secretary to make it out, and as you assure me that you are a true Protestant, I willingly appoint you, such being the religious opinions of all those who are about to form the colony of Antarctic France, which I trust will be well-established under the wise government of Monsieur Villegagnon. Many other ships will sail forth with emigrants seeking an asylum from the persecutions they are subjected to in France on account of their religious opinions.”

Nigel warmly thanked the admiral for the prompt way in which he had met his request.

“Say nothing about that, my young friend; we are too glad to find Protestant officers ready to engage in the expedition,” was the answer.

The conversation now became general, and the plans for the future colony were freely discussed, the count, who appeared as much interested as the admiral, taking a leading part—indeed, Nigel gathered from what he heard, that he himself intended to go out among the first colonists.

The idea of establishing the colony had been started, so Nigel understood, by Monsieur Villegagnon, who had chosen the Bay of Nitherohy, since known as that of Rio de Janeiro, as the site of the first town to be built. It was a place which he had visited some years before on a trading voyage, when he and his companions had been well received by the natives, though they were at enmity with the Portuguese, already established in the country, who claimed it as their own. This latter circumstance Monsieur Villegagnon remarked was of little consequence, as they were few in numbers, and, with the assistance of the natives, could easily be driven out.

The repast being over, the admiral rose from the table, the other guests following his example. Calling to Captain Villegagnon, he took him and Nigel into the deep recess of a window to have some further conversation on the subject of the proposed colony.

“Monsieur de Villegagnon sets out to-morrow to take command of the squadron, and you will do well to accompany him, young sir,” he said, turning to Nigel. “You will thus be able to superintend the fitting out of your ship, and see that the stores come on board, and that proper accommodation is prepared for the emigrants; many are of rank and position in society, and there are merchants, soldiers, and artificers, and you will have to consider how best to find room for them. I am glad to say that the king himself takes great interest in the success of the colony, and under the able management of so skilled a leader as he who has been appointed to the command, we may hope that the flag of France will wave proudly ere long over many portions of the continent.”

“It will not be my fault if the noble enterprise fails to succeed,” said the captain, drawing himself up proudly, and then bowing to the admiral in acknowledgment of the compliment. “My chief satisfaction is, however, that a home will be found for so many of the persecuted Protestants who are compelled for conscience sake to leave their native land.”

“You are right, my friend; that is a noble sentiment,” observed the admiral; “and I would urge our friends who are dissatisfied with the state of affairs at home to place themselves under your command.”

“From the expressions our host has uttered, I may hope that he also will render valuable aid to our undertaking,” observed the captain.

“No one, be assured, more warmly enters into our views,” answered the admiral, “and he will both with his purse and influence assist us, if he does not do so in a more effectual way.”

They were soon after joined by the count, who requested the captain to reserve two cabins for some persons who intended going on board just before the squadron put to sea.

From the conversation which ensued, Nigel found that most of the persons present purposed joining the expedition. They were all, he found from the remarks they made, Protestants, and haters of the system of persecution which had so long been the curse of France. Most of them had already disposed of their possessions, and were only waiting till the squadron was completely equipped to go on board. Among them was a Protestant minister, and, notwithstanding the edicts against meeting for public or private worship, the doors of the chateau being closed, before retiring to rest all the inmates were collected, the Bible was read and prayers offered up, those for the success of the undertaking and the preservation of the persons about to embark not being forgotten.

Maître Leroux accompanied Nigel to his chamber. He expressed his pleasure on hearing that he had obtained the object of his wishes.

“Would that I could accompany you,” he said, with a sigh; “but my duty compels me to remain, and watch over my master’s property, should he be called away. Ah, he is a kind, good master, and his daughter is an angel. I would lay down my life for her sake, should she be deprived of her father—and we never know what may happen in these times. Alack! I fear that she is in society little congenial to her taste and opinion, for she is a true Protestant, as was her sainted mother, now in heaven.”

Nigel felt deeply interested in listening to the garrulous steward’s account of his young mistress, and encouraged him to go on. She had been compelled, against her father’s and her own wish, to reside at court, for the evident purpose of perverting her faith; “but she is too sound and too wise to allow them to succeed,” he added, “though I would the dear young lady were back with us again.”

Chapter Four.

What Nigel overheard.

All arrangements having been made, the next morning, shortly after the sun had risen, Captain Villegagnon, with a considerable party, were ready to set out for Havre de Grâce, the port at which the squadron was fitting out.

They purposed to avoid Paris, but had to pass through Meaux on their way to join the high road leading to Havre.

The good admiral and Monsieur de Tourville came out to wish them farewell as they mounted their horses, and Maître Leroux was waiting at a little distance, where he might have a few last words with Nigel.

“Farewell, my young friend,” he said, putting a small Testament into his hand; “you will find this an inestimable treasure. I dare not keep it long, as it is considered treason for a Frenchman to possess God’s Word, though I have hidden away another copy to which I may go when unobserved to refresh my soul; and, mark you, should my master and young mistress ever have occasion to seek for your assistance, you will, I am sure, afford it.”

“I promise you that I will most gladly,” answered Nigel, wondering what the old steward could mean. Wishing his worthy friend good-bye, he pushed on to overtake his travelling companions.

On entering Meaux, they found the town in a strange commotion, the people all rushing with eager looks to the market-place, in which, as they reached it, they found a large crowd assembled. They caught sight of a number of high gibbets erected at intervals round it, while in the centre was a circle of stakes surrounded by faggots. The travellers would have passed on, but the dense crowd prevented them from moving, and their leader himself showed no inclination to press forward.

Presently shouts arose, and, the crowd opening, a horse was seen dragging a hurdle, on which a human being lay bound, the blood flowing from his mouth. A party of soldiers next appeared with a number of persons, their hands bound behind them, in their midst; while priests, carrying lighted tapers, were seen among them, apparently trying to gain their attention. Some of the prisoners were singing a hymn of Marot’s, and all carried their heads erect, advancing fearlessly to the place of execution. On arriving, they were seized by savage-looking men, while some were speedily hoisted up to the gibbets by their shoulders, where they hung, enduring, it was evident, the greatest agony. Fourteen of the party were then bound to as many stakes, the unhappy man on the hurdle being the first secured. Among them Nigel recognised the person who had been seized in the forest on the previous day for shouting, “Brethren, remember Him who is in heaven above.” Though the cords were drawn so tight as to cut into their wrists and ankles, no one uttered a cry for mercy, but, lifting their eyes to heaven, continued singing, or exhorting their companions to be firm.

The faggots being now piled round them, the priests retired, uttering curses on their heads; while bands of music struck up to drown the voices of the sufferers. At the sight of two men approaching with torches, the people raised loud shouts of savage joy, and one of the piles of faggots surrounding the stake, that to which the chief person, whose tongue had been cut out, was bound, was speedily kindled.

“All! all! Let them all be burned together,” shouted the mob, dancing frantically.

The other piles were quickly lighted, the smoke ascending from the fourteen fires forming a dark canopy overhead.

The victims, as long as they could be distinguished, were seen with their eyes turned to heaven, singing and praising God with their last breath.

The savage fury of the ignorant populace was not yet satiated. Those who had been hung up by the shoulders were now taken down, and so dreadfully flogged, that some of them petitioned that they might be thrown into the flames amid the ashes of their martyred friends; but this was a mercy their cruel executioners had no intention of affording them. Bleeding, they were dragged off to be imprisoned in a monastery, where they were to be shut up for life.

At length Villegagnon, who had looked on with perfect indifference, called to his companions to follow, and, the crowd beginning to disperse, they were able with less difficulty to advance.

The lowest of the rabble only had exulted in the dreadful scene; the greater number of the people exhibited very different feelings. Nigel observed many in tears, or with downcast looks, returning to their homes; others exchanging glances of indignation; and he heard several exclaiming, “They died in a righteous cause. May we have grace to suffer as they have done.”

“Truly, as I have heard it said in Scotland, ‘The blood of the martyrs is the seed of the Church,’” observed Nigel to another of his companions, whose tears and groans showed the grief he suffered at the spectacle he had just witnessed.

Villegagnon kept his party together, for more than once some of the more ferocious persons of the mob cast suspicious looks at them, and mutterings arose, “Who are these? They have the air of Lutherans, or they would look more joyous at the destruction of heretics.”

“I hold the king’s commission, and these are under my orders,” cried Villegagnon. “Make way, good people, make way, and allow us to proceed on our journey.”

Still the mob pressed round, and where showing a determination to stop the travellers, when a monk stepped forward, and exclaimed, “I know that gentleman, and he is a true son of the Church. Interfere not, at your peril, with him and his companions.”

Nigel fancied that he observed glances of intelligence exchanged between the captain and the monk, who had so opportunely come to their rescue. The mob, at length pacified, drew back, and the party were allowed to leave the town without being again molested.

They pushed on as fast as their horses could go.

“We have had a happy escape,” observed Nigel’s companion, “for although a large portion of the population of Meaux are Protestant, yet the rabble, supported by the troops and some of the government authorities, have the upper hand, and it would have fared ill with us had we been stopped and our object discovered.”

Night had already set in when they reached a hostelry where they were to remain till the morning. As most of the travellers were fatigued, they retired to rest as soon as supper was over, with their saddles as pillows, and their cloaks wrapped round them, lying down in the chief saloon, wherever space could be found. Nigel, with two or three others, sat up some time longer, when, having got his saddle and cloak, intending to seek repose, he found every place occupied. While hunting about, he entered a small room in which were a couple of truckle bedsteads. Neither was occupied.

“I am in luck,” he said to himself, and placing his saddle and other property by his side, having taken off his riding boots and some of his clothes, he threw himself upon one of the beds which stood in a corner.

Drawing the coverlid over him, he was soon, sailor-like, fast asleep. After some time, he was awakened by hearing the door open, and, looking up, he saw two persons enter the room. One was Villegagnon, who carried a lamp in his hand; the other was, he saw by the person’s costume, an ecclesiastic. They advanced across the room towards the window, where stood a table and a couple of chairs. Villegagnon threw himself into one of them, with his back towards him, the other imitating his example. The latter produced writing materials, and several papers, which Villegagnon held to the lamp to read.

“You have made a happy commencement of your work, my friend,” said the priest. “If you carry it out thoroughly, the Church, the Duke of Guise, and the Cardinal of Lorraine will be deeply indebted to you. Twenty Calvinist nobles, and some four score of the commonalty, have, I see, determined to accompany you, and they will entice many more. We shall be glad to be rid of them at present out of France, and we will then send out a larger number of faithful Catholics, so that you will reap the honour of founding a French colony in the New World, the Church will triumph, and the Calvinists be extirpated.”

“But the proceeding smacks somewhat of treachery, and it can matter but little to you at home whether the colony is established by Calvinists or Catholics, so that it is firmly grounded and adds to the honour and glory of France,” observed Villegagnon.

“Nay, nay, my friend,” said the priest, putting his hand on the captain’s arm; “remember that the means sanctifies the end. We can allow no Calvinists to exist, either here or abroad. They would be continually coming back with their pestiferous doctrines, or, finding themselves in the majority, would speedily put an end to our holy Church. They must be extirpated, root and branch.”

“I have no wish to support the Protestants, as thou knowest right well, reverend father,” answered the captain; “but they are countrymen, and fight well, and labour well, and count among their number the cleverest mechanics in France. I know not how it is, but it seems to me that everywhere the most intelligent men have become Calvinists.”

“Their father Satan gives them wisdom. Take care, captain, that you are not carried away by their doctrines. The true faith will triumph, depend on that,” said the priest, frowning as he spoke.

“Your arguments are conclusive. It will not be my fault if the plan miscarries,” answered Villegagnon. “I will keep on the mask till I feel myself strong enough to throw it off.”

“You will do well. Do not be in a hurry. We must get as many of these pestiferous sectarians into the net as possible.”

Further conversation of the same character was held between the two worthies for some time. Nigel had found himself most unintentionally acting the part of an eavesdropper. He had at first felt inclined to start up and make the captain and priest aware of his presence; but as the conversation went on he felt that he was justified in thus learning the character of the leader of the expedition, whose evil intentions he hoped he might be the means of counteracting. He determined, therefore, to appear to be fast asleep should they, on quitting the room, discover him.

As he saw them rise, he closed his eyes. He heard their footsteps as they approached the door. Just then the light which Villegagnon carried fell upon him.

“I had no idea that anyone was in the room,” whispered the captain, holding the lamp towards Nigel.

“Who is he?” asked the priest, in a low voice.

“A young pig of a Scotchman, whom the admiral insisted on my taking on board as an officer.”

“Should he have overheard what was said, he might interfere with our proceedings,” observed the priest. “Your dagger would most speedily settle the question, and prevent mischief.”

“I am not fond of killing sleeping men, holy father,” answered the captain, in a somewhat indignant tone. “Even had the youth been awake, he is so little acquainted with French that he could not have understood what we were saying; but, you see, he is fast asleep. I, however, will keep an eye upon him, and shall soon learn whether he knows anything. If he does, we have frequently dark and stormy nights at sea, when men get knocked overboard. Such may be his fate; you understand me.”

“A good idea. I will trust to your discretion,” said the priest, and, greatly to Nigel’s relief, they left the room.

He remained awake, considering how he should act. At length he heard some one enter the room; it was the captain, who, just taking a glance at him, threw himself on the bed, and was soon fast asleep.

At early dawn Nigel awoke, and, putting on his garments, went down into the yard to get some water to wash his hands and face. The rest of the party were soon on foot.

The captain met him in the morning with a smiling countenance, and, as he did not even allude to his having shared his room, Nigel thought it better to say nothing about the matter. He looked about for the priest, but he was nowhere to be found, nor did Nigel hear any one allude to him. It was evident that he had come and gone secretly.

The rest of the journey to Havre was performed without any other incident worthy of note. Three stout ships were found in the harbour, already in a forward state of equipment. Nigel went on board the Madeline, with several of his travelling companions, and at once took possession of the cabin intended for his use. The officers and the crew, as far as he could learn, were all Protestants, as were undoubtedly the passengers who had already come on board.

He found plenty of occupation in receiving and stowing the provisions and stores, and in setting up the rigging and bending sails. He was thus kept actively employed for several days, till the Madeline, the most advanced ship, was fully ready for sea. All the passengers, he observed, came off at night, to avoid the observation of their countrymen. Although the ships were already crowded with almost as many people as they could carry, there were still two vacant cabins on board the Madeline.

Chapter Five.

Under weigh—arrival.

Morn had just broken; a southerly wind blew gently down the harbour, and Captain Villegagnon gave the order to lift the heavy anchors from their oozy beds. “A boat is coming from the shore and pulling rapidly towards us,” said Nigel to the captain. “The people on board her are making signals. Shall we stop weighing the anchor?”

“Yes, without doubt,” answered the commander, looking towards the boat. “I thought that they had abandoned their design. We are still to have the advantage of the count’s assistance and company.”

Nigel looked eagerly towards the approaching boat. Besides the rowers, there were several passengers, two of whom he saw were females, and at length, as they approached, he recognised the Count de Tourville. His heart began to beat more violently than it was wont to do. He felt almost sure that the lady by the count’s side was his daughter Constance. All doubt in a few minutes was set at rest, when the count, leading his daughter, came up the broad ladder which had been lowered to allow them to ascend. Constance gave him a smile of recognition as he bowed low, as did the other officers standing round, to welcome her and her father on board.

The squadron was now quickly under weigh, and gliding rapidly down the river. The weather looked fine, and all hoped for a prosperous voyage. Many who had narrowly escaped with their lives from the Romanists began to breathe more freely as the ships, under all sail, stood down the channel. Yet there were sad hearts on board, for they were leaving their beloved France a prey to civil strife, and their fellow religionists to the horrors of persecution, so that for the time they forgot their high hopes of founding another France in the New World.

As Nigel paced the deck in the performance of his duty, he was often able to stop and speak to the count and his daughter, and to render her those attentions which a lady so frequently requires on board ship. Often they stood together watching the distant shore or passing vessels, or the porpoises as they gambolled in the waves. Insensibly they became more and more drawn together, Constance told him of the difficulty she had experienced in escaping from the court. Had not her father himself, at a great risk, gone to Paris, she would have been unable to accomplish her object. Fortunately for her, a relative residing in the capital having fallen ill, had sent an earnest request to see her. She had been allowed to go, and had the same night left Paris with her father in disguise, travelling night and day in time to reach Havre just as the ship was on the point of sailing.

“We may hope now, however, to get far away from the follies of courts and the trickeries of politics to found a new home where, with none but true Protestants around us, we may enjoy the exercise of our religion undisturbed,” she said, looking up at her companion with a smile.

“I trust that it may be so,” said Nigel.

“What! have you any doubts on the subject?” she asked.

“I would not willingly throw a dark shade across the prospect you contemplate,” he answered, “but we should be prepared for disappointment, and I believe few on board have thought sufficiently of the difficulties and dangers we shall have to encounter.”

Nigel had expressed his thoughts more plainly than he had intended, and he regretted immediately afterwards having said so much. The conversation he had overheard at the inn frequently recurred to him, and considerably damped his ardour. To whom could he venture to communicate the knowledge he had obtained of the commander’s character?

Who would, indeed, believe the young foreigner thus bringing so serious an accusation against the officer selected by Coligny himself, and of considerable renown as a naval chief? If he were not accused of malicious motives, the meeting would be looked upon as having only taken place in his dreams, for he should have to confess that he remained perfectly still during the time, with his eyes closed, as the captain and priest entered and quitted the room. He resolved, therefore, simply to keep a watch on Villegagnon, and to endeavour, if possible, to counteract his schemes.

Sometimes he thought of speaking to Count de Tourville, for he had, at all events, full confidence in his honour and discretion; but even he, knowing how much the admiral esteemed Villegagnon, might disbelieve him. He was compelled, therefore, to keep the knowledge he had obtained shut up in his own bosom. His chief satisfaction arose from the thought that Constance de Tourville was on board, and that it would be his joy and pride to defend her from all danger.

The weather, which had hitherto been fine, gave signs of changing. The wind shifted more to the west, and dark clouds came rolling up. The vessels, instead of gliding smoothly on, were now tossed about. The storm increased. The sails were reduced to the smallest proportions, but yet the stout ships could with difficulty battle with the waves.

Under other circumstances, the emigrants would have loudly petitioned to put back; but as it was, they were afraid, should they again set foot in France, of being seized by their persecutors; nevertheless, as the storm increased, the terror of the emigrants, unaccustomed to the sea, became greater and greater. Loud cries of alarm arose; some mourned their folly in having left their native shores to perish in the ocean. Nigel and the other officers did their utmost to calm their fears, and assured them that should the ships be in real clanger they would return to the port.

Constance was among the few ladies who exhibited no undue alarm, and expressed their confidence in the skill of the officers. But even they at length acknowledged that they should be thankful could they find themselves again safe in port. The Count de Tourville especially was unwilling to return; but for his daughter’s sake, however, he at length consented to ask the captain to do what he considered best for the safety of the ships.

“They will probably, if we continue at sea, become so battered, that we shall hardly reach our destination,” was the answer.

The signal thereon was hoisted from the commander’s ship, and the squadron stood back for France. On making the land, they found that they were to the eastward of the port from which they started, and at length they entered that of Dieppe. Here several of the artificers, and even some of the men of higher rank, resolved to abandon the expedition, rather than again risk the dangers of the sea. Their places, however, were supplied by others collected by the captain, who had gone on shore for the purpose. So many of these men were received on board each of the ships, that they became overcrowded; but the captain silenced all complaints by asserting that, if they would consent to suffer a little present inconvenience, they would have a greater number to defend themselves against any enemies they might meet with.

Once more the squadron sailed, and succeeded in getting clear of the Channel. They had not, however, been long at sea before Nigel began to suspect the character of the new-comers, of which his own ship carried the greater number. They herded together, and showed little respect to the services which the chaplain was wont to hold on board for the spiritual benefit of the colonists. They were even seen to mock while he preached, till complaints, being made to the captain, he ordered them to behave themselves.

Day after day the ships sailed on, keeping close together, the wind being fair and moderate. Sometimes it fell a calm, when the officers and gentlemen Calvinists of the different ships visited one another, and discussed their plans for the future. The chief delight, however, of most on board was to hold religious services, which they could now do without fear of interruption; and hymns of praise arose from amid the desert ocean, their voices, when the ships were close to each other, uniting together in harmony.

Often had Constance expressed her feelings at the thought that they might in future thus worship God. Before, however, they reached their destination, they encountered several violent gales, during which, whenever his duty would allow him, Nigel made his way to the side of Constance to afford her comfort and support.

“Do not be afraid,” he said; “our ships are strong, and our commander experienced. I have been in a worse found vessel in a more violent gale, and we reached port in safety.”

“But the waves look so terrible, threatening every moment to come down and overwhelm us,” said Constance, who was seated on deck, gazing at the tumultuous ocean.

“Remember, God tells us that it is He who rules the waves; and should it be His will, they cannot hurt us,” answered Nigel.

“Yes, yes,” said Constance; “I was wrong to express fear. Happy are we who possess the Bible, of which the followers of the tyrant Pope and his pretended priests are deprived.”

“Think how many thousands of our countrymen would thankfully go through far greater dangers than we are enduring to reach a country where they may enjoy freedom from persecution,” observed Nigel.

The young couple, however, talked on many other subjects; and when the storm ceased, and favourable breezes wafted them over the ocean, their spirits rose, and they spoke of the happy future in store for them. Nigel, however, was not altogether free from anxiety. He could not forget the conversation he had overheard between the captain and priest, though sometimes he almost fancied that it must have been a dream, Villegagnon was so courteous and polite to all his passengers, and expressed sentiments so in accordance with theirs.

At length “Land! land!” was shouted from the mast-head. The goal of their hopes was near, and the ships, getting close together, glided with a fair breeze towards the magnificent Bay of Nitherohy. Lofty and fantastic mountains, then unnamed by Europeans, rose out of the blue waters before them. On the left, appeared the conical-shaped height, since known as the Sugar Loaf. Further on, on the same side, the Three Brothers reared their heads to the skies, and still more to the south was seen the Corcovada and Gavia, the green mountains of the Three Brothers strongly contrasting with the latter-named peaks, while the distant ranges of the Blue Mountains rose in the interior. On the right was seen another range of varied-shaped heights, extending far away to the north. Passing beneath the lofty Sugar Loaf, the flotilla sailed through the entrance, when the magnificent land-locked expanse opened out before them, surrounded on all sides by hills and lofty mountains; while lovely little verdant and palm-clad islands appeared dotting the dark bosom of the water. Words, indeed, fail to describe the beautiful and varied scenery. The anchors were dropped close to one of the first isles they reached. On this spot Villegagnon told the eager crowd who surrounded him that he had determined to form the first settlement of the new colony. Here, at the entrance of the harbour, and surrounded by water, they might defy the attacks of enemies from without, or the Portuguese or natives who might venture to dispute their possession of the country. From this they might extend to others on either side, and then form a settlement on the shore, thus advancing till they had brought under subjection the whole of the surrounding country.

The settlers expressed their satisfaction at the captain’s plan, as they gazed at the richly coloured woods which covered the sides of the surrounding hills, at the purple blooming quaresma, the snake-like cacti, and the gorgeous flowering parasites hanging down even from the jagged and precipitous sides of the Sugar Loaf, and the rich verdure starting forth from every nook and crevice of the fantastically shaped rocks. Scarcely had the anchor been dropped, than the sun set behind the distant mountains, and, as darkness rapidly followed, they remained on board during the night.

Next morning, Constance and her father came on deck, where they found the young lieutenant attending to his duties. Again they gazed with renewed pleasure at the wild and the sublime outline of the surrounding mountains with their varied combinations, while the richness and beauty of colouring thrown over and around the whole, by the purple and rose colours and ethereal blue of the sky, imparted to the scene a beauty which no fancy sketch of fairyland could surpass. As they turned their eyes towards the nearest shore of the main land, they saw the beach and fringing rocks covered by a multitude of natives, waving green boughs as a sign of welcome; while, on the heights above, they had kindled numerous bonfires, to show their satisfaction at the arrival of the French, whom they believed had come to protect them from their enemies, the Portuguese. Preparations were being made on board the ships to land the officers and artisans, with materials for building the proposed fort. Villegagnon, in his barge of state, proceeded towards the shore to open negotiations with the native chiefs. He had requested the Count de Tourville to accompany him, and Constance begged that she might also go. As it was a mission of peace, no danger was apprehended; and it was thought that a lady being seen in the boat would give further assurance to the natives of the pacific intentions of their visit. Nigel, being one of the tallest and best-looking of the officers, was selected to steer the barge. Four other boats followed at a short distance. Their crews were fully armed, but were ordered to keep their weapons out of sight, and only to advance should the Indians show any sign of hostility.

As the barge neared the shore, a tall and dignified chief, his dress of the richest skins, and ornamented with gaily-coloured feathers, with a circle of plumes on his head, holding an unstrung bow of great strength in his hand, was seen standing on the beach to receive the new-comers. By his side was a youth, strongly resembling him in features, bearing his shield and quiver, and also handsomely dressed, while other chiefs were drawn up in a semi-circle a short distance behind him, with the rest of his people collected on either side. He advanced a few paces with dignified steps, and, stretching forth his hand to offer a friendly grasp to the captain as he landed, announced himself as Tuscarora, chief of the Tamoyos. According to Indian custom, he made a long harangue, welcoming the strangers to his country, and assuring them of his friendship.

“You come at a fortunate moment, when your aid may render us essential service in assisting us to defend ourselves against the assaults of a tribe of white men, who, for some years past, have attempted to establish themselves on our shores. They call us idolaters, and pretend to be of a religion which hates idolaters; but they themselves have numerous figures of men and women, before which they bow down and worship, and they fail not to shoot or cruelly ill-treat those of our people who fall into their hands; we, therefore, do not trust to their religion or promises.”

The chief concluded by assuring the French that they were welcome to take possession of the island off which their ships lay, or of any other they might select in the bay. Villegagnon replied that he and his people came in the character of true friends to the Indians, and his great object was to obtain their friendship and support, and that their religion taught them to consider all worshippers of figures and pictures and any visible object as idolaters; their desire being to serve the great Spirit who watched over the Indians as well as over themselves, and that by their acts they would show that they were worthy of the confidence their new friends were evidently disposed to place in them. He expressed a hope, also, that by an exchange of commodities, and by mutual support, they would learn to regard each other as brothers.

During this address the Indians preserved the most perfect silence, though the eyes of the young chief, who stood by his father’s side, wandered towards the boat in which the rest of the visitors still retained their seats. An attendant, now advancing, lighted the calumet of peace, which Tuscarora presented to the captain, who, after drawing a few whiffs, returned it to the chief, who performed the same ceremony. The rest of the party now landing, the pipe was passed round among them. Constance, who stood by her father’s side, regarded the scene with much interest. She could not avoid remarking the glances of admiration which the young chief cast at her, and was compelled more than once to turn round and speak to Nigel, who remained close to her. He himself observed the looks of the young chief, which created an undefined feeling in his breast, though his pride forbade him in any way to exhibit it.

“These Indians are of a far more martial and gallant bearing than I had supposed; but still they are savages, and we should be wise if we are on our guard against them,” he observed to Constance.

This was said aside, while Villegagnon was replying to the address delivered by the Tamoyo chief, who then introduced the handsome youth standing by his side as his son Tecumah, “who will ever, as he regards my injunctions, be a friend and ally of the French,” he added.

The young man in a few words expressed his desire to act according to his father’s wishes, winding up, as he pointed to the sky, “Should Tecumah fail to fulfil his promise, may the great Spirit punish him as he will deserve.”

Thus far the interview had passed off in a most satisfactory manner. The chief expressed his desire to visit his new allies, but Villegagnon thought it prudent to decline the honour till the fort was erected, and the colonists were in a position to defend themselves, and at the same time to make such a show of their strength as might overawe the Indians, in whom they were not inclined to place more than a very limited amount of confidence. The Portuguese were at this time settled in a town which they called Saint Vincente, about fifty miles to the south, the first colony founded by them under Martin Alfonso de Souza; and as there were many brave adventurers among them, Villegagnon thought it probable that as soon as they heard of his arrival, they would send an expedition against him.

The meeting with the chiefs having been brought to a conclusion, the boats returned to the ships, on board which every one was now engaged in landing stores for the construction of the proposed fort. As numerous trees grew on the island, they were cut down, and formed an abundance of material for the purpose. The artisans, who knew the importance of speed, laboured assiduously, and the work made rapid progress. The chief fort was built on the eastern side of the island, to resist the attack of a hostile fleet; and in the course of a few days the guns were mounted, and the colonists considered themselves fully prepared for defence. Houses were also commenced, and those weary of their long confinement on board ship hoped soon to take up their residence on shore. The natives brought over in their canoes an abundant supply of provisions, and, delighted with the beauty of the climate, the settlers felt thankful that their steps had been directed to so happy a spot, and looked forward with confidence to the time when they might see a handsome city rise on the shores of the bay. Now, too, they could all meet together to read God’s Word, and to listen to the preaching of their minister without dread of interruption.

The chief of the Tamoyos, with his son Tecumah, attended by a number of the principal men of the tribe, arrived in a fleet of canoes to pay their promised visit to the white men. Villegagnon received them at the head of his seamen, and all the settlers drawn up under arms. The Indians were evidently much struck by the martial appearance of their new allies, and almost as much so by the progress which had been made in the settlement, as the fort, with its guns, and the houses, were already erected. It was a Sabbath morning, and at the usual hour a bell summoned the settlers to worship. Tuscarora seemed to fancy that some magical ceremony was going forward, and was afraid to enter; but Tecumah, less superstitious than his father, and prompted by curiosity, begged leave to attend, accompanied by several other young men. Though they were unable to comprehend a word, their countenances exhibited the most perfect seriousness and apparent interest in what was going forward. The count, who had observed Tecumah, whose eyes, indeed, had seldom been turned away from the spot where he and his daughter sat, sent for the interpreter to inquire of the young chief what opinion he had formed.

“It is clear to me that you worship a great unknown Spirit, and that you sing to Him songs of praise, while your teachers exhort you to love and obey Him, and He is, I am sure, pleased with such worship. I remarked how it differs from that of the Portuguese, who make idols of painted wood, and bow before them as if such things could hear, or understand, or give help to the foolish men who put faith in such nonsense.”

“And is such the opinion you have formed without having the principles of our faith explained to you?” asked the count, astonished at the intelligence displayed by the young chief.

“I have said what I conceive to be the truth,” answered Tecumah. “I would like to know more of your faith, since it enables you to be as wise and powerful as I see you are. Some time since, during an interval of peace, I visited the settlement of the Portuguese. There I saw bearded men bowing down, some before a cross with a figure nailed on it, others before a woman with a child in her arms; others, again, were adoring an infant in a cradle; and others, men and women, in long robes, with books or staffs in their hands. Some were worshipping even pictures, and I thought that all these things were the gods of the Portuguese. When they told me that the woman with the child in her arms was the Holy Virgin, and that the child was also a god, I could stop to hear no more, feeling sure that the great Spirit to whom the Indian looks up as God would be displeased with such blasphemy.”

“Undoubtedly He is,” said the count; “but had you inquired further, you would have been told that the figure on the cross and the child in the woman’s arms and the one in the cradle represented the same person, the Saviour of mankind, who is now in heaven, at the right hand of God.”

“Then, how can He be in heaven and on earth at the same time?” asked the Indian. “And if He is in heaven, surely men of sense should lift up their hearts to Him there, and not bow before figures which can have no resemblance to him; for I observed that even the infants differed from each other. And who, tell me, does the figures of the woman represent?”

“She was one especially honoured among women, but who the Saviour expressly showed He did not desire should be worshipped,” answered the count. “She was chosen to be the earthly mother of the Son of God, who so loved the world, that He desired to become man, that He might be punished instead of all men; for all, being by nature sinful, deserve punishment, and God, who is all just and all merciful, decreed that all who believe that Jesus, His Son, was punished for our sins, should have those sins washed away, and be received into favour again by Him. Thus, Jesus came into the world as an infant, grew up to manhood, and, after setting an example to mankind by the obedient, pure, holy life He led, He allowed Himself to be put to the most cruel of deaths on the cross, such as the vilest of malefactors were alone considered deserving of. To prove that He was God, by His own will and power He rose again and ascended into heaven, there to be the Advocate and Mediator of those He had redeemed. Through Him alone the prayers of those who believe in Him can be offered and be received acceptably by God.”

The young chief listened attentively to what the count said. “This is very wonderful, very wonderful,” he observed, after being for some time lost in meditation. “I would wish to hear more about the matter; yet it strikes me as strange that God should allow His name to be profaned, and these senseless images to be worshipped instead of Himself.”

“You are right, my friend,” said the count. “God is a Spirit, and must be worshipped in spirit and in truth. He is also long-suffering and kind, and therefore He does not punish men as they deserve, that they may have an opportunity of turning from their sins and being reconciled to Him.”

The count gladly took the opportunity of explaining further the truths of the Christian faith to the young chief, who seemed to drink in eagerly every word he heard. It was the first of many visits he paid, and often was his canoe to be seen, as the shades of evening drew on, skimming across the tranquil waters of the harbour towards the mainland.

The Indians received such entertainment on their first visit as the French could afford; and while it was yet daylight they returned in their canoes to the shore.

One evening the count and his daughter were sitting in their house with several guests, among whom Nigel was one. They had met to read God’s Word and to sing the hymns of Marot, which the French Protestants loved so well. The weather, hitherto fine, had, before sunset, given signs of changing. Dark clouds were seen gathering eastward, and already a damp and chilly wind blew up the harbour’s mouth, while the sea rolled in, sending its billows with an angry roar against the foundations of the new fort. As the tempest increased, a gun fired from each of the ships summoned their respective officers and men on board, and Nigel had unwillingly to hasten away from the house of his friend. It was not without difficulty that the boats reached the ships. The topmasts and topgallant masts were sent down on deck, and fresh anchors were got out. The settlers, as they saw the masts of the ships through the gloom, rolling from side to side, and watched the furious waves rushing in from the sea, began to tremble for their safety. They had, however, to think of themselves. The wind rapidly increased, the tall trees still remaining on the island bent before it, and the waves washed over the walls of the fort with relentless fury, threatening every moment to overwhelm them. Villegagnon, who had remained on shore, fearing that the guns might be lost, ordered them to be dragged out of the fort to a place of safety. It was a task of no slight danger, for already the woodwork trembled at each assault of the billows, and scarcely were the guns removed than, crash succeeding crash, large fragments of the fort, the construction of which had cost them so many days of labour, were rent away, and either carried off by the retiring seas, or thrown high up on the shore.

Constance de Tourville anxiously watched the progress of the storm. She had accompanied her father and several of their friends to watch the ships which lay in the harbour exposed to its fury. They could see the foaming waves dashing against them, and breaking high over their bows. Soon one was seen to be moving, when a single sail was set, and away she sped into the darkness up the harbour. The others dragged their anchors, or were torn from them, and were likewise compelled to seek for safety in some sheltered spot. With good pilots on board, this might easily have been done, but no one had a knowledge of the upper parts of the harbour, and it was impossible to say in what direction they might seek for safety.

That night was one of deep anxiety to all the settlers. The furious waves, surging round the little island, swept over the lower parts, and threatened at times to overwhelm it. Many of the trees, deprived of the support of their neighbours, which had been cut down, bent before the gale. Branches of some were torn away, others were broken off, and some uprooted from the ground. Several of the newly built houses were unroofed, and others were thrown down altogether by the wind. That of the count stood firm, and he and his daughter gladly offered shelter to as many of their friends as it could contain.

Constance, who had had a sleepless night, waiting till dawn broke, sallied forth to look for the ships.

Not one of them was in sight. In vain she made inquiries of those who had come, like herself, to look for them. No boats remained on shore; indeed, with the waters of the harbour tossing about as furiously as they were, even the largest could not have made her way amidst them. The Indians, from whom alone they could obtain any information, dared not venture across, and thus they must remain in ignorance of what had become of the ships till, the tempest being over, those which had escaped destruction should return.

“Vain is the help of man. In God let us put our trust. He may think fit to preserve them; if not, we must say with confidence, ‘His will be done,’” said the minister Laporte, addressing those assembled on the beach.

Chapter Six.

Nigel’s return to France.

Meantime the governor had been surveying the damages committed by the storm, and, summoning the count and other leading people, announced his intention of abandoning the island before more labour had been expended, and settling on another higher up the harbour. All approved of his proposal, for though they saw that the island was well placed for defence, it was also exposed to the fury of the sea when excited by tempests. They now awaited anxiously for news of the ships, but still the wind blew furiously up the harbour, and would prevent them from coming down, even should they have escaped shipwreck. Fears were entertained that they might have been cast on the northern shore, when their crews would most probably have fallen into the hands of the Portuguese. For two days more the tempest continued, and the hearts of the colonists remained agitated with doubts and fears. The third morning broke bright and clear, the clouds dispersed, and the wind, changing, blew with a gentle breath down the harbour. Had a boat remained on the island she would have been sent in search of the missing ships. Some proposed building a flat-bottomed raft, which might be finished in a few hours and serve to navigate the smooth waters of the bay. Villegagnon gave the order to commence the work, and already it had made some progress, when a shout was raised of “A sail! a sail!” It was one of the ships standing down before the wind from the upper part of the harbour. Another and another appeared, till at length the minds of the colonists were set at rest. They all had had narrow escapes, but had succeeded in bringing up under the lee of different islands, where, the water being smooth, they had ridden out the storm. Every one capable of labouring immediately set to work to re-ship the guns, and stores, and even the woodwork of the houses and forts, to convey them to an island Villegagnon had fixed on in a more secure part of the harbour. The task occupied several days, and sorely tried the patience of those who were anxious at once to commence their intended agricultural pursuits. The advantages possessed by the new spot selected were evidently superior to those of Lange Island which they had left. The count proposed that the name of their patron, “Admiral Coligny,” should be given to their present resting-place, and he was supported by the leading colonists. The governor, with a bad grace, consented, though it was evident that he had intended to bestow his own name on their new acquisition.

With the exception of the losses caused by the storm, all hitherto seemed to be going on well; and Nigel began to hope that Villegagnon had abandoned his design, and really intended to establish a colony on the principles proposed by the admiral. He was glad, indeed, that he had not spoken of his suspicions to Constance or her father, as they must have been, had he done so, greatly troubled about the future. He, in common with all the officers and men of the expedition, was busily engaged from morn till night in erecting the new fortifications, which were laid out on a much larger scale, and were built far more substantially than the last had been. The colonists’ dwellings were also re-erected, and, wood being abundant, many of them were of considerable size, though only one story in height. Within the fort were the barracks for the soldiers, while a number of houses to afford shelter to the inhabitants, should the settlement be attacked, were erected. The larger residences were scattered about over the island, and a village sprang up on the shores of the chief landing-place. It was, however, well protected by the fort, off which lay the ships, and it was considered that while they remained it would be secured against an attack. Four smaller forts were also built on commanding situations in the more accessible parts of the island, so Villegagnon considered that the settlement was well able to resist the assaults of either a civilised or barbarous foe. The friendly disposition shown by the Tamoyos, the most numerous and powerful tribe in the neighbourhood, gave him no anxiety on the latter account; while, although by this time the Portuguese settlement in the south had greatly increased, the Portuguese had shown no disposition to advance towards the shores of the bay of Nitherohy. It was the intention of the French to form a settlement on the southern shore of the bay as soon as their numbers were sufficiently increased; and Villegagnon, relying on his secure position, resolved at length to send back the fleet for reinforcements.

Nigel had in the mean time been a frequent visitor at the house of the Count de Tourville, where he ever received that friendly welcome which made him hope that he would not disapprove of his aspiring to the hand of Constance, who appeared to have no doubts on the subject. She knew that Nigel was of noble birth though destitute of fortune, and she felt sure that her father would not refuse to give her to one, her equal in birth, who was of her own religion, and whose heart was hers, while he was well able to protect her. They had not hitherto spoken of love, but they were mutually aware of the state of each other’s affections, the most perfect confidence existing between them. Occasionally a holiday was allowed, when Nigel, having one of the ship’s boats at his command, took the count and his daughter, with other friends, across the bay, to visit its picturesque shores and the many lovely islands resting on its bosom. The party had gone higher up the bay than they had hitherto ventured to do, and reaching a small island which appeared to be uninhabited, they went on shore, proposing to dine and wander through its shady woods. The seamen remained near the boat, while Constance and two lady friends, with the officers and other gentlemen who formed the party, proceeded to a clear spot beneath the shade of some lofty trees, where for awhile they could enjoy the sea breeze, while discussing the viands they had brought. The repast being over, the three ladies strolled along the beach to the western end of the island, for the purpose of enjoying the view which extended almost to the extreme limit of the harbour. Constance’s two friends had seated themselves on the bank, while she, attracted by some flowers which grew near the edge of the water ran forward to examine them. She was on the point of picking one of gorgeous hue when a canoe, paddled by a single Indian, unobserved by her, darted round the point and approached the beach. The occupant sprang lightly on shore, when a cry from her companions made her look up, and she saw a tall and handsome native, with a circlet of feathers on his head, and a cloak and kilt richly adorned, standing before her. Her first impulse was to fly, but, giving another glance at the stranger, she recognised Tecumah, the young chief of the Tamoyos. She had already acquired some knowledge of the language.

“What brings you here?” she asked. “We thought that none of your people were on the island.”

She felt that it was better to speak, although she was not altogether free from fear. The respectful attitude of the young chief, however, reassured her.

“I often come here,” he answered. “Seeing your boat approaching, I waited for an opportunity of speaking to you, lady. For days and days I have longed for it. Since my eyes first rested on your countenance it has never been absent from my heart. My ambition has been to become like your people, and to gain the knowledge they possess, and thus be worthy of leading you home as my bride.”

Such in substance was what the young chief said, although his address was far longer, and more full of figurative expressions than have been here given. Constance at first could not understand what he said, but when its meaning broke on her she felt no small amount of alarm and uneasiness, yet her right feeling would not allow her to treat young Tecumah, savage though he was, either with contempt or anger.

“You have surprised and pained me,” she answered gently. “It is not the custom of the maidens of my country to wed with those of another race or of a different faith,” she answered. “I grieve to hurt your feelings but what you have asked can never be granted. Continue, as heretofore, to be the friend of my people, and you will also remain my friend. Let me now return to my companions, for they cannot fail to be surprised at seeing you; only let me ask that you will never repeat what you have just said, and banish me, I pray you, from your thoughts.”

“Not while Tecumah breathes the air of heaven can your form be banished from his heart. Oh, ask him not to perform a task beyond his power,” answered the Indian. “He obeys you now, as you will find he is ever ready to do. Farewell.” Saying this, greatly to the relief of Constance, the Indian with slow steps returned to his canoe, while she hastened back to her companions.

“Who is he? What object brought him here?” asked one of the young ladies in a tone of alarm.

“He certainly did not appear unfriendly,” remarked the other. “I should say, Constance, judging from his manner, that he is a devoted admirer of you. Come, my dear, confess—did he not ask you to become his bride? Ah! I thought so,” she continued, observing the colour rising on Constance’s cheek.

“I cannot reply to you!” exclaimed Constance, feeling excessively annoyed at her friend’s remarks. “You would not for a moment suppose that I should listen to such a proposal. I scarcely, indeed, could understand what he said. But we must not remain here, and it will be well if we return immediately to the boat, lest more of the savages should be lying concealed in the island and intrude themselves on us.”

This last observation induced her companions eagerly to follow her advice, evidently more alarmed than she was, and as they hurried on they frequently looked back, expecting to see a party of dark-skinned warriors suddenly start forth from the forest near them. They, however, reached their friends in safety. On finding themselves safe on board the boat they recovered their spirits, and the other ladies even ventured to banter Constance about her Indian admirer. Nigel naturally inquired what had happened. Constance then told him of the sudden appearance of the Indian, but the expression of her countenance prevented him from asking further questions. The expedition, which all agreed had been a very pleasant one, terminated without any further incident worthy of note.

Nigel, as usual, spent the evening at the count’s house; and he and Constance found an opportunity before the other guests arrived, for strolling out in the woods behind the house, through which several walks had already been cut. She then frankly told him what had occurred, begging him, at the same time, not to be anxious on that account, as she had every reason to believe that the young chief would not again molest her.

“I trust not, dearest Constance!” exclaimed Nigel, taking her hand. “Would that I had a right to protect you. Will you consent to become mine if your father will give his permission?”

Constance gave him her hand. He spoke of his want of fortune, but he reminded her that he had a strong arm and willing heart, qualifications of no slight importance in a new colony, and he had every reason to hope that he should be able to maintain her. She agreed that he should immediately speak to the count, and he offered to throw up his commission and cast in his fortune with her father and his associates; and before they returned to the house many a plan for the future was agreed on.

The count, almost to their surprise, without offering any objections, entered into all their views; and Nigel determined the next morning to ask permission from the captain to quit his ship and settle on shore.

“Impossible, sir,” was the answer. “Were I to give you the permission you ask all the officers and men would be desiring to turn settlers. I intend to send the ship back immediately, and you must be prepared to attend to your duty.”

In vain Nigel expostulated; Villegagnon threatened to put him in irons and send him back as a mutineer if he refused to obey his orders.

The ships were rapidly got ready for the voyage. Nigel, with a sad heart, bade farewell to Constance.

“Rest confident of my love,” she whispered. “We must wait till you can obtain the admiral’s sanction to quit the service. My father will write to him on the subject, and I doubt not that he will grant your request.”

Still, though Constance spoke with confidence, the hearts of the young people were sad, for they could not help thinking of the many dangers which they both would have to encounter. Those to which Constance might be exposed rose up before Nigel. The settlement might be attacked by the Portuguese, or the natives might prove treacherous, and he could not forget his doubts of Villegagnon’s honesty. Constance thought of the storms and the enemies Nigel might have to encounter during his voyage, and the risk he might run of being treated as a heretic by the Roman Catholics on returning to France. With forebodings she could not overcome, she saw the ship’s sails spread to the wind as they glided out of the harbour.

The voyage to Europe was accomplished without any disaster. While the ships were refitting, Nigel, accompanied by Monsieur Billard, captain of the Vesta, one of the ships of the squadron, made a journey to Rouen, where the admiral had come to meet a number of persons who proposed embarking. The advantages to be gained in the new colony had spread among the Protestants of France, and persons of all ranks and from all quarters were eager to embark. The undertaking was especially favoured by Calvin, Farel, and other Protestant ministers, who hoped ere long to see a large and flourishing community of their fellow-believers established in the New World, where many of those suffering in Europe might fly for refuge. Rouen was a large and populated place in those days, and the new emigrants had no difficulty in finding accommodation. Nigel and Captain Billard called on the admiral at his hotel, and were received with great courtesy and kindness. Nigel presented the count’s letter.

“I am sorry, my young friend, for one reason, that you desire to quit the navy of France, for I feel sure that you would have risen to distinction,” observed the admiral, “although I may congratulate you on another account; and I, therefore, do not hesitate to grant your request. You will, I hope, succeed in the new position you have chosen.”

Nigel thanked the admiral, and afterwards, accompanied by Captain Billard, went to call on several persons of distinction who were about to proceed with them to Nitherohy. He had particularly wished to go on to Tourville to see his old friend the steward, so as to be able to give to the count a report of the state of his property. So eager, however, were the emigrants to set out, that the ships were got ready with unusual rapidity, and he had no time to make the journey. He was walking in the evening through the streets, when he caught sight of a person in ecclesiastical dress, whose features he recognised, and on a second glance he felt sure that they were those of the very man he had seen in company with Villegagnon. He suspected that the priest was there for no good purpose. The Jesuit regarded him with his keen grey eyes, and evidently recognised him, and when Nigel and his companion passed on, followed them at a distance.

The next morning, accompanied by a number of emigrants, they set out for Havre. Most of the party were men who followed civil occupations; the gentlemen, however, carrying swords, while a few among them had pistols.

On reaching Honfleur they found a large crowd assembled in the market-place, through which they had to pass on their way to the boats, which were waiting to carry them on board their ships. In the crowd Nigel again caught sight of the priest, who was speaking to the people around him.

“Come, come, my friends,” cried Captain Billard, who rode at the head of the party; “we wish to react the boats waiting for us.”

“They are heretics, despisers of the Holy Virgin and the saints!” cried some one from the crowd. “Down with them. Cut them to pieces. Let none escape.”

Scarcely were the words uttered than a shower of stones was hurled at the heads of the Protestant emigrants, who immediately drew their swords to defend themselves, while they forced their way through the crowd. Scarcely, however, had they got many yards before they were met by a body of men, some with firearms, and others with spears and axes.

“We must fight for our lives, my friends,” cried Captain Billard. “On! on! But keep together.”

The bold front which he and his companions showed for a time kept back their assailants; but a voice, which Nigel recognised as that of the priest, was heard shouting, “Down with them! down with them!” and the mob again pressed them close. Many were wounded, and Nigel, with grief, saw his friend fall from his horse, shot through the body. He in vain endeavoured to rescue him. The savages dragged him into their midst, hacking and hewing his inanimate form. Nigel, seeing that he and his friends would be cut to pieces, urged them to keep close together; and by desperate efforts they at length cut their way down to the boats, from which the seamen, who were fortunately armed, leapt on shore, and, furiously charging the mob, turned them back and kept them at bay while the emigrants embarked.

On counting their numbers, it was found that, beside the captain, three others had fallen, while many were wounded. Providentially the women and children, with their baggage, had been sent on the day before from Rouen, or the whole party would have been cut to pieces.

On reaching Havre, Nigel and two other officers went on shore to complain of the outrage, but could obtain no redress from the authorities, who merely shrugged their shoulders and declared they could not restrain the religious zeal of the people. The anchors were speedily got up, and with sad hearts the emigrants left their native shores.

A fair wind carried the squadron down Channel, and for some time the voyage was prosperous. Before, however, they reached the latitude of Madeira the weather changed, and a heavy gale coming on, sorely tried the imperfectly prepared ships. The officers, exerting themselves to the utmost, encouraged their men, and the pumps were kept going till the storm ceased and the leaks could be got at and stopped. When the ships, which had been scattered by the gale, again joined company, all were found to have been sorely battered. One had lost her topmasts, another her bowsprit, and the rest some two or more spars. They had no friendly port into which they could put, as Madeira was in the hands of the Portuguese, so they had to wait for a calm to repair their more serious damages. The Line was crossed without having the opportunity, and when within three or four days’ sail of their destination, some strange ships were seen ahead, apparently waiting for them. There could be no doubt that the strangers were Portuguese. A consultation was held by the captains whether they should try to escape by altering their course, or stand boldly on and attack the enemy. Water and provisions were running short, and should they take to flight, days and even weeks might elapse before they could gain their port. They determined, therefore, to stand on, and should an attempt be made to stop them, to fight bravely as long as their ships should swim. Their enemies were not to be despised, they knew, for the Portuguese of those days were renowned for their hardihood and courage. Five sail were counted, the number of their own ships, so that each would have an antagonist to contend with.

The French, under all sail, keeping close together in line, stood towards the headmost of the enemy’s ships, which were somewhat separated from each other. Nigel’s being the leading ship of the French squadron, first came up with the headmost one of the enemy’s ships. They were sailing, it must be understood, on two sides of an angle, the French before the wind, the Portuguese close hauled. Captain Beauport, the commander of the Madeline, immediately hauled his wind and poured in his broadside at close quarters, bringing the enemy’s mizenmast, with its large mizen, down on deck. The effect was to make the ship pay off before the wind, and expose her stern to the fire of the Madeline’s guns, which had been rapidly reloaded and run out. Captain Beauport then running up on the larboard side of the Portuguese, so as to place himself between her and the rest of the enemy, continued the fight broadside to broadside, while he threw out a signal to his consorts to attack the other ships of the enemy. They, though considerably larger than the French, after exchanging a few shots at a distance, put up their helms and ran off before the wind, leaving the first ship attacked by Captain Beauport to her fate. This was soon settled, for though her guns and crew greatly outnumbered those of the Madeline, so many of her people had been killed and wounded, that as the French ship ran alongside for the purpose of boarding the enemy, the crew of the latter hauled down their flag and cried for quarter. This was immediately given, and efforts were made to stop the shot-holes through which the water was running into the prize. There seemed very little prospect of keeping her afloat. Her crew and passengers were in despair, and were eager to take refuge on board their captor. Many of the men, instead of endeavouring to save the ship, fell down on their knees, invoking the Virgin and saints to assist them. Captain Beauport and his officers, however, soon stirred them up, and insisted on their going below and attending to their duty. Among the passengers were two priests, who seemed especially anxious to save some cases and packages, loudly calling on their countrymen to assist them.

“Never mind your baggage, my friends,” said Nigel. “Let the men attend to their work. If your property is lost, patience. We must first save all the water and provisions, in case the ship should go down, as it will be difficult enough to feed all your people from our own stores.”

“But, Monsieur officer, our property is invaluable,” cried the priests. “It cannot be replaced. You do not know what precious things we have got.”

“Precious or not, they must stay where they are till the shot-holes are plugged, unless you choose to carry them yourselves.”

“Oh, sacrilegious heretic, we will be revenged on you some day,” muttered one of the priests, while the other hurled some curses at Nigel’s head, to which he did not stop to listen, remembering the proverb that “Curses, like birds, go home to roost at night.”

By plugging the shot-holes and setting strong gangs to work the pumps, the prize was kept afloat sufficiently long to get out some of the provisions and water, as well as a portion of her cargo. The priests again loudly called on their countrymen to assist them in transferring the goods to the Madeline, though few of them showed any disposition to do so, but by the assistance of the French crew, their valuables were at length got out of the sinking ship.

The rest of the fleet had now come up, and the prisoners were distributed among them. The priests, however, would not desert their baggage, which, they insisted, was their own private property.

“If it is found to be so on inspection you shall retain it,” observed Captain Beauport; “but as the cases may possibly contain munitions of war, we cannot allow them without examination to fall into the hands of your countrymen.”

The priests protested that there was nothing warlike in them, but the captain was determined to have the cases examined. On opening them one was found to contain a large coarsely painted figure of the Virgin and Child, another half a dozen small figure of saints, the third was full of flat leaden figures and crosses.

“What are these?” asked the captain, coming to a fourth, full of small boxes and parcels.

“Those,” answered the priest, who was looking indignantly on, “are the bones of saints and martyrs. Let them not be touched, I beseech you, by sacrilegious hands.”

Each package was labelled, a score or more having the name of Saint Anthony.

“Why, you must have got two or three saints’ bodies here,” exclaimed the captain.

“Only a very small portion of one, indeed,” answered the priest; “a hair from his beard or a paring from his toe-nail is of value equal to the whole of his leg.”

“And what are these other packages?” inquired the captain.

“Each contains some precious relic, efficacious in curing every disease to which the human body is liable,” answered the priest.

“Nonsense!” exclaimed the captain; “we cannot allow such rubbish to remain on board.”

“You will be guilty of horrible sacrilege and unheard-of cruelty to the settlers and poor natives, if you throw these precious relics into the sea, and deprive them of the benefits they will bring.”

“We will see about it,” answered the captain. “What are these bales?” he asked, pointing to some canvas packages, which he ordered his men to rip open.

The priests made no reply. They were found to contain sheets of paper, printed some in Portuguese and some in Latin, but all sealed with the seals of the ecclesiastical courts in Portugal or at Rome. They were, indeed, “Indulgences,” or “Pardons” for various sins mentioned in the Romish Rubric, the prices, which varied from half a dollar to seven dollars, being marked upon each, the latter being for murder and the most heinous offences of every possible kind, which cannot be mentioned.

“Why, I see none for heresy, or sacrilege, or calling the Pope and his cardinals gross impostors, and you two worthies are arrant rogues and fools, or we might have become purchasers to a large amount!” exclaimed the captain indignantly. “Heave this trumpery overboard, and you, Senhores priests, may be thankful that you have been deprived of the means of cheating your countrymen and deceiving the ignorant natives by your abominable impostures.”

The sailors, with shouts of satisfaction, forthwith hove overboard the boxes of relics, the bales of “indulgences,” and the leaden charms, which quickly sank to the bottom. Some cases of trumpery rosaries were found and dispatched the same way. The images, or rather the idols, for such the natives would have regarded them, were lowered overboard, and went bobbing about astern of the ship, and the water soon washing off the paint, reduced them to the appearance of shapeless logs. There were still several cases of crucifixes of all sizes, having the appearance of silver but were found to be of iron, covered with the thinnest tinsel. The priests pleaded hard to have them preserved.

“No,” said Captain Beauport, firmly; “I will be no party to your impostures. These are images as well as the others, and more blasphemous still, seeing that they have in no way the appearance of the crucified Saviour; and He Himself has said, ‘Thou shalt not make unto thee any graven image, or any likeness of anything that is in heaven above, or that is in the earth beneath, or that is in the water under the earth: Thou shalt not bow down thyself to them, nor serve them: for I the Lord thy God am a jealous God’—and that I am sure you would have taught the natives to do, for your own people do the same; and so, to prevent you or others from thus offending God, they must be put overboard with the rest of your idols.”

The priests swore oaths deep, but not loud, that they would be revenged on the heretics—oaths which they fully intended to keep. Sail was now made, and the ships stood towards the land. They had not gone far, however, before the signal was made from the prize that the water was again rushing in. The Madeline and the other ships sent their boats to her assistance, but all the efforts of the crew could not keep her afloat, and they had barely time to escape from her, when she went down head foremost, with most of her cargo on board. As the French had no desire to retain their prisoners, they steered into a small port some way to the southward of Nitherohy. Here the Portuguese were put on shore, with a supply of provisions and such arms as were required to enable them to protect themselves against the natives, who, they averred, would otherwise attack and cut them off—an event, considering the cruelties they had already begun to practise on the unfortunate Indians, very likely to happen. A bright look-out was kept during the time for the enemy’s squadron, but it did not appear; and the French, favoured by a fair wind, steered for Nitherohy, which they were all eager to reach. Nigel’s heart beat with anxiety. Besides knowing that the Portuguese, in considerable force, were in the neighbourhood, and being uncertain as to the fidelity of the fickle Indians, he could not forget his suspicions regarding Villegagnon, and he dreaded to hear that the governor had carried out the treacherous designs which he believed him to entertain. All eyes were directed towards the island-fortress, as the ship sailed up the harbour. Great was the satisfaction of the voyagers as they beheld the flag of France blowing out above the fortifications. Cheers burst from their throats, and a salute fired from the shore was returned by the ships, as, gliding on, they came to an anchor before the landing-place.

Chapter Seven.

Treachery.

Villegagnon stood waiting on shore to receive the new-comers, who landed amid the cheers of their countrymen. He expressed himself highly pleased with this accession of strength to the community, and loudly declared that he believed ere long their Protestant colony would be established on a firm basis. His letters, he said, informed him that many thousands of French settlers were about to sail and join them. Nigel hastened on shore as soon as his duties would allow, and was welcomed with all the marks of affection he could desire by Constance, and kindly greeted by her father. Great progress had been made, the count told him, and he hoped that they should soon be able to form a settlement on the mainland.

“But we have been so happy here, that I should be sorry to move,” said Constance, pointing to a pretty garden seen from the window of their sitting-room. “Think of all the pains we have bestowed on it, and, should it be deserted, in a few months, in this climate, it would again become a wilderness.”

“We must keep it as our country residence, and come here occasionally from our house in the new city,” observed the count; “or perhaps you and Nigel will like to make it your home.”

“Oh, that will be delightful,” exclaimed Constance, “though I suspect that Nigel will require a larger sphere of action than this little island would afford.”

They talked much more about the future, which, to the eyes of Constance, looked bright and happy. The count, however, when alone with Nigel, expressed his anxiety on several accounts. The governor had of late shown especial favour to the men he had collected to supply the place of those who had abandoned the expedition; and they were engaged in erecting a building, which it was very evident was intended for a church. Why there should be any secrecy about the matter the count could not tell; but it was a suspicious circumstance, as chiefly those who had refused to attend at the Protestant service were engaged on it. Still the governor professed to be as warm a Protestant as ever.

“Have you any suspicions of the honesty of his intentions?” asked Nigel.

“From this circumstance, and others which may seem trifling, suspicions have arisen in my mind,” answered the count.

Nigel then told him the reason he himself had to doubt the governor’s honesty.

“I wish that you had told me of this before,” said the count. “I should probably have returned with you to Europe, rather than have supported such a man by remaining. However, your explanations satisfy me that you acted, as you thought, for the best. We must now endeavour to counteract his designs.”

They agreed not to speak to Constance about their suspicions of the governor, as the matter would not fail to make her anxious.

Nigel had to return to his ship at night; but, early the next morning, he again went on shore to visit his friends, intending also to apply to the governor to be discharged from the naval service. As he was nearing the landing-place, he observed a canoe, urged on towards the shore with rapid strokes by an Indian who plied his paddle, now on one side, now on the other. In the stern sat another person, a young girl, whose dark tresses were ornamented with a wreath of natural flowers, which gave an additional charm to her beautiful features, the rest of her costume being also adorned with gaily-coloured feathers, further increasing the picturesqueness of her appearance. She lightly stepped out of the canoe, followed by her companion, who hauled it up on the beach at the same time that Nigel landed. They together made their way to the village as if well accustomed to traverse the path. Nigel was a few paces behind them, and observed that they entered the house of the minister, Monsieur Laporte. On reaching the count’s house, he mentioned the circumstance to his friends, and inquired who the Indians were.

“They must be, without doubt, the young chief Tecumah and his sister Cora, who come frequently to receive from our good minister instruction in the truths of Christianity, of which, I trust, they have gained considerable knowledge,” answered Constance. “First the young chief came by himself, and then he begged permission to bring his sister. She is a sweet young creature; a perfect child of nature; and has already become even a more faithful believer than her brother, who cannot, as yet, understand why he should not destroy his enemies wherever he can find them.”

Constance had before told Nigel of her meeting with Tecumah; she now assured him that the young chief seemed to have got over any attachment he might have felt for her, so Nigel felt no sensations of jealousy. Nigel proceeded afterwards to call on the governor to present his letter from the admiral. Villegagnon received him in his usual courteous manner, and complimented him on his gallantry with the Portuguese. When, however, he read the letter, his manner changed.

“The admiral does not command here,” he observed, “and I require officers on board my ships. I cannot accept your resignation.”

Nigel expostulated in vain. Instead, however, of at once refusing to serve, he resolved to take time to consider the matter. He went back to consult the count, who advised him to do nothing rashly; as, should he throw up his commission and come to live on shore, he would offend the governor and put himself completely in his power.

While they were speaking, Tecumah and Cora, with Monsieur Laporte, came to the house, to pay their respects, they said, to the count and his daughter. Tecumah recognised Nigel, and spoke to him in a way which showed that he desired his friendship. While Constance was conversing with Cora in a mixture of their respective languages, each doing her utmost to make herself understood and understand what the other said, Nigel found that Tecumah had made considerable progress in his knowledge of French; also, which was of more consequence, he was well acquainted with the fundamental truths of Christianity. Had they, however, touched his heart? There was the question; his actions alone would show that. Nigel inquired about the state of the country. Tecumah assured him that his own tribe and those in alliance with them were sincerely attached to the French. “But others in the north, who have had emissaries from the Portuguese among them, are not to be trusted,” he observed. The Portuguese themselves were also increasing rapidly in numbers, and their town of Saint Vincente was already of some size.

“My people, however, will keep a vigilant watch on their proceedings, and I will give you notice, should we gain any intelligence of an expedition being prepared. Should one come, with your ship’s and with the assistance of our tribe, you will, without doubt, be able to drive back your enemies,” he added.

While the young people were speaking, the count drew Monsieur Laporte aside, and was earnestly discussing with him the state of affairs.

The minister looked grave. “We must trust to Him who overrules all things for His own wise purposes,” he observed; “and should reverses overtake us, we must not lose confidence in His love and justice.”

Nothing occurred for some time to interrupt the usual occupations of the colony. At length, one morning a signal from the fort announced that a fleet was in sight. The gunners were summoned to the batteries; all the men got under arms, and the ships prepared for battle; getting springs on their cables, so as to haul themselves into a position to defend the landing-place.

As the ships approached, they were, to the infinite satisfaction of those on shore, seen to have the French flag flying at their mast-heads. There were five large ships and two smaller ones. It was hoped that they were bringing reinforcements of sound Protestants who would establish their faith in the land, and contribute to the material progress of the colony. As they drew nearer, salutes were exchanged, and they came to an anchor close to the fleet. The voyagers when they landed were warmly received by their countrymen, who did their best to treat them hospitably. There were people of all ranks, and from all parts of France. Several who had come in one of the larger ships were known to the count, who received them into his house. They stated that the fleet consisted originally of but three ships; but, as they were on the point of sailing, they were joined by two others conveying persons of whom they had been able to obtain no certain information. Villegagnon received all in his usual courteous way, but it was observed that he paid the most attention to those on board the latter ships. Before long it was whispered that among those people had been seen two men, who, though in secular dresses, were recognised as having been Romish priests. Still, though the people who had come in these two ships did not make their appearance at the Protestant place of worship to return thanks for their safe voyage, they were not seen to practise any of the rites of the Romish Church. Unpleasant rumours were, however, going about among the settlers, and the people asked one another how it was that the governor, who had professed to form a pure Protestant colony, should have allowed Romanists to come out among them. No satisfactory answer could be given to these questions, and some thought that the new-comers were possibly lately converted from Rome, and would soon come to receive instruction from Monsieur Laporte. Others, however, shook their heads, and observed that, had they been new converts, they would have exhibited more zeal, and would have been the first to join hands with the older brethren; instead of that, they associated entirely with the suspicious characters who had all along shown a disrespect to the Protestant form of worship. All the settlers were, however, so busy in erecting dwellings, and cultivating the ground, that no one had time for polemical discussions.

Thus matters went on for some time till the church was finished. After it was roofed over, no persons, except those employed on it, were allowed to enter. Numerous cases, which had formed part of the cargo of one of the ships, were landed and conveyed to it, and a large bell was hoisted up into the tower. One Sunday morning the bell began to toll forth in a way which astonished the Protestant settlers. The church was thrown open, and those who had been suspected by their fellow-colonists were seen with triumphant looks wending their way towards it. Some of the Protestants, influenced by curiosity, went in, and, on their return, reported that they had seen the two priests clad in their sacerdotal dresses, standing before a richly adorned altar, with a crucifix over it, and the figure of the Virgin and Child, with those of several saints placed in chapels on either side. Mass, with all its accompaniments, was being performed, while the governor himself was taking part in the ceremony. The Count de Tourville, and several other leading Protestants, called on him afterwards to express their astonishment and regret at what had happened. He received them with a haughty air, and declared that it was his intention, for the good of the colony, to encourage both forms of worship equally.

The count expostulated. “The colony,” he observed, “had been established for the express purpose of affording a home to Protestants, where they could, regarding religious matters, avoid those dissensions which had sprung up in the old country.”

“You may still worship as you think fit; but others, who discover that they have erred in quitting the Catholic Church, have a right to enjoy the form which suits them best. I, as governor of this colony, am bound to please all parties, and I desire to hear no more complaints on the subject,” he answered.

The deputation, being thus dismissed, retired to consult what steps should be taken. Though the Protestants still outnumbered the Romanists, the whole of the former could not be relied on, while the latter formed a compact body, most of them being thoroughly drilled by the priests, who had done their utmost to excite their fanaticism, while it was evident that they were supported by the governor. The Protestants, therefore, arrived at the conclusion, as people often do under similar circumstances, that nothing could be done, and that they must wait the course of events. The two priests appeared to be quiet, well-disposed men; they made no outward show, but were observed to be going about quietly, from house to house, especially among the soldiers; and every Sunday saw an increase in their congregation.

The count watched these proceedings with feelings of dismay. Monsieur Laporte exerted himself among his congregation, and urged them to study their Bibles, and to seek to live lives consistent with their Christian profession. Many listened to him and followed his advice; but there were not a few careless ones who went over to join the party of the governor and the priests. The women were induced to go to the church to listen to an organ which had been brought out from France, while one of the priests, who was a good musician, instructed them in the art of singing. Fresh saints were set up, and additional ornaments were introduced, and on festal occasions the whole church was wreathed with flowers, imitating the custom of the heathens at their feasts of “Flora,” and other festivals. These attracted the careless and giddy among the young, who found the idolatrous system, which their fathers had repudiated, well suited to their tastes. Thus rapidly the traitor Villegagnon and his priests won over the larger part of the population. In vain the elder people, who had seen the effects of Romanism in the old country, warned them and protested against the fearful errors which were being introduced. Many of the young girls and youths were induced to go to confession and receive absolution for their past sins; the result being that they sinned and sinned again with their eyes open, under the belief that they could be again absolved. Morality, which had been strictly maintained among the settlers, fast disappeared. The priests now openly sold indulgences, and went from house to house abusing those who refused to purchase them, and warned them that they would be considered as Protestants and heretics. The count and other Protestant elders, met and discussed what was to be done, but they had to confess themselves powerless. The minister preached more earnestly, and some few were won back to the truth; but the popular party still increased daily. The governor, it was observed, promoted only professed Romanists, and managed by degrees to dismiss the Protestant officers.

Villegagnon at length threw off the thin mask he had hitherto worn, and declared that the majority being in favour of Rome, the settlement must become what he called a Catholic colony. The Protestants complained loudly of the governor’s treachery; and several of them were arrested on charge of mutiny, and for plotting against the established authorities. Captain Beauport coming on shore one day, as he was on the point of returning to his boat, was seized and carried off to a prison Villegagnon had lately erected in the fortress. He was not informed of the crime of which he was accused, nor could he conceive what it was, as he had carefully abstained from making any remarks on the conduct of his chief. The following day he was brought into the public hall of the fort, where the governor was seated as judge, supported by several of the officers whom he had promoted. One of the crew of the Madeline, with the two priests, appeared as his accusers, and his officers and several of his men were ordered on shore as witnesses, Nigel being among them. When the priests were called on to make their statements, one of them charged the brave captain with the crime of sacrilege, which, as it had been brought to his notice, he said that he felt bound to make it public. A seaman, then stepping forward, stated that by his orders, a number of holy images, crucifixes, and sacred relics captured from the Portuguese, intended for the conversion of the heathen and the comfort of believers, had been sacrilegiously thrown overboard on their voyage to Nitherohy.

“Of what immense value they would have been to us in the conversion of the heathen had they been preserved!” exclaimed one of the priests. “They were undoubtedly offered to us by Heaven, to enable us to convert the barbarous natives.”

Nigel and the other officers were then called on for their evidence. They had to confess that they saw the articles mentioned thrown overboard; but Nigel observed, as they were part of the cargo of the prize, he could not suppose that the captain in any way acted contrary to what he was fully justified in doing.

“Beware, lest you are made a party to his crime!” exclaimed one of the priests. “I know well the malignant and impious disposition of your countrymen, and, had you not been imbued by their sentiments, you would have endeavoured to prevent so sacrilegious an act from being committed.”

The governor, as judge, declared that no further evidence was necessary. In vain the captain asserted that he had acted as he believed right. The priests shouted out that he deserved to die, and the traitor, Villegagnon, forthwith pronouncing him guilty, condemned him to death.

Nigel, on quitting the court, hastened to the residence of the count, to tell him of the result of the trial.

“This must not be,” he said, on hearing it. “It would be a most atrocious murder. Every Protestant in the settlement must unite, and insist on having his life spared. It would be useless to petition; we must demand our rights.”

Nigel fully agreed with the count, and other leading Protestants coming in were of the same opinion.

“We must stake our lives on the issue,” exclaimed one of the boldest.

The count observed, that as it was their lives and liberties were in jeopardy, and that a bold front could alone save them. On separating they went among their friends to stir them up to action. That night every true Protestant capable of bearing arms assembled, and the next morning marched together to the fort. On their way they met a Roman Catholic, who thought that Captain Beauport had been unjustly condemned, and willingly undertook to convey to the governor the resolution to which they had arrived. They waited, advantageously posted for defence on the brow of a hill a short distance outside the fort, while their envoy went forward with their message to the governor. They had also sent messages on board the ships, the officers and crews of most of which were sound Protestants, and would, they had every reason to believe, support them in their endeavour to rescue the brave officer, who was loved and honoured by all, especially by his own crew. While waiting the return of their envoy, a messenger arrived from the fleet conveying the promise of the officers and men to afford them their full support. This made them still more determined to remain firm to their purpose. Their envoy soon afterwards returned with the reply of the governor, stating that he would take their demands into consideration. On hearing this, they desired him to go back again, insisting that whether right or wrong, with regard to the act, it was committed on the high seas, beyond the jurisdiction of the governor, and that, if guilty, Captain Beauport must be sent to France to be tried. The governor, finding so strong a force opposed to him, saw that he had been premature in showing his colours, and that it would be his wisest course to try and conciliate those whom he could not for the present crush. He accordingly, accompanied by several officers, went out to meet the Protestants. In the blandest style he could assume he assured them that he wished to act fairly towards both parties. He therefore stated his readiness to send Captain Beauport home for trial, and inquired whether any of the colonists who were dissatisfied with his government would wish to return to their native land. The idea had not before been entertained by them. Several, however, at once replied that they were willing to return home, and others said that they would take the matter into consideration.

“Captain Beauport, then, will be kept in safe custody, till the ships are ready to sail,” said the governor. “They will be prepared in a few days; and, before that time, I wish to be informed of the number who desire to embark.”

The Protestants, on receiving this announcement, returned to their homes. These were mostly situated together, and, as they had now ample proofs of the treachery of the governor, they stationed men on the look-out to give notice, should he send a force to attack them, that they might immediately reassemble and defend themselves. A meeting was held to discuss their future prospects. A considerable number of the most influential people resolved to return to France, hoping to live there in obscurity, or to make their way to Geneva. Some, among whom was the count, resolved to go to England, should he find France in the same unsettled state as he left it. Nigel was now thankful that he had not abandoned the naval service, as he hoped that the Madeline would be sent home, and that he might again have the happiness of having Constance and her father on board. Still, the prospects of all the party were gloomy enough: many of them had embarked all their fortunes in the undertaking, and they would return without the means of support to their native shores.

On the following day, a considerable number of the colonists sent in their names as desirous of returning, when they were informed, to their dismay, that the three smallest ships only would be got ready to receive them. Reports had before been spread that so weatherbeaten and unseaworthy were these ships, that they were not again to be sent to Europe, but to be retained in the harbour for the protection of the colony. Nigel was almost in despair at receiving this information. He urged the count rather to remain than to run the risk of the voyage. The count, influenced by his daughter, was greatly disposed to follow the advice of Nigel, who observed that the Madeline would probably before long be sent home, and that he might then take a passage on board her. The whole community were in a state of alarm; and it was increased when the governor sent directing them to be prepared to embark on the following day, with the information that only two of the ships could be got ready.

That night the greater number of them met in their place of worship, to offer up their prayers to God, that He would protect them from the dangers they might have to encounter during their intended voyage. The meeting was almost concluded; Monsieur Laporte, in a loving address, was exhorting them to hold fast to the Gospel, whatever persecutions they might have to endure, when a loud knocking was heard at the door of the chapel. On its being opened, an Indian appeared in full war costume, with one of those formidable bows in his hand, with which the Tamayas boasted they could send a shaft through the mail-clad body of a foe and fix him to a tree.

“I am Tecumah!” he exclaimed. “Many here know me as a faithful friend of the French. I come to give you warning that a large force of your enemies and ours are on their way down the harbour to attack the island. They consist of Portuguese and their Indian allies the Tuparas, who have transported their boats and canoes overland from the place where they have been secretly built for the purpose. They come in expectation of taking you by surprise, when, should they gain the victory, not a human being they may discover will be left alive. They have sworn to exterminate you and us by all the false saints they have taught their Indian friends to worship.”

Some doubted the information brought by Tecumah; but the count and Monsieur Laporte urged their countrymen to believe him, as they well knew the warm affection with which he regarded them, and were convinced that he would not have alarmed them needlessly. Some time was thus lost, but at length it was agreed that the count, with two other of the principal persons, should at once haste with Tecumah to carry the information to the governor, and urge him to take steps for the protection of the settlement. Unhappily, the Protestant officers having all been removed from their posts, there was no one of authority in the congregation to send a direct order on board the ships to prepare for action. The night was unusually dark; not a breath of wind rippled the surface of the mighty estuary; and the ships, which were at anchor close together off the usual landing-place near the fort, could not move to any other position, where they might assist in the defence of the island, three sides of which were thus left unprotected. The enemy would certainly make their attack where they would not be exposed to the fire of the ships or that of the fort.

Chapter Eight.

Attacked by enemies.

Tecumah urged the count and his friends to make all haste. Even now he feared that there would be barely time for the French to assemble and prevent the enemy from landing. Once on shore both parties would be on equal terms, and the most numerous would probably gain the victory. He had despatched a messenger, however, he said, to his father, to come with his warriors to the assistance of their friends, as, unfortunately, they were at a distance from their usual dwelling-place, engaged in hunting, and might not be able quickly to collect. The count had sent word to Nigel to warn him and the other officers of the squadron to be prepared for an attack, and also to entreat as many as could be spared to come on shore to be in readiness for the defence of the island. The Protestants had also got under arms, so that they might be able to march in any direction where their presence might be required.

The governor received the count and his companions in the haughty and insolent manner he had of late assumed, and at first appeared inclined to discredit the account Tecumah had brought; but when the young Indian, with all the eloquence of his race, assured him of the truth of his statement, and warned him of the danger of delay, he changed his tone. He was too sagacious an officer not to see in reality that the warning must not be despised, but, without deigning to thank the count and his companions for the information they had brought, he desired them to go back to their friends. They obeyed his orders; while Tecumah, having fulfilled his mission, hurried away to his canoe, intending to cross to the mainland for the purpose of urging his tribe to use all speed in coming to the assistance of the French. The governor, meantime, ordered the troops to get under arms, and sent off a despatch to the ships, directing the captains, some to get under weigh and to sail round to the other side of the island, others to remain ready for an attack near the landing-place. The calm, however, prevented the first part of his order from being obeyed.

The whole population of the island was speedily aroused, and began to assemble at a central spot appointed by the governor. Scouts were also sent out along the shore, and every precaution was taken which the sagacity of an experienced officer like Villegagnon could suggest. The women and children, whose houses were in the more exposed situations, were brought to the fort, though it was hoped that the enemy might be driven back before they could effect a landing. Scarcely, however, had the armed men collected, than the sound of firing was heard coming from the end of the island, where a little bay was situated. It was a spot which afforded an easy landing-place; but a fort had been built upon it, which it was supposed was of sufficient strength to drive back any enemy who might approach it. Several shots followed the first, and then came through the calm night air the sounds of strife, the victorious warwhoops of the Indians, and the shrieks and cries of the conquered.

“Forward, my men, and drive back the enemy,” exclaimed Villegagnon. “The fort has, I fear, been surprised, and the garrison cut to pieces, and, if so, the enemy have landed, and we must be prepared to encounter them on shore.”

Saying this, the governor, who was not destitute of courage, led forward the main body of his men, while he despatched a messenger to the ships with an order for the seamen to advance to his support. The count with a small number of his men was ordered to keep in the rear, to act as he might think necessary. The darkness of the night prevented the French from seeing their invaders. They had not got far when they found themselves in the face of a force which they could only estimate by the hot fire which was opened on them. They fired in return with equal vigour, but it was soon evident that they were greatly outnumbered. Several of them fell. Showers of bullets whistled amidst them, while flights of arrows came flying into their ranks. In vain the governor endeavoured to repel the foe. At last he gave the order to sound the retreat, intending to fall back on the fort. The unseen enemy pressed him hard, and their fire increased rather than diminished, showing that more had landed. The count had now led his men up to take part in the fight, but they could do no more than check the advance of the enemy, and prevent them from overpowering the party under the governor. Even the bravest began to despair of success. The flashes of the guns lighted up the darkness of the night, and where the fire was the hottest there the governor and Count de Tourville threw themselves fearlessly, exposing their own lives to encourage their followers. It was very evident that they had not only Indians, but civilised Europeans to fight against. Notwithstanding their bravery, they were quickly driven back; and, before long, the count saw that his own and the surrounding houses would be exposed to destruction. At length a shout was heard on one side. It was recognised as coming from the body of seamen who were advancing to their support. The governor immediately despatched an officer to lead them to a position he wished them to occupy; but, before they had reached it, they found themselves engaged with a strong party of the enemy who had been sent to intercept them. The fight was now raging in two quarters, but still the enemy appeared to be gaining ground.

Constance de Tourville had remained at home unwilling to desert the house till compelled to do so. Several other ladies, whose houses were in more exposed situations, had come there for shelter, and stood listening with anxious hearts to the hot strife going forward within a short distance. At length some of the party proposed that they should fly to the fort; though, dreading the governor, they were unwilling, if it could be avoided, to place themselves in his power. Constance preferred remaining, her father having promised to send timely notice to her should the French find themselves compelled to retreat. The sounds of the battle came nearer and nearer. Several of the ladies declared that they could remain no longer, and hurried to the door to make their escape; Constance remained firm.

“I will obey my father,” she said; “and when he sends me word that it is time to fly, I will go.”

The other ladies, influenced by her example, hesitated, when a shower of bullets came whistling above their heads, and shouts and shrieks and cries of the combatants sounded as if they were close at hand. It was too evident that such was the case. Constance herself began to await anxiously for the order from her father to quit the house; when suddenly, in addition to the other sounds, a chorus of wild warwhoops burst on their ears. The savage cries were replied to by the shouts and cheers of the French. The musketry rattled as loud as ever, but none of the shots came near them. In truth, the Tamoyos had arrived just at the moment the governor had determined to retreat and take shelter in the fort, leaving the rest of the island to the mercy of the invaders. Tecumah was at the head of his tribe, who fought with the most desperate fury against their hereditary enemies the Tuparas. The Portuguese were now in their turn compelled to retreat; the French and Indians pressed them hard, and, finding their expectation of surprising the settlement defeated, they took to flight towards the bay where they had left their boats. Nigel had landed with a naval force, and, feeling that he was fighting for everything he held dear, he was regardless of his own safety. Again and again he led his men on against greatly superior numbers of the enemy, but till the arrival of Tecumah and his party all his efforts had been in vain. Again he was leading them on, when he felt himself struck by a bullet, and, staggering a few paces, fell to the ground. Still he called on his men to advance. The Portuguese and Tuparas every now and then faced about in order to cover the embarkation of those who first reached the boats. Their bravery secured the retreat of their friends, but the greater portion of the rear-guard were overtaken and cut to pieces, while the main body shoved off from the shore and made their escape.

Constance and her friends had been anxiously awaiting the issue of the strife. When they heard the sounds of battle receding, their courage rose, and they hoped that their countrymen were gaining the victory. Still they were left for a long interval. At length Constance determined to go out and ascertain what had taken place. They provided themselves with lanterns, several of which had been brought to the house by those who had taken refuge in it, and, aided by their light, they went courageously forward. They had a higher motive also. They knew too well that many must have fallen, and they hoped to carry succour to some of the wounded, who might have been left behind by their advancing comrades. After going some way, they reached a spot where the strife had been hottest. Here lay friends and foes mingled together, Frenchman and Portuguese; the Indians only being distinguished by their war-paint and fantastic costume. On all the bullet, or arrow, or the deadly hatchet, had done its work. As they cast their lanterns on the forms stretched on the ground they saw that their help could not avail. The wounded had either been carried off by their companions, or had dragged themselves away to seek assistance. Still they persevered in their mission of mercy, searching for others who might be still breathing. They were attracted by the sound of a groan, which proceeded from a spot not far off. Again all was silent.

“Here is a wounded man!” exclaimed one of the ladies, calling to Constance. “He is a naval officer, I see, by his dress.”

Constance and her other friends hurried to the spot, and, by the light of a lantern cast on the countenance of the officer, Constance saw at a glance that he was Nigel. She threw herself on the ground, and endeavoured, with the help of her companions, to staunch the blood flowing from a wound in his side. He was pale as death, but another groan escaping from his lips showed her that he still breathed. At length they succeeded in stopping the effusion of blood. She called on his name, but he was too weak to answer, though once she felt, as she took his hand, a slight pressure returned, which showed that he recognised her voice.

“Oh, Marie, hasten to the house, and entreat some of our friends to come and assist in carrying him there!” she exclaimed to one of her companions. “Bring a bed, or a door torn from its hinges, on which he can be placed. We must not allow him to remain here longer than is possible. Quick, my dear, if you love me!”

Her friend hurried away, eager to bring assistance which the young officer so greatly needed. Constance in the mean time sat by the side of Nigel, resting his head on her arm, while she bent over him, and assured herself that he still breathed. Though dreading every moment to hear his last sigh, with loving and gentle words she endeavoured to recall him to consciousness. How fearfully long the time seemed. The sounds of the strife still going forward reached her ears, though she scarcely heeded them, for all her thoughts and all her feelings were centred on Nigel. Anxiously she and her friend waited the arrival of the party from the house. The latter every now and then got up and advanced a few paces to listen. At length lights were seen in the distance, and footsteps were heard approaching. Constance uttered an exclamation of thankfulness when she saw her friends approaching with a litter they had hastily constructed with three poles supporting a mattress. With gentle care Nigel was placed upon it, and the ladies lifting it from the ground proceeded towards the house. Soon after they had reached it, the count arrived with the intelligence that the enemy had been driven off the island, and that the boats of the squadron had gone in pursuit of them. His sorrow at hearing of Nigel’s dangerous state was very great, and, ordering restoratives to be given him, he immediately set off in search of the surgeon, who had come out with the first party of the settlers, and had remained faithful to the truth. He happily discovered him attending to some of the wounded men who had been carried to one of the neighbouring houses. As soon as he could leave them he hastened to Nigel’s side. After examining his wound, he expressed a hope that, by constant watchfulness and care, he would recover, though the loss of blood had greatly exhausted him, and all would depend on his being kept perfectly quiet. One thing was certain, that he would be unable to move for many weeks to come, without risking his life. On hearing the surgeon’s report, Constance entreated her father not to carry out his intention of proceeding to Europe.

“I will certainly on no account leave him,” he answered. “Possibly the ships may be delayed, or the governor will be unwilling to let them sail, on the probability of the island being again attacked; but if so, he must treat the Protestants with more justice than he has been doing for some time, and we must live in hopes that fresh arrivals from Europe will again turn the scale in our favour.”

Whether or not the governor suspected that the Protestants hoped, with increased numbers, to recover their influence, it was difficult to say.

The next day was devoted to rejoicings for the victory. The bells of the Romish church rang out, the fort fired salutes, and a procession with crucifixes, banners, and images, marched through the island. The priests sang praises in honour of the Virgin Mary, whom they asserted had given them the victory, in answer to their petitions. The Protestants assembled in their place of worship to return thanks to God for their deliverance. While the service, which had taken place at an earlier hour than usual, was going forward, an officer and party of soldiers arrived in front of the chapel. Without knocking, or asking for admission, the officer entered the chapel with his hat on his head, and, in a loud voice, exclaimed—

“I bring you an order from the governor to disperse. He will allow of no meetings, except in the church he has built for the use of the colony.”

“Allow us, sir, to finish the service in which we are engaged,” answered the minister, in a deep tone. “It may be the last many of us will enjoy for some time to come.”

“My orders are to put a stop to your meeting,” said the officer. “If you refuse to obey, I must use force to compel you.”

Several of the persons present showed an inclination to dispute the point, but the minister and count urged them to yield obedience to the orders of the governor, and they quickly departed, when the officer, closing the door, put a seal on it, cautioning the people not again to enter, the governor having threatened severely to punish any who might do so. With sad hearts they returned to their homes. The victory over their enemies, instead of having improved their condition, appeared to have made it still more unbearable. Many who had before intended to remain on the island now determined to proceed in the ships which the governor announced would sail in a couple of days. When, however, they went on board to arrange their sleeping places they found the vessels in so battered and unseaworthy a condition, and so overrun with vermin, that many resolved to remain rather than undergo the risk of a voyage on board them. The officers and crews confessed that they were very unwilling to sail; at the same time, as they were all Protestants, they were anxious to get away from the island. The governor had also threatened them with punishment should they refuse. They promised, for their own sakes, as well as for that of their passengers, to repair the ships as much as time would allow. Indeed, the crews were already working hard to fit them for sea. If the governor would permit them to remain another week, they might, it was hoped, be placed in a tolerably efficient state to cross the Atlantic. The governor, however, would only allow them two more days, at the end of which time he insisted that all who intended to go must embark. A third of the original number, therefore, abandoned their purpose and resolved to remain and endure all the indignities to which they were likely to be subjected, while the rest, with many forebodings, went on board the two ships. They were, as it was, much overcrowded, and it was with difficulty that they could obtain sufficient provisions for the voyage, the governor asserting that no more could be spared from the stores of the garrison.

When all were on board, and the anchors were about to be weighed, Captain Beauport was led out from prison in chains under a strong guard, and, not being allowed to communicate with any of his friends on shore, was conveyed on board; the captain to whose charge he was committed being directed by the governor to deliver up his prisoner to the authorities at the first port at which he could touch, charged with rebellion and heresy. Captain Dupré merely replied that he would do his duty, as far as he had the power. He was a silent undemonstrative man, not given unnecessarily to express his opinions. He had never shown a disposition to disregard the orders of the governor, who was, therefore, persuaded that he would carry them out on the present occasion. With sad hearts those remaining saw their countrymen sail away. They were anxious about their fate; but they had still greater cause to be anxious about their own.

In the mean time, Nigel, under Constance’s unremitting care, and that of the good surgeon who remained, was progressing favourably. Some days passed before he had sufficient strength to speak, and not till more than a week had elapsed would the surgeon allow him to be told what had happened; he was then deeply grieved to hear that the count and Constance had remained behind for his sake. He dreaded even more than they did the treachery and cruelty of Villegagnon, knowing him as he did to be so completely under the influence of the priests.

“He is but a wretched tool in their hands; and they, acting according to the dictates of their accursed system, which they call ‘The Church,’ are determined to drive every Protestant out of the island, so that they may again be masters over the consciences of all the inhabitants. Why,” exclaimed poor Nigel to Constance, “did I not denounce the traitor to the admiral, who would not then, I feel convinced, have trusted the colony to his government? Even had I failed to convince him, it would have been better to have been dismissed, and to have sought my fortune elsewhere. But then, Constance, I should not have met you; and even now, if God wills that I should recover, I may be the means of preserving you from the dangers by which you are surrounded.”

“You acted as you believed right, and you must not blame yourself,” said Constance. “We must trust in God, and remember that, whatever happens, He orders all things for the best. Should He permit these wicked men to triumph, let us feel sure that He has some object in view, though we may not see it.”

The count also exonerated Nigel from any blame, and was much inclined to find fault with himself for having quitted France, instead of remaining at his post, and looking after his dependants.

“We are but weak fallible creatures at best,” he observed. “We often fancy that we are following God’s will when we are pursuing only the promptings of our own inclinations. It shows how absolutely necessary it is to seek for guidance at the throne of grace in all our actions, even in what we may consider the most minute. When we remember that the hairs of our head are all numbered, and that God has told us that not a sparrow falls to the ground but He knows of it, we should remember that no act is too minute and inconsiderable to seek for counsel from Him regarding it. I might say that at every word we utter we should ask Him to direct us, for a single word may have an effect for good or for evil on those who hear it.”

Still Nigel was not satisfied with himself. Few people can be so, when they review their past actions, unless they have acted as the count advised, and sought for guidance from above.

For a short time the Protestant settlers were left to act as they thought fit; but their place of worship continued shut up, and they were not allowed to enter it. They met, however, at each other’s houses to read the Scriptures and offer up prayer and praise together. But they thought it wise to do so with closed doors, and they always had some one on the watch outside to give notice of the approach of any of the Papists. Indeed, they found it necessary to use the same precautions which they had been accustomed to employ in France. They were now subjected to the same persecuting spirit as that from which they had attempted to escape. Their only hope of being freed from their present galling condition was by a large influx of Protestant settlers, when the scales might be again turned in their favour. Would Villegagnon, however, allow such to land? In all probability he would send them over to settle on the southern shore.

This state of affairs continued for some weeks, during which Nigel slowly recovered, much owing to the loving care of Constance, and the skill of their friend the surgeon. At length his health was considered fairly re-established. The count, however, advised him not to return to his ship until absolutely compelled to do so; indeed, having the permission of the admiral to quit the service, Villegagnon could not legally insist on his remaining in it.

“Indeed, my dear friend,” said the count, “I feel that my own life is so uncertain, and should I be taken away, my daughter would be left without a protector in whom I could place confidence, that I desire forthwith to commit her to your care. You will, I know, devote yourself to her, and, as far as a human being has power, defend her from all dangers.”

Nigel grasped the count’s hand, and with a proud joy at his heart, promised not to disappoint his expectations. He took no vain oath: he did not call on God to witness that he intended to fulfil his promise, for he and the count knew that what he uttered was heard in heaven, and required no other ratification. Constance willingly agreed to her father’s wishes, and it was settled that in a few days the marriage ceremony should be performed by their minister and friend, Monsieur Laporte. Their love was mutual and equally intense, and they felt that they could together face the dangers of many sorts surrounding them far better than apart. Constance implicitly confided in Nigel, and he felt unspeakable pride and joy in having the power of supporting and protecting her.

Chapter Nine.

Proceedings of “The Inquisition.”

Ten days had passed since Nigel and Constance were united. He had not ventured beyond the precincts of the garden; and it might have been supposed that Captain Villegagnon had forgotten his existence, as no order had been sent him to join his ship. He intended, should he receive one again, to plead the admiral’s permission to quit the service, Coligny having indeed accepted his resignation. As long, however, as he was not interfered with he resolved to remain quiet. He employed his time in assisting the count in the cultivation of the ground, and in devising plans for the future. Rumours were abroad that the governor intended on the arrival of fresh colonists to found a town on the north side of the harbour, to be named Nitherohy. The count determined to move there, and to purchase a plot of land on which to build a residence and form an estate, as he hoped before that time to receive remittances from his steward.

“I should not have thought of it, my dear Nigel, had it not been for you and Constance,” he observed. “Though as regards myself all worldly pride and ambition have been laid aside, I should like to see you the master of a property suitable to your birth and education.”

The idea was naturally consonant with Nigel’s wishes, and he promised to labour hard in bringing the proposed estate into cultivation.

“It will afford me ample employment for the future,” he observed; “and employment, of course, I must have.”

Tecumah and Cora had during this time made frequent visits to the island. Tecumah was welcomed by the governor, as he was always well informed of the movements of the Portuguese and hostile Indians, besides having already rendered important services to the colony. The governor only looked on him in the light of an intelligent young savage and a faithful ally to the French. He had, however, already advanced in a knowledge of Christian truth, and had become an earnest and believing follower of the Lord. He one day came over to report that a party of the Tuparas had been seen on the high ground beyond the southern extremity of the harbour, making their way to the Portuguese settlement. He advised that boats should be sent out and advanced posts stationed, to give due notice of an attack, should one be contemplated. These arrangements having been made, the governor invited Tecumah to accompany him in a walk to a part of the island which he was about to visit. The strains of solemn music reached their ears. Tecumah attentively listened with much delight, and inquired whence they proceeded.

“The ministers of our religion are performing a sacred service, my friend,” answered the governor. “If you please, we will enter and pay our devotions to the Holy Virgin and saints.”

“I thought that Christians worship God alone,” observed the Indian.

“Of course, so we do,” said the governor; “but we worship also, in a different way, the mother of God and His holy saints and apostles.”

“I have heard that God is a jealous God, and will have none other gods worshipped but Himself,” said the Indian.

“But the mother of God; surely He will have us worship her?” observed the governor.

“The Bible does not say so,” answered Tecumah, boldly. “When Jesus hung on the cross He said to John, ‘Behold thy mother,’ and to His mother, ‘Behold thy son;’ and looking round on His disciples, He once observed, when He was told that His mother and brethren were near, ‘Behold My mother, and My brethren.’”

“Where did you learn all that?” asked the governor, in an angry tone.

“From one of your good ministers; and I am sure he spoke the truth,” answered Tecumah, innocently.

“He shall suffer for it,” muttered the governor.

They had just then reached the door of the church, and Tecumah followed the governor, who went up towards the so-called “holy altar.” The Indian gazed around with astonishment at the gorgeous drapery, the images, the lighted candles, and the large silver crucifix, with the figure of the Virgin on one side, and Saint John on the other, and the vases of flowers, and numerous other ornaments. He said not a word during the whole ceremony, but watched attentively what took place. There was the usual chanting in Latin, and so-called prayers muttered over in the same language; while the church was filled with incense from censers waved to and fro. Then, during a solemn silence, the chief officiating priest lifted up something (what it was he could not make out) above his head. He then observed that they put something into their mouths and drank wine, which they had mixed with water from a silver cup. Then the people came up and the priests put something into their mouths, and there was more chanting and prayers in an unknown tongue. Then those who had been on their knees rose and filed out of the church, laughing and talking and making jokes with each other. Tecumah followed the governor, anxious to know what had taken place, and inquired what the priests were about when they muttered prayers over the silver dish and wine.

“They were then performing the greatest miracle of our Church,” answered the governor. “They were converting the wafer and wine into the body and blood of Christ.”

“What?” asked the Indian. “Christ has assumed His glorified body, and is now in heaven at the right hand of God. Which body, may I ask, do they think they eat, His human body or His glorified body? I cannot understand the matter.”

“Nor can I enlighten you,” answered the governor, looking much perplexed. “I am not fond of having such questions put to me.”

“Pardon me if I ask one more,” said the Indian, who was eager to gain information on the subject. “What were they doing when they lifted the wafer above their heads?”

“They were then offering up to God the great sacrifice, the real body and blood of His dear Son.”

“Christ was once offered up as a sacrifice for sinners on the cross,” said the Indian; “surely they cannot offer Him again?”

“Our Church says they can; and that’s all we know about the matter,” answered the governor, in a tone of irritation.

“Let me then ask you another question,” said Tecumah. “What were they doing when they ate the wafers and drank the wine, and then put the wafers into the mouths of the people?”

“They were eating the real body and drinking the blood of Christ,” answered the governor, “and feeding the people with the body, for the priests alone are allowed to drink the blood. They were, in other words, performing the sacrifice of the mass.”

“What?” exclaimed the Indian, starting back. “It is too solemn a thing to joke about; but do you wish to make me believe that the people can really believe that they eat the body of their God, and that human beings can change pieces of paste into that body? No, no, no! Monsieur Governor. We Indians have not a knowledge of the numerous arts you Frenchmen possess, but we are not so foolish as to believe such a gross imposture as that. I am afraid that your priests are like our medicine-men, in whom we trusted till we found them to be rogues and deceivers.”

These words were uttered by Tecumah in a loud, indignant tone, and were overheard by one of the priests, who, having changed his gorgeous robes, had followed the governor out of the church in order to speak to him.

“Beware, young man, what you say!” he exclaimed, in an angry tone. “How can you understand the mysteries of our faith? But I know well where you received your instruction, and he who taught you shall have his just reward.”

Tecumah stood calmly listening to the priest’s angry threats. “He who taught me is under the protection of my tribe,” he answered, “and those who injure him will be our foes. I now see that you are one of the men who played the tricks in the church hard by, and deceived the people by persuading them that you have the power which belongs to God alone, to work a miracle.”

These words so enraged the priest, that he would have struck the Indian had he dared. The governor observed his anger, and being well aware of the importance of not offending their Indian allies, on whose support their very existence depended, now interfered and tried to soothe the angry priest as well as Tecumah. The latter, however, felt more scorn than anger towards the man whom he, with his acute and unprejudiced mind, looked upon as guilty of practising a gross imposture, and he was therefore quickly pacified; but the priest, grinding his teeth, continued to mutter threats of vengeance, till the governor, drawing him aside, reminded him of the importance of not offending the Indians.

“You may do what you like with the heretic minister,” he observed; “but the services of these Indians are required, and we cannot afford to lose them.”

“The guilty one shall feel the vengeance of our Church, then,” answered the priest. “We cannot allow a doctrine which so greatly supports our authority to be called in question.”

“Of course not, my friend, of course not,” said the governor; “though, as men of sense, you and I no more believe in it than does that clever young Indian.”

“As to that, Monsieur Governor, we keep our opinions to ourselves,” said the priest, with as near an approach to a laugh as he ever indulged in. “At the same time, the sooner we put that acute, clever-minded young Indian out of the way, together with his instructor, Monsieur Laporte, the better for the maintenance of our holy religion.” The countenance of the priest had assumed its usual undemonstrative expression as he continued, “Listen, Monsieur Governor. I believe that the Count de Tourville and his daughter and son-in-law are equally dangerous. That young Indian and his sister are constantly at their house, and have imbibed their pestiferous notions from them. I have had my eye on them for some time, when they were not aware that they were watched. I do my duty in looking after the spiritual interests of my countrymen,”—the priest crossed his arms and cast his eyes on the ground—“but I feel that my humble efforts unaided are not sufficient. When our community increases, we shall have many of these accursed Protestants among us, and it will be absolutely necessary to devise effectual means for the preservation of our authority. I would therefore suggest the establishment of the Holy Inquisition, by which alone heresy can be rooted out. It will prove our zeal for religion, and gain the approbation of our patrons, the excellent Duke de Guise and his brother, the Cardinal of Lorraine.”

“You will have my permission to carry out your plan as you may wish, holy father,” said the governor. “You may exercise your authority on our countrymen as you may deem necessary to bring them under the wholesome control of the Church; but I cannot have the Indians interfered with until we are strong enough to do without them. When we are, you will have my full permission to manage them as you think best for the purpose of bringing them into the true fold; but in the mean time their savage relatives may not understand your object in burning them for the good of their souls, and may be apt in their ignorance to revenge their deaths by cutting us to pieces.”

“I understand your wise policy,” answered the priest. “We will bide our time, then, for commencing the conversion of the Indians. But I have your permission to act towards the count and his family, and that pestiferous heretic minister, as I may judge necessary for the full establishment of the faith in our colony?”

“Certainly, certainly,” answered the governor; “I willingly grant you all the power you ask.”

The priest returned into the church to hear the confessions of several of his congregation, who were waiting to get absolution that they might sin again without having too great a load on their shoulders; as also to put out the candles, which he in his hurry had left burning. The governor returned to the fort, while Tecumah went to pay his usual visit to Monsieur Laporte. He naturally expressed his astonishment at what he had seen and heard.

“Surely,” he exclaimed, “sensible men do not really believe that, by the words of a priest, Jesus Christ, sitting at the right hand of God, really does allow His body to descend into the bits of paste which the priest puts into the mouths of the people. The Bible, as you read it to me, says that He is seated at the right hand of God, to make intercession for us sinners, and that He acts as our great High Priest.”

“I cannot tell what the poor ignorant people may really believe, though it does seem astounding that they should be so imposed on by their priests,” answered Monsieur Laporte. “It was many centuries even before the corrupted Church of Rome introduced the dogma or notion, which was invented by a monk in the eighth century, when it was eagerly seized upon by the Pope, who saw that it would enable him and his army of subordinates to become sacrificing priests, which would give them immense influence over the minds of people, if they could persuade them to believe it. They had taught the great mass of the people to believe in the power of dead men’s bones and other relics to work miracles; in the heathen notion of purgatory for cleansing the soul by fire; to worship idols with the names of saints; to pray for the dead; and to pray to dead men whom they had dubbed saints, as well as to put faith in many other abominable falsehoods. They found, therefore, no difficulty in persuading the more ignorant people to believe this most blasphemous fable, which from henceforth became one of the most powerful engines for increasing the influence of the priests over the minds of men, though many, both learned and unlearned persons in our own and other countries loudly protested against the novel doctrine, as contrary to the true meaning of our Lord’s language at the last supper and the teaching and practice of the apostles.”

“I thought that you and other sensible men could not possibly believe so outrageous a notion, and so contrary to God’s word,” observed Tecumah. “But how comes it that men can be so wicked as to teach what is in direct opposition to the Bible?”

“Influenced by Satan, they make use of every means, however impious, to gain an influence over their fellow-creatures. It has been the same everywhere from the earliest ages of the world. They are like your medicine-men, whom you now know to be gross impostors. In all countries there have been found men, for their own ends, or for the support of the authority they serve, willing to deceive their fellow men, in many instances, as is often the case with these priests of Rome, being deceived themselves. Our only sure guide and prevention against such impostures is the study of God’s Word and constant obedience to its holy precepts. As Jesus withstood the temptations of Satan by replying to him with the Scriptures, so must we arm ourselves, and ever be ready to withstand our foes, in whatever form they come, by the same blessed word of God. A sure sign that the Romish system is the invention of Satan is that it dreads the Word, and whenever it has the power, keeps it from the people or grossly misinterprets its meaning.”

“I would that I could have that blessed Book translated into the language of my people,” exclaimed Tecumah. “I can now understand it in French, and may be able to explain it to those who are willing to hear me; but I should desire to send it throughout the whole country, that all the native tribes might hear the glad tidings that there is a loving Saviour ready to receive them into the kingdom.”

The above conversation occupied a much longer time than we have in repeating it, and both the minister and young chief used very different language to that which has been employed. Tecumah showed by his questions and replies how completely he understood it, and how his pure unprejudiced mind revolted against the falsehoods of Rome, while it quickly embraced the truth of the Gospel.

After quitting Monsieur Laporte, he paid a visit to the count. He found Nigel hard at work in the garden, and Constance helping him. He repeated to them what he had seen and the impression formed on his mind, and they explained the truth much as the minister had done; to which Constance added an account of the horrible system of the confessional, which she had heard from some of her Papist friends, who had been subjected to it, and the abominable questions which had been put to them by the priests.

“That alone would have been sufficient to convince me that this system is not of God. And He tells us from the mouth of the Apostle Paul that we may come boldly to the throne of grace, trusting in the all cleansing blood of Jesus; and Jesus Himself says, ‘Come unto Me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.’ I am sure that He never refuses to hear when a human being comes trusting to His blood shed on Calvary. Monsieur Laporte was reading from the Epistle of Timothy a prophecy that there should come ‘some who shall depart from the faith, giving heed to seducing spirits, and doctrines of devils; speaking lies in hypocrisy; having their conscience seared with a hot iron; forbidding to marry, and commanding to abstain from meats, which God hath created to be received with thanksgiving of them which believe and know the truth,’ who would advocate will-worship and their own good deeds in opposition to the all perfect atonement of Jesus. Such truly is what the priests of Rome teach, though nearly for a thousand years after Christ came Christian ministers, whom they acknowledged as belonging to their communion, were allowed to marry like other men; and certainly those who did so were less corrupt than the celibates who, having no family ties, became the servile tools of Rome’s tyranny.”

Constance had now to go in to prepare for dinner, and Nigel then asked Tecumah what remarks he had made to the governor and the priest. The Indian told him.

“You spoke truly; but knowing what these priests are, I fear much that they will endeavour to entrap you; and if they find that they cannot compel you to believe in their false doctrines and to acknowledge their authority, they will use other means to bring about your destruction.”

“I will be watchful, and keep out of their power,” said Tecumah. “I fear much, though, that they will equally endeavour to persecute you whom they look upon as my instructor; but I will be on the watch, and try to defend you as well as myself.”

Tecumah spent the rest of the day with his friends, and it was late in the evening when his canoe was seen gliding rapidly across the harbour towards the mainland.

Villegagnon and the priests did not long allow the Protestant settlers to remain in quiet. The governor announced that he had received orders from France to allow no Bibles to remain in the hands of any of the people, declaring that they made a bad use of them by seeking an excuse from their pages for rebellion. The count resolved to go in person to the governor, and reminding him that he had ever been loyal, to claim exemption from the tyrannical law. He went, but was haughtily told that rich and poor must be treated alike, and that no exception would be made in his favour. Should he not deliver up all the Bibles in his house, he must be prepared for the consequences. Monsieur Laporte and the good surgeon were treated in the same manner. Nigel, however, resolved, as he was not a Frenchman, not to part with his Bible; and, in case a domiciliary visit should be paid by the “inquisitors,” having placed it in a box and buried it in the garden among some thick trees, he and Constance could thus take it out and read it, which they did every day, without risk, as they supposed, of being discovered. Before long a party of men appeared, headed by an officer, with an authority from the governor to collect all the Bibles and Protestant sermons and hymns to be found. The count, knowing that resistance was vain, delivered up those he possessed, protesting, however, against the injustice of the act.

“That’s not our affair, Count de Tourville,” answered the officer; “but I will report what you say to the governor. Now, let me ask you, have you any other books?”

“I have given you all that are to my knowledge in the house,” answered the count. “If you are not satisfied you must search for them.”

“We cannot take the word of an heretic,” said the officer, insolently. “We intend to search, and if we find any it will be the worse for you.”

Providentially, Nigel was away, and thus escaped having questions asked him. Poor Constance endeavoured to console her father while the officers were searching in every corner and cranny of the house. No books, however, were discovered; and at length, threatening to pay another visit shortly, the inquisitors went away to search other houses in the neighbourhood; and in two or three, meeting with opposition, they carried the owners off to prison. The most severe sufferer was Monsieur Laporte, the whole of whose library was carried off, all his books more or less being of a theological character.

The following day, in an open space in front of the fort, a pile of faggots was seen, when the books were brought forth from the house into which they had been thrown. Most of the population turned out to witness the expected sight, shouting and jeering as book after book was thrown on the pile, to which fire had been set. As each fresh batch of books began to burn they shouted loudly, and when it was seen that most of the books were Bibles, their shouts and cries and fierce execrations grew louder and louder. This went on till all were consumed. The Protestants remained at home during the period, sorrowful and cast down. No one knew what persecutions they might be doomed to bear. Monsieur Laporte went from house to house, endeavouring to console and support his flock, reminding them all of the sufferings Christ’s people had been called on to bear from the earliest days to the present time, and urging them to keep in view that crown of glory which He had prepared for all who hold fast to the truth. So much had his faithful and gentle character won the love of all except the most brutal, that many even among those who had been perverted regarded him with affection, while the priests, hearing him so highly spoken of, were afraid for the present to persecute him further. They were, however, very active among his congregation, whom they endeavoured by soft words and plausible arguments to win over; but finding that they did not succeed, as in reality only the frivolous and irreligious had hitherto been gained to their side, they determined to use harsher measures.

One evening Nigel and Constance had gone to their bower in the woods, where, concealed by the thickness of the surrounding foliage, they took out their Bible and sat down on a bench Nigel had placed there. He had been reading for some time to his young wife, occasionally stopping to explain a verse or to ask her opinion; now turning back and comparing text with text, both of them being so absorbed that they did not know how long they had been thus engaged, when they were suddenly aroused by hearing a footstep, and looking up they saw a priest standing before them, while a little way off appeared a party of armed men.

“You have been discovered engaged in an unlawful act, Monsieur Nigel, by which you have made yourself liable to the just vengeance of the law!” exclaimed the priest, in a triumphant tone. “You have been suspected for some time. In the name of the governor, therefore, I order you to yield yourself prisoner. Take this gentleman into custody,” he added, turning to the armed men, who, as he spoke, sprang eagerly forward.

Nigel was too much astonished for the moment to reply. Constance uttered a cry of alarm, and clung to his arm.

“You cannot, you must not take him from me!” she exclaimed, in a terrified tone.

“You are equally guilty, young lady, in listening to him,” said the priest. “In all probability you will share his fate.”

“Oh, let me go with him now, then, if you insist on taking him,” she said, still holding Nigel’s arm.

“No, no, lady. Don’t fancy that you will be allowed to keep him company,” said the priest, in a harsher tone. “For the present you may remain with your father, till the governor thinks fit to summon you.”

“Fly rather to the faithful Indians,” whispered Nigel; “do not put yourself in the traitor’s power.”

He could say no more, for the armed men seizing him took him off, while the priest held Constance in his arms. She in vain struggled to free herself from his loathsome grasp, while she entreated to be set free, ever and anon uttering shrieks for help; but not till the priest was sure that the party with Nigel were out of sight did he allow her to escape, when seeing her father, who had been attracted by her cries, coming from the house, she flew towards him, the priest in the mean time hurrying after his companions. It was fortunate for him that he got away, for the count, with a thick stick in his hand, forgetting the danger of doing so, would have made him feel the effects of his just anger.

“Oh, save him, save him! They have seized Nigel. What will they do to him?” cried Constance, as she sank into her father’s arms.

The count saw that pursuit was hopeless, for the priest, tucking up his long dress to enable him to scramble over the fences, had already got to a considerable distance; besides, it would have been vain to attempt rescuing Nigel from a party of armed men. The count could only say, “Trust in God, my child. He alone can help us.”

Poor Constance, overcome with grief and terror, could scarcely, even with her father’s assistance, reach the house. He placed her on a couch by his side, vainly endeavouring to console her. He indeed feared that the priests would not allow them to escape with impunity, and he guessed truly that it had been only for the sake of inflicting a greater cruelty that Nigel had first been carried off.

Monsieur Laporte with the good doctor happily came in, having heard a rumour of what had occurred. Both were required, for Constance became seriously ill; but the words of the former were of more value than any medicine the latter could prescribe. The minister at once turned to God’s word; not to the Book itself, for that he did not dare to carry about, but to the numerous blessed texts which he had committed to memory, and from these he was able to draw that effectual comfort which could alone avail with the poor young wife. No one dared to speak of the future, for they knew well the bitter hatred felt by the governor and priests towards Nigel, and that they would rejoice at having a victim in their power on whom they would wreak their vengeance. While they were seated with Constance and the count, Tecumah and his sister arrived, on their way to pay their usual visit to Monsieur Laporte. They were overwhelmed with grief and indignation when they heard what had occurred. Cora threw herself by the side of Constance, and poured out her expressions of sympathy from her woman’s heart. Indian as she was, she could feel for her white sister, her affectionate tones tending somewhat to soothe her friend’s outraged feelings.

“Do not give up hope,” she whispered. “We will gladly devote our lives, if necessary, to save him. We Indians are accustomed to do many things which would astonish the white people, and if a friend is in danger, every one of our tribe is ready to help him.”

“They dare not kill him!” exclaimed Tecumah, “and if a hair of his head is injured I will arouse our people, and instead of being friends and ready to fight on their side, we will come over with our strong bows and attack them.”

“Even for the sake of a friend we would not urge you to use violent measures,” said the minister. “Remember the precepts of our blessed Lord and Master; He who was ever mild, gentle, and forgiving, doing good to those who injured Him.”

“Yes, I know that, and desire to obey our Saviour’s law; but He does not forbid us to help our friends,” exclaimed the young Indian.

Chapter Ten.

Imprisonment and Rescue.

Tecumah and his sister remained for some time with their friend. Tecumah then accompanied the minister to his house. They passed on their way through the count’s garden, as it afforded them a shorter cut than the public path. As they got to the further end of the garden they turned aside to visit the spot where Nigel had been seized. On reaching it, Tecumah sprang forward, for there he saw before him on the ground the Bible, which the priest, in his eagerness to hold back Constance, had let drop, and had forgotten to take with him when the count appeared.

“Blessed Book!” exclaimed Tecumah. “Let me be its guardian. Your cruel persecutors shall not burn it while I have it in charge, and you may come over to read it, or when the search is over I will bring it back to you.”

To this proposal Monsieur Laporte willingly agreed; and while the Indian, wrapping it up carefully, concealed it beneath his cloak, the minister closed the box in which it was wont to be put, and covered it over again with earth and leaves.

Cora begged that she might be allowed to continue with Constance till the following morning or longer. “We were not observed coming into the house,” she said, “and it will not be known that I am here. I have my reasons for wishing to remain.”

The count and Constance of course agreed to what Cora wished. Before her brother quitted the house she had a short and earnest conversation with him. Tecumah, having spent some time with the minister, hurried to his canoe and rapidly crossed to the north side of the harbour.

Meanwhile, Nigel was dragged along by his captors. He had been so completely surprised that it was impossible for him to escape; and finding this, he walked along without making any further resistance.

The priest soon overtook the party. In vain Nigel tried to learn from him what had become of Constance.

“It’s not my duty to answer questions,” he replied; “but I have some, notwithstanding, to ask you. How is it that, knowing the orders of the governor, you ventured to read that book from which you draw all your heresies?”

“I am not aware that I have drawn anything but truth through the teaching of the Holy Spirit,” answered Nigel.

“That is the notion all you heretics hold!” exclaimed the priest. “It is the origin of your pestiferous principles.”

“I was not prohibited from reading it in my own country, and I claim as a Scotchman the right to do so wherever I am,” answered Nigel.

“No person of whatever country has the right to act contrary to the commands of the Catholic Church,” answered the priest, furiously; “and that Church positively forbids laymen from reading the Bible, or putting their own interpretations on it, therefore to whatever nation you belong you are under its rule, and are equally guilty. But I waste words in arguing with a heretic. Your only hope of escape from death is to recant without delay and become a faithful Catholic, and the governor, at my intercession, will overlook your offence. Come, you will be wise; so give up your errors.”

“Never will I give up my faith,” answered Nigel, firmly.

“Ah, my young friend, you say so now; but think of the advantages you will gain. You will at once be restored to your young wife, and will undoubtedly be raised to a post of honour and wealth in our new settlement; and when the count dies you will inherit his property and found a noble family in Antarctic France.”

Nigel felt that the temptations held out were powerful, but he prayed that were they ten times more so he might have grace to resist them. He doubted also very much whether the wily priest was not mocking him. He knew full well from the accounts he had heard in France of the treachery of which the emissaries of Rome were guilty, and he would not place any confidence in the most specious promises any of them might have made to him. He therefore let the priest talk on, endeavouring as far as he could not to listen to him. At length the fort was reached. Nigel was forthwith thrust into a cell, ordinarily used for the confinement of a refractory or drunken soldier, and was there left to his own meditations. He walked up and down, considering what he should do and what he should say. Now and again he stopped, and earnestly prayed for guidance and direction. The governor and priests were too eager to condemn the Protestants to allow an accused person to remain long in prison without trial.

That very afternoon Nigel was carried into the public hall where the governor held his court. The priest was his accuser, and the men by whom he was captured were the witnesses against him. Of course he had no defence to make, except his claim of right to read whatever books he pleased.

“Before he is condemned there is another charge of a still more heavy nature,” said the governor. “Stand forward, men, and say what you have got to state;” and Nigel was, to his astonishment, charged with abetting Captain Beauport in heaving overboard the images of the saints, the relics, and papal dispensations.

“Even had I actually assisted I should only have been obeying the orders of my superior officer,” said Nigel.

“You confess that you were guilty of standing by and witnessing such a proceeding without remonstrating?” exclaimed one of the priests who was seated near the governor. “Such enormities must meet with severe punishment, or our holy religion will be held in disrespect.”

“Undoubtedly Captain Beauport escaped with too lenient a sentence,” said the governor, “though probably the vengeance of heaven has overtaken him ere this: he and all on board the ship in which he sailed are beneath the ocean.”

“Because one has escaped, are other criminals to go unpunished?” exclaimed the priest who had before spoken. “Death by shooting or hanging would be too mild a sentence: he deserves the stake, unless by confessing his fault and abjuring his errors he returns to the loving bosom of our holy Church.”

Similar remarks were made by the other priest in a manner not usual in a court of law. For some time this mockery of a trial went on. Nigel prayed for strength, for he felt how greatly he needed it. He stood calm and apparently unmoved, listening to the abusive remarks of the vindictive priests. No one raised a voice in his favour. There might have been many who felt for him, but they feared to speak. The men who were judging him were also his accusers. Still he felt bound to defend himself, although he knew full well that the most able defence would not avail him. He pleaded that, with regard to reading the Bible, he was a foreigner and was but doing what was allowed in his own country; that he was not even attempting to make proselytes, and was simply obeying the command of his Lord to search the Scriptures. And that, as to the second accusation, whether or not he approved of what had been done, had he acted otherwise and interfered, he would have been guilty of an infraction of naval discipline; therefore he could not be made answerable for what had been done.

“He acknowledges himself guilty of sacrilege, for ecclesiastical law is above all other law, and that would have compelled him to interfere,” cried the priest. “Death, death, to the heretic!” and several voices echoed the savage cry.

“You are undoubtedly guilty of the crime alleged against you, Monsieur Lieutenant,” said the governor, after consulting in an undertone with the two priests at his side. “Your being a foreigner, as you are in the service of France, will not avail you. You will have two days given you to consider whether you will recant, and if not, your sentence is ‘That you be bound to a stake, with fire kindled around you till your body is consumed, and your soul is carried off by the emissaries of Satan, who are certainly waiting for it.’”

Nigel listened calmly while the governor was pronouncing his terrible doom—one to which the Church of Rome had already condemned tens of thousands of human beings for simply reading the Bible.

Without being allowed to say another word, he was seized by the guards waiting the beck of the governor, and dragged out of the court. Instead, however, of being led back to the prison where he had previously been confined, he found that he was actually leaving the fort. The governor was, in truth, afraid to keep him there, for a considerable number of the Madeline’s crew, who were much attached to him, were doing duty on shore, and, although they attended the Romish service, he was well aware that still in their hearts they were Protestants, and he feared that they might rescue him and assist in his escape.

The priests had of late erected close to the church a small building which they intended should serve as an inquisitorial prison where they might keep in confinement any heretics on whom they were desirous of expending their religious zeal. To this place Nigel was taken, and thrust into one of its dungeons built especially under the priests’ directions. It was, in truth, little better than a pit dug in the ground, with a small aperture towards the roof to admit light. On this occasion they had obtained a party of soldiers from the governor to guard their prison.

Nigel had not been long shut up in this dreadful place when night came on, and he was left in total darkness, with only a bundle of dry grass on which to lie down and rest himself. Brave as he was, he could not but look forward with painful feelings to the fate prepared for him. He thought, however, more of his young wife and the poor count. He feared, too, that the hatred of the priests might drag them into the same fate. Perhaps even now they were seized and accused of crimes for which their tyrannical oppressors might condemn them to death. Sleep was impossible, while the darkness prevented him from pacing up and down his narrow cell, which would have been some relief to his tortured mind. He felt for the pile of grass and lay down, considering that it would be wiser to try and obtain some rest to prepare himself for the future trials he would have to go through. The sudden destruction of all his happiness, separation from his beloved Constance, and the agonising death speedily to overtake him, made him have recourse to prayer to obtain that strength ever awarded to those who seek it from on high.

Nigel had been sleeping for some time, when, suddenly awaking, he became conscious that some one was in the vault, by hearing a footstep and a low sound of breathing. A feeling of horror for a moment ran through him. Could it be an assassin sent by the governor or priests to put him secretly to death, and so to save themselves from carrying out the sentence passed on him, from which even they might shrink, aware of the horror it would create among the greater number of the colonists, who, not having been educated in their school, would, whatever their religious sentiments, look at it with disapprobation. Still, for himself it would matter nothing, except being deprived of a few hours of life, and he would thus be saved from the tortures of the flames. Such thoughts rapidly passed through his mind; but in another moment he had nerved himself, like a brave man, to meet whatever might occur. His very natural feeling was to struggle desperately with his supposed assassin. He might even gain the victory and thus make his escape. Full of youth and strength, he felt that it would be better far to die struggling bravely, should the guard set upon him, than to sink down tamely where he lay. Springing to his feet, he stood with his arms prepared for defence.

“Hush!” said a voice. “I thought you were still sleeping. Make no noise—give me your hand and come quickly; there is not a moment to lose.”

Nigel knew by the voice and the mode of expression that it was the Indian Cora who spoke. He put out his hand and felt it grasped by her small and delicate fingers. To his surprise he found himself led almost instantly into a narrow passage, with room sufficient only for one person to pass through at a time.

“Stoop low,” said Cora, as she conducted him into apparently a small alcove on one side. “Step back and remain a moment,” she added, disengaging her hand, immediately after which he heard a grating sound as if a heavy stone were being moved.

Quickly returning, she again took his hand, and led him down a slope of some feet, and then again along a level; when once more they ascended another slope, at the top of which, mounting a few steps, he found himself standing in the open air, surrounded by a thick grove, beyond which he could distinguish the wooden tower of the church. Once more Cora desired him to remain, while she was engaged in closing up the aperture through which they had emerged. Putting her finger on her lips to enforce silence, she once more led him forward at a rapid rate, keeping under the shelter of the trees; where the gloom was such that he could not possibly by himself have made his way. At length they reached a small beach with low cliffs on either side. Keeping under their shade they proceeded till he discovered a canoe concealed beneath a rock. Cora, without requiring his assistance, quickly launched it, and then again taking his hand, bade him, in a whisper, step in and lie down his length at the bottom. Instantly grasping a paddle, she began to make her way rapidly from the shore. She had not got far, when a voice from the cliff hailed, ordering the canoe immediately to come back. Cora took no notice, but paddled on with renewed efforts. Again the person on the cliff shouted, and threatened to fire if his orders were not obeyed. A few seconds only had passed when a shot whistled close to the canoe. Cora bravely paddled on. The man on the cliff must have reloaded quickly, for soon afterwards another shot came, but happily without touching the canoe. The darkness must have soon hid so small an object from the soldier’s sight, though the shore was still visible. A third and fourth shot followed, but still wider of the mark. Cora did not relax her efforts till they had got more than half way across the harbour. She then stopped for a moment to listen, but no sound of oars indicated that they were pursued.

“We are safe now,” she said, “and you may raise yourself; but don’t attempt to stand up. Thankful I am that we have escaped. I have no fear for myself, but I dreaded every moment lest you might have been retaken by your cruel enemies. My brother gave me the task to do, and I gladly accepted it. He himself has gone to summon our tribe to arms, having resolved to rescue you by force had my undertaking failed.”

“I am most grateful to you,” said Nigel. “But by what wonderful means were you able to enter my prison and liberate me without apparent difficulty?”

“By means which these cruel priests themselves afforded,” answered Cora. “When they were building their prison-house, Tecumah and I happened to pass that way and observed that they were placing it on the ground once occupied by an ancient temple at which, in days gone by, our tribe were wont to worship. One of our medicine-men, who had listened to the truth from Tecumah’s mouth, told us that there were several passages running underground which had possibly been undiscovered by the builders. He is a sagacious man, and, finding that the new building was intended for a prison, advised us to visit the ancient passage and endeavour to keep it concealed, so that a way might be made if necessary into the dungeon. ‘The whites treat us at present with respect,’ he observed; ‘but the time may come when they may act towards us as the Portuguese have long been acting towards the Indians in their neighbourhood, imprisoning and murdering those who refuse to adopt their faith.’ My brother accordingly, with several other young men, led by the medicine-man, paid numerous visits, at night, to the place, unknown to the French. It was thus discovered that an underground passage was being formed between some of the cells of the prison and the church. Fortunately this was found out before the old passage was cut through, and by placing a large stone, turning on a sort of hinge, on one side, they were able to secure a way into the new passage without betraying the existence of their own. By constantly being on the watch, they ascertained that only one cell had as yet been formed into which the passage led. I had resolved when you were made prisoner to attempt your rescue even from the fort; but when I found that you were carried to the priests’ prison my hopes of success arose. I had one night, from curiosity, gone with my brother to visit the spot. We then discovered that the door which led into your prison had no lock, but was merely closed with smooth sliding bolts. I thus knew my way, and was able to set you free.”

Nigel had no doubt that the object of the passage was to enable the priests either to work on the minds of the prisoners by pretended miraculous appearances; or else, should they desire to murder one of their captives, to convey the body secretly away. He, indeed, knew that such arrangements were common throughout Europe, and that numberless impostures had thus been carried out.

They quickly reached the shore, which had of late been entirely deserted by the Tamoyos, who had, influenced by what had been told them by Tecumah, moved some distance further inland. Cora, who feared that the direction they had taken would be suspected by the French, when Nigel’s escape was discovered, advised that they should go forward till he was safe among her tribe.

Dark as the night was, she knew her way, and, light and active, she led him forward at a rapid rate. They had gone some distance, when she exclaimed, “Here come my brother and his people. They will indeed rejoice to find you free.”

Nigel was welcomed by Tecumah and his party. They were on their way to the shore, intending immediately to cross, and hoping before daylight to reach the prison. Tecumah, in his anxiety to save Nigel, had induced his followers to swear that they would rescue him by force if they could succeed in no other way. Their intention was to attack the guards and break open the prison, expecting to get off again before the governor and his people had time to pursue them. Nigel assured them how thankful he was that they had not been compelled to resort to such a proceeding. Too probably the governor and priests would wreak their vengeance on his wife and father-in-law. As it was, he felt very anxious as to what would happen when his escape was discovered. It would certainly baffle the sagacity of the priests to ascertain how it had been accomplished, and would undoubtedly make them more savage, as they might naturally suspect that some of their own followers had proved treacherous, and yet not know whom to accuse.

“They shall not injure the count or any of our friends,” exclaimed Tecumah. “We can distinguish between the true men and the bad. The last, as God’s Word tells us, are always the most numerous, and it shall be our care to defend the innocent and weaker ones. My people shall remain ready with their canoes to cross over at a moment’s notice, while I go to the island and learn what has taken place.”

Nigel expressed his wish to accompany the Tamoyos, but both Tecumah and Cora urged him to proceed to a further distance, as, should the governor suspect where he had gone, he would in all probability send an expedition over to bring him back, and as they would refuse to give him up, an open rupture would be the consequence. Nigel at last agreed to accompany Cora to her father’s abode, which was above five miles from the shore of the harbour, while Tecumah carried out his proposed project.

Leaving his people encamped on the shore with their canoes ready to embark, he paddled across towards the island. He was well aware of the risk he was running, for the governor, should he suspect that he had been instrumental in rescuing Nigel, would in all probability seize him and shut him up in prison. He had taken the precaution, however, of charging the next chief in common after him to come across and demand his liberation.

Daylight broke as he reached the place at which he was accustomed to land. He proceeded at once to the house of the count, who was already on foot, and he had the satisfaction of giving him tidings of Nigel’s safety.

“The knowledge that he is free will restore life to my poor daughter,” said the count. “But we are still in the power of the governor and those revengeful priests, and I fear much that they will not allow us long to remain in quiet.”

“Then come over and live with us!” exclaimed Tecumah. “We will build a house for you and hunt for you, and do our utmost to enable you to live as you are now doing.”

“We cannot be thus burdensome to you; and we should have no means of paying your people for labouring in our service,” answered the count. “Still, I am most grateful to you, and will think over the matter.”

Constance came out of her room as soon as she had risen to thank Tecumah, who then, hoping that his friends would not be interfered with, went on to see the minister.

He had been there for some time, and was about to return, when one of the count’s servants rushed into the house, out of breath from running.

“Sad news, Monsieur Laporte!” he explained. “Just ten minutes ago one of those ill-conditioned priests, with half a dozen ruffians of soldiers, came to my master’s house and carried him and Madame Nigel off on an accusation of having assisted Monsieur Nigel to escape, and of reading the Bible. What will they do with them? They say Monsieur Nigel was condemned to be burnt, and they will burn them in revenge;” and the poor fellow wrung his hands and burst into tears.

“God will protect them, though I don’t see how,” said the minister. “Alas! alas! These persecutors of ours have already put many innocent persons to death, and will not scruple to destroy all those who oppose them.”

“They must not be allowed to suffer,” exclaimed Tecumah, when he heard what had occurred. “I will away to my people before they can stop me; and we will one and all perish before we allow a hair of their heads to be injured.”

“I would seek to avoid bloodshed, and must urge you, my friend, to try peaceable measures first,” said Monsieur Laporte.

“We will endeavour, at all events, to rescue the innocent. You, my friend, come with me; you are in danger here, for they will assuredly seize you,” said the Indian, taking the minister’s hand.

“I must remain at the post where duty calls me,” answered Monsieur Laporte. “I may be the means of leading some perishing soul to turn to God, and should I be imprisoned with my friends I may be a comfort to them. But bear my love and blessing to Nigel, should I be destined never again to see him.”

At length Tecumah, finding that the minister was firm, set off, keeping himself concealed as much as possible among the trees, and made his way to his canoe. He had scarcely pushed off from the shore, when he saw several people rushing down to the beach. They had, he guessed rightly, been sent to capture him. There was no boat near at hand or they would have pursued him, though had they done so, his light canoe would quickly have left them astern.

On landing, he found his father and several other chiefs. He narrated to them what had occurred, but, greatly to his disappointment, he found that they objected to do anything which might put an end to the peaceable terms on which they had hitherto lived with the French. They had seen how the Portuguese treated the Indians who opposed them, and they dreaded, they said, the vengeance of the white men.

Tecumah was indignant. The white men who now were in the ascendency were no longer deserving of their friendship, he argued. By treachery and deceit they had overcome those who were their proper leaders, and they were even now about to put them to a cruel death. Tuscarora was grieved that his son’s friends should suffer; but he could not for their sakes risk the safety of his tribe. Again Tecumah addressed them with all the eloquence of which he was master. “If,” he observed, “they were treacherous towards their own people, they would surely be more likely to ill-treat their dark-skinned allies should it at any time be to their interest to do so, and it would be better to strike a blow at once and prevent them from doing harm, rather than allow them, after they had cut off all those who were worthy of confidence, to destroy us.” Tecumah saw that he was winning many to his side, and persevered. At length one of the chiefs proposed that he should be allowed to go over with a select body of men, and rescue the prisoners.

To this Tuscarora agreed, and Tecumah was obliged to content himself with this plan, trusting that no harm would be done in the mean time to the count and his daughter.

Some hours had passed when, as Tecumah was eagerly waiting on the beach for the moment fixed for the expedition to set out, he saw a canoe paddling down the harbour. He recognised it as one of those sent up the estuary to keep watch and to give timely notice of the approach of an enemy. As the occupant leapt on shore, he exclaimed—

“Haste! haste! The Portuguese and Tuparas, and several other tribes in alliance with them, are on the war-path. They have hundreds of canoes, and they will soon after nightfall attack the island unless they first land and try to destroy us.”

Chapter Eleven.

Capture of the Fort.

Constance and her father, rudely dragged from their home, were hurried off to the fort. No allowance was made for the weakness of her sex, and no pity was shown her by the savage priests, who, supposing that she was not aware of her husband’s escape, endeavoured still more to wound her feelings by telling her that he was condemned to death, and that, unless she and her father recanted, they would meet with the same fate.

“Silence, priest, silence! It is cowardly and unmanly to speak thus to my daughter,” exclaimed the count. “Add not insult to the injury you have already inflicted. We have broken no laws; we have done harm to no one; and we find ourselves treated as if we were the vilest of malefactors.”

The count’s address had no effect upon the priest, who took a cruel pleasure in annoying them. Such is ever the character of the emissaries of Rome when they are in the ascendency and are opposed; when in the minority, they are humble and meek, plausible and silver-tongued; and when there are none to oppose them, haughty, indolent, sensual, and self-indulgent. Such they have been in all ages and in every country, with the exception of the devoted Jesuit slaves, who have gone forth to carry their spurious gospel into heathen lands.

On arriving at the fort, the mockery of a trial was gone through; the priest’s myrmidons swore to having seen Constance reading the Bible, and that, as the crime had been committed on the count’s property, he was therefore equally guilty. Having been a lawyer in his youth, the count was able to defend himself, and had a jury of twelve honest men been present, he would have undoubtedly been acquitted; but, unhappily, that system being unknown among the French, he had no such advantage. The governor and the priest, exasperated at Nigel’s escape, grossly abused him, and interrupted him with shouts and execrations whenever he especially pointed to the proofs of his innocence. The count, of course, defended Constance, and argued that she was but listening to her husband, whom she was bound to obey, and was therefore guiltless.

“It is false!” exclaimed the priest, starting up; “her duty to the Church is above all others. It was for her to denounce her husband rather than to listen to him. Such heretical notions as yours, Count de Tourville, must be destroyed. The Church would lose her authority and power were they to prevail.”

“Ma foi!” exclaimed the count; “in that case no husband can venture to trust his wife with the slightest secret. It would not be confided to her keeping, but to that of the confessor. For that reason, and many others, we repudiate the system you, for your own ends, are anxious to maintain. I advise those who are husbands never to tell to their wives words they would not have known where the system prevails.”

“Silence! Count de Tourville,” exclaimed the priest, foaming with rage, “you shall answer for these insulting words.”

The count, it must be confessed, regretted having touched on the subject, as it was like throwing pearls to swine; but he felt for the moment that he might shield his daughter by drawing the anger of the priests on himself.

The mockery of a trial came to a conclusion, and the governor, who had taken upon himself the office of judge and inquisitor-general, found the count and his daughter guilty of the crimes with which they were charged, and condemned them both to death. In consequence of Nigel’s escape, the priest begged that they might be kept for safe custody in the prison within the fort; the same wretched place in which Nigel had first been confined, and utterly unfit for the reception of any female. Poor Constance shuddered as she was led into it. Her father begged that he might send to his house for such necessaries as his daughter required, but his request was roughly refused. It was not without difficulty even that he obtained some matting, and a few armfuls of rushes on which she might rest.

“Lie down, my child,” said the count to Constance, when they were at length left alone. “We will not altogether despair, but look to Him who is always ready to protect us. You require rest; and we know not what we may have to go through.”

Constance obeyed her father, while he continued pacing up and down the narrow space allowed him, to collect his thoughts. He harboured no ill-feeling towards his persecutors, but, following the example of his Master, he prayed for their forgiveness, while he looked forward with joy, rather than fear, to the time when he should be welcomed into His presence. He knew, too, that his beloved daughter, should her life be taken, would bear him company to that home where their Saviour had gone before to prepare a place for all those who love Him.

The night passed on. Constance was sleeping. Still the count felt no desire to lie down and rest. The whole fort seemed wrapped in silence, except when the voice of a distant sentry reached his ear. The silence was suddenly broken by a shot fired from the fort. Others followed in rapid succession. Then arose loud shouts and shrieks, and the Indian warwhoop rising above all others. Constance started from her slumbers, and clung to her father. The noises grew louder and louder.

“The fort is attacked. The enemy are scaling the walls!” exclaimed the count. “Both parties are fighting desperately. Constance, there is hope for us, for even the Portuguese would scarcely wish to injure those who are unable to oppose them.”

The sounds of strife increased. The count could with difficulty judge how the fight was going. Supporting his daughter on his arm, he awaited the issue. The great guns roared, the bullets rattled, and presently there came an uproar which showed that the assailants had gained the fort, and the shriek and cries of the combatants, and other sounds of a desperate struggle, approached their prison. Just at that juncture the warwhoops of apparently a fresh party burst forth within the fort. The count recognised the cry as that of the Tamoyos. On they came from the opposite side of the fort, and the battle seemed to rage hotter than ever. In the midst of the fierce turmoil the door of their prison was burst open, and Tecumah, leaping in, seized Constance in his arms, while a companion took charge of the count, and hurried him off.

“I promised to save you or perish,” said the Indian. “We had a hard matter to enter the fort, and it will be no less difficult to escape; but I have succeeded thus far, and trust to place you in safety.”

These words were uttered hurriedly, as Tecumah, surrounded by a faithful band, was fighting his way across the fort, in all parts of which a furious battle was raging; the Portuguese and their Indian allies, the Tuparas, having forced an entrance, being engaged with the French and Tamoyos, who were struggling desperately for life.

Bullets were whizzing and arrows flying in all directions; the fierce shouts and shrieks of the combatants sounding above the clash of steel and the rattle of musketry. Numbers and discipline favoured the Portuguese, who had well trained their native allies, while the French mistrusted each other, and had but little confidence in the natives, who, however, were gallantly doing their utmost to assist them, headed by their brave chief, Tuscarora. Tecumah and his faithful band had but one object in view, to rescue Constance and her father. Like a wedge, with their most stalwart warriors in the van, they fought their way through the mass of foes entering the fort towards the outlet which had allowed the latter ingress. Several of their number fell; scarcely one escaped a wound. Still Constance was untouched. Often they were almost overwhelmed. Still on they went, their track marked by the bodies of their foes, and many of their own party. The gateway was reached. Constance felt Tecumah stagger. A fear seized her that he had received a wound; but no cry escaped him, and, recovering himself, he bore her onwards. Scarcely had they emerged into the open, when they encountered a fresh party of the Portuguese. The Tamoyos halted for a moment to draw their bows, and not a shaft failed to pierce a foe, the shower of bullets, which came in return, passing mostly over their heads.

“On! on!” shouted Tecumah, though his voice no longer rang with its usual clear tone.

Constance observed with grief that he was faint and hoarse. His band, obeying him, turned round and shot their arrows as they advanced. Scarcely, however, had they moved forward, when the Portuguese, seeing the handful of men opposed to them, fiercely charged their ranks, Tecumah and only a few of the warriors surrounding him, having got some way in advance, escaping the onslaught; the rest, who had the count in charge, were compelled to halt, in a vain endeavour to withstand their overwhelming foes. The darkness enabled Tecumah, and the few who remained by him, to push on without being observed.

“On! on!” again cried Tecumah. “The rest will follow when they have driven back our enemies.”

“Oh, my father! my father! Where is he?” exclaimed Constance.

Tecumah did not answer her.

Making their way towards the shore, they reached it at length.

“Where are the canoes?” exclaimed Tecumah, looking along the beach where they had been left hauled up.

His companions dispersed on either side to look for them. Their cries told what had happened. Some had been sent adrift, and others had been battered in, and utterly destroyed by a band of Tuparas, as the Tamoyos truly surmised.

“We must make our way to the spot where they have left their canoes,” exclaimed Tecumah; and he again attempted to lift up Constance, who had earnestly entreated to be placed on the ground.

The din of battle still sounded as loud as ever, and the rattle of musketry was heard close at hand. It was evident that the combatants were approaching the shore.

“On! on!” again cried Tecumah; and, lifting up Constance, he was staggering forward, when, faint from loss of blood, he sank on the ground.

At that moment an Indian rushed out of the wood behind them. “Fly! fly! our enemies are at hand. All, all have been cut to pieces. I alone have escaped.”

His arm, as he spoke, dropped by his side, while the blood flowed rapidly from his head, giving evidence of the truth of his assertion.

Constance was kneeling down, trying to staunch the blood flowing from Tecumah’s wound. He raised himself on one arm.

“Think not of me,” he said, “but endeavour, with my faithful friends, who will accompany you, to find concealment among the rocks.”

“We cannot leave you,” answered Constance; “better to yield ourselves prisoners, than to allow you to perish alone.”

“You know not the nature of our enemies,” said Tecumah, faintly; “they spare no one. Fly, fly, while there is time.”

The sounds of fighting were drawing rapidly nearer. All prospect of escape seemed cut off. Constance gazed up for a moment from the task at which she was engaged. Bullets were striking the branches of the trees a short distance from them. Her heart sank with grief. She felt the probability that her father had been cut off with the rest of the brave Tamoyos. Just then one of the Indians exclaimed, “See, see! a canoe approaches.” Constance cast a glance across the waters, and caught a glimpse of a canoe emerging from the darkness. It rapidly approached the beach. The shouts of the Indians showed that friends were on board. Their hails were answered. In another moment Nigel leapt on shore. Tecumah recognised him.

“Save her first—care not for me,” he exclaimed.

Nigel was not likely to disobey such a command, and, taking Constance in his arms, he bore her to the canoe.

“Oh, save our brave friend,” she cried, as she pressed her lips to her husband’s, who immediately sprang back to the beach, and, listening not to Tecumah’s request to be allowed to die where he lay, he carried him, with the assistance of the Indians who still had strength to exert themselves, to the canoe.

Holding the steering paddle in her hands, stood Cora. The instant her brother and Nigel were on board, she gave it a dexterous turn, and the canoe shot away from the shore, impelled by the strokes of two lads who formed the crew. Nigel and an Indian seized two other paddles, and with all their strength urged on the canoe. There was no time to be lost; already they could see a number of dark forms emerging from the wood, while numerous bullets splashed into the water astern. The veil of night would prove their best protection, and every effort was made to get ahead. Cora, believing that they could no longer be seen, directed the canoe on a different course, to one side parallel with the shore, thus avoiding the bullets which were fired in the direction it had last been seen. After going on for some distance, she again steered directly for the opposite shore, which her keen sight could distinguish through the darkness. Meantime, Constance, seated at the bottom of the canoe, supported Tecumah’s head. He gently took her hand, and pressed it to his lips.

“I have more to thank you for than I can express by words,” he whispered, in a low, faltering voice. “I first followed a shadow, but you showed me the glorious reality, and led me to Him, whom to know is life eternal. I die happy, resting in His love, with the thought also that I have preserved your life to be a blessing to one who is worthy of you. I am going quickly, but do not mourn aloud, lest you paralyse the efforts of our friends.”

Constance felt the hand which held hers relax its grasp, and ere long she knew that the spirit of the young Indian had taken its flight to the realms of bliss. She placed his hand on his breast, and, obeying his dying injunctions, refrained from giving way to her feelings. Not till they were near the north shore, and safe for the present from their enemies, did she speak. She then endeavoured to prepare Cora for the discovery of her brother’s death.

“I feared it was so,” replied Cora, when Constance had told her clearly what had happened. “I know, however, that no joy on earth could be more exquisite than that he felt in the consciousness that he had given his life to save yours. I must not mourn for him as those who have no hope. We must not remain here,” continued Cora, as they disembarked from the canoe. “They will certainly pursue us, and we shall not be in safety till we reach our village, where the remnant of our tribe is collected. Alas! there will be bitter grief and loud wailing for the many who have, I fear, fallen.”

With perfect calmness Cora gave directions to her people to convey the body of her brother, and follow quickly, while she led Nigel, who supported Constance, through the woods. Faint and overcome with grief as Constance was, Cora urged, notwithstanding, that they should continue their course without stopping, for she felt convinced that a fearful loss had overtaken her tribe from the account which the last-arrived Indian had given her. He had, he affirmed, before Tecumah and his party had cut their way out of the fort, seen Tuscarora and many of their tribe shot down by the enemy; and he had also witnessed the death of the count. Nigel questioned him narrowly, but could elicit nothing that could shake his testimony.

Sad, indeed, as Cora had expected, was the way in which they were received at her village, and it was feared, indeed, that even it might be attacked while there only remained the old men and boys for its defence. It was proposed, therefore, that they should move further into the country; but Cora urged them to remain, and, as a precaution against surprise, sent out scouts to give timely notice of the appearance of an enemy, or the return of their friends. They all, however, packed up their property, and remained prepared for instant flight.

Chapter Twelve.

Conclusion.

Just as dawn was breaking, a warrior was seen approaching the village. His bow was broken; his dress torn and besmeared with blood. The inhabitants, who were on the watch, anxiously went out to meet him. He hung down his head without uttering a word, and not for some time could he be induced to speak.

At length, a groan bursting from his breast, he exclaimed—

“All, all, are lost! In vain our warriors, led by Tuscarora, fought to the last. One after another they were shot down by the bullets of the white faces, or cut to pieces by the war hatchets of the hated Tuparas. Our French allies, deserting the fort, fought their way to their boats, and, embarking, fled to their ships, leaving us to our fate. Two only with myself escaped by leaping over the walls, and swimming to a canoe floating by. Both of my companions were wounded. As we were paddling on, as fast as our strength would allow, we caught sight of a canoe with two Portuguese boats in pursuit. We were unobserved, but we had too much reason to fear that the canoe was overtaken. Just as we reached the shore, the paddles dropped from the hands of my two companions, and they sank down from loss of blood. When I called to them, they gave no answer. They were both dead. I waited in vain for the arrival of our friends, but none appeared, and I at length came on to bring the sad tidings.”

As the wounded warrior finished his narrative, loud wailings rose from the women in the camp. No threats of vengeance were uttered, for they felt their utter helplessness, and they knew that they themselves might become the prey of any of their foes who might be induced to attack them. At length an old man arose in their midst.

“Give not way to despair, my daughters,” he exclaimed; “you have still many sons. We will fly with them to a place of safety, and there teach them how their brave fathers fought and died with their faces to the foe. They will grow up, and, hearing of their deeds, will imitate their valour, and revenge the deaths of their sires.”

The words of the aged warrior restored the drooping courage of the poor women, and they resolved to follow his counsel. A few men, who from sickness or other causes had not gone forth to battle, and the youths who had not sufficient strength to draw their mighty bows, vowed to defend them and the chief’s daughter to the last gasp. Cora deputed the old warrior to take the lead, and, as they believed the Tuparas, flushed with victory, would ere long pursue them, they immediately set out on their sad journey to the north.

Surrounding Nigel and Constance, they vowed fidelity, promising to obey the last behests of their beloved young chief Tecumah, and to afford them all the support in their power. A small band only of the bravest and most active remained behind to collect any stragglers who might arrive, and to cover the retreat of the main body. Nigel, communicating with the old chief, found that he proposed proceeding northward to a region bordering the sea, inhabited by a scanty tribe, with whom the Tamoyos were on friendly terms, the former having been driven from their own hunting-grounds by a more powerful tribe. This intelligence was satisfactory to Nigel and Constance, as they thus had hopes of being able to communicate with some English or French ship which might appear off the shore.

The spot to which the Tamoyos were directing their course was at length gained. It was a deep wide valley, surrounded by rugged hills, and could not be approached towards the sea except by a narrow gorge, which could be defended by a few brave men, who could lie concealed among the rocks, and hurl down stones on the heads of invaders. The Indians carried with them, as was their custom, cuttings and roots of fruit trees and plants, which they had cultivated in their native district. Without loss of time, they began erecting huts and laying out plantations, the old men and women being generally employed in such occupations, while the young men went out hunting, they having at present to depend on the produce of the chase for their subsistence. The tribe showed the greatest attention to Nigel and Constance, whom they considered committed to their care by their beloved young chief, doing their utmost to secure their comfort and convenience. Indeed, they treated them with the same respect they bestowed on Cora, who was now the acknowledged chieftainess of the tribe. They built a cottage after the model of those they had seen on the island, and laid out a garden, which they planted with fruit trees and vegetables. Nigel and his wife in return, aided by Cora, instructed them in Gospel truth. They also taught them, as far as they had the means, the arts of civilised life. Thus the days went rapidly by. Still, though the young couple enjoyed much happiness, they could not help wishing to return to Europe, while they often thought, with grief, of the loss of the count and of their other beloved friend.

Besides the account brought by the Indian who escaped from the fort, they could gain no further tidings of their fate. Nigel would, had he had himself only to consider, have set out to try and ascertain what had become of the colony, but he could not bring himself to leave Constance, even though he had full confidence in the fidelity of their Indian friends. Cora, to whom Constance expressed Nigel’s wishes, at length promised to send out a scout, who would endeavour to find out what had happened. Nigel gladly accepted Cora’s offer.

Nearly a month had passed since the scout set out, and fears were entertained that he had perished. At last, however, one evening, he was seen descending the side of the hill, along the steep and difficult path by which, as has been said, the valley could alone be reached from the southward; he was accompanied by a white man, whose tottering steps he supported in the difficult descent. As they approached the village, the gaunt form and haggard features of the latter prevented Nigel, who went out to meet them, from recognising him.

“You don’t know me, Monsieur Lieutenant; I am Jacques Baville, whom you knew well as a true Protestant. I assisted the escape of our good minister, Laporte, who was committed to the care of some of the brave Indians by the young chief Tecumah. We fought our way to the water’s side, and embarked in a canoe; but before we had got far, we were chased by two of the enemy’s boats, and captured. We expected instant death, but were reserved for a more cruel fate. We were conveyed to the south shore, where we heard that the forts on the island had all been destroyed, and our countrymen, with the traitor Villegagnon, had sailed away, leaving most of the Protestants to the cruel vengeance of our foes. To commemorate their victory, the Portuguese had resolved, we found, on building a city. One of the first edifices erected was a prison, into which the good minister and several other persons were thrown; while the Tamoyos, who had been taken prisoners, with two other artisans, like myself, were employed, with many people of other tribes, who had been reduced to slavery by the Portuguese, in labouring at the work going forward. A church was next built, and filled full of idols for the people to worship. As soon as it was finished, the minister and other captives were led from the prison, and dragged into it, when they were ordered to worship, as the other people were doing. They refused, however, to how their heads to the saints, or other false gods, but stood motionless, with their arms folded. The priests, on this, reviled them, and threatened them with death if they refused. Still they were firm, declaring that they would not mock God with such senseless ceremonies. On this they were taken back to prison; and we, seeing how they behaved, resolved to imitate them. Several times they were carried before the priests, who sat in the church to try them for what was called their heresy. The trial was still going on when two priests arrived, who declared they had been on board a Portuguese ship, bringing over numerous images and relics and indulgences to Saint Vincente, when she was captured by a French man-of-war, the captain of which had sacrilegiously thrown them into the sea. I, of course, knew that they spoke of the Madeline; and, as you remember, Monsieur Lieutenant, I was on board, I began to fear that I might be recognised. Monsieur Laporte, of course, stated that he was not there, and could, therefore, not be considered guilty of the act of which they complained, supposing that it had taken place. The priests, however, who were eager to find some one on whom to wreak their vengeance, declared that it mattered nothing, even had he not been there, as the act was performed by those of his faith, and was the result of the pernicious doctrines he taught. He defended himself nobly, but was condemned to be burnt alive in the centre of a wide spot, which had been marked out for a square.

“Hoping that I had not been recognised by the priests, I was making my way out of the church, when the keen eyes of one of them fell on me. He instantly ordered me to be seized, and at once declared that he had seen me on board the Madeline, engaged in throwing the trumpery overboard. I would not deny this, but said that I was but doing my duty, and obeying my captain, and that, had he ordered me to throw the two priests themselves overboard, to look after their saints, I should certainly have done so. This enraged them more than ever, and they threatened to burn me with the minister. As I was, however, known to be a good carpenter, the civil officers were not willing to lose my services, and I was sent back to prison.

“In vain they tried to make the good minister recant. He refused to do so. They promised him his life and full pardon, and a good post under government, but he refused all their offers, saying that he would rather die a hundred deaths than abandon the faith of the pure gospel. The next day he was led to the place of execution. We were compelled to be present. The faggots were piled round him. Some of the people, moved with pity, cried out that he should be strangled first, and the executioner himself seemed unwilling to light the pile; when one of the priests, seizing the torch, set fire to the faggots, which quickly blazed up, and our good minister’s soul went to that happy home prepared for him. The priests, having caught sight of me, insisted that I should be thrown into prison to await their pleasure, which I knew very well would be ere long to burn me at the stake.

“Some of our countrymen, I am sorry to say, recanted, and were set free, but others held fast. I determined, however, if I could, to make my escape, should I have strength enough to do so; for we were so poorly fed that I expected, before long, to be starved. All the prisoners had hitherto been confined in a common cell; but after I was condemned, I was placed in one by myself. It was in a new part of the prison, which I had actually been employed in building. The whole structure was of wood, though, at the same time, very strong. I knew that I could not make my way through the walls, nor underground, as the stakes were driven down deep, and no human strength could force them up; but I recollected the way I had put on the roof; and, though the slabs were heavy, I was certain that I could force one of them up sufficiently to allow me to get through. I had not been long shut up, when a priest came, and endeavoured to make me recant, picturing the horrible tortures I should suffer in this world, and in the next, if I refused. I asked him whence he got his authority. He answered from the Church. I replied that the Bible was before the Church; and that the Bible says, ‘Whosoever believeth on Me shall not perish, but have everlasting life;’ and that, though he might burn my body, Christ could save my soul. He replied that the Bible must not be interpreted by laymen, and that the Church had alone the power to explain it. I observed that the Church of Christ had ever explained it exactly as I did, and to that Church I belonged; that the system which he called ‘The Church,’ was built up at Rome by pagan priests, and had ever since been employed in adding falsehood to falsehood, for the sake of imposing on the minds of the people, and compelling them to do their will; and that, if he wished to serve Christ, he must leave his false church, as thousands of my countrymen had done, and tens of thousands in Germany and England, or that he himself would perish eternally. Without saying another word, he left the cell, and I felt pretty sure would not come back again.

“I had a sheath knife, which I had managed to conceal inside my trousers, and immediately set to work, and wrenched up a stool fixed against the wall. There were several nails in it, which I cut out; and then, making a couple of deep notches in one of the angles of the wall, I fixed the bench a certain height below the roof, which enabled me, by standing on it, to force up one of the slabs with my back. Knowing where the nails were driven in, I carefully cut around them, making as little noise as possible. It was, I calculated, about midnight when I had finished my preparations. The slab lifted even more easily than I had expected. I listened for some minutes, expecting to hear the tread of a sentry, but not a sound reached my ears. I had great hopes that he had fallen asleep. Creeping through, I replaced the slab, and dropped without noise to the ground. There were numerous Indians in the camp, many of whom had canoes, for the purpose of fishing. Without loss of time, I crept away, stooping low down, so that, had I been seen, I might be mistaken, in the darkness, for a large dog, or some wild animal prowling about in search of food. I thus, without interruption, made my way down to the shore. There were several canoes hauled up, as I had expected, with paddles left in them. To launch one and to shove off did not occupy much time. The night was dark, but I could make out the opposite shore. With all my might I paddled towards it. On landing, I shoved off the canoe, in the hopes that it would float away, and thus not betray the direction I had taken. Scarcely had I got a hundred yards from the beach, when I encountered this my friend, who conducted me here. I am grieved to bring such tidings, and I fear much that those who remain will be put to death, if they refuse to abandon their faith; and I pray that they may have grace and spirit to continue in it. But I myself must not boast, as I know not what torture and starvation would have led me to do.”

Nigel and Constance heard, with deep sorrow, this account of the martyrdom of their beloved friend and minister; but they were comforted with the knowledge that he had exchanged a life of trial and suffering for a glorious existence in heaven.

Several months passed by. Jacques Baville completely recovered, and was of great assistance in improving their cottage home. He felt, however, even a greater longing than they did to return to his native land.

“Ships may come and go, and we may not see them, unless we are constantly on the watch,” he observed. “I have bethought me of building a hut on the height near the shore; and if you, Monsieur Lieutenant, will supply me with food, I will undertake to keep a bright look-out as long as my eyes last me. We will have a flagstaff and flag, and it will not be my fault if we don’t manage to communicate with any ship which appears off the coast.”

Nigel gladly entered into honest Jacques’s plan, and assisted him in building his hut, and putting up a flagstaff. Still week after week passed by, and Jacques had always the same answer to give when Nigel visited him. Nigel himself had ample occupation in cultivating his garden, varied by hunting expeditions with the Indians. He was returning home one evening, when, as he approached his cottage, Constance came running out to meet him. Her agitation would scarcely allow her to speak.

“Come, Nigel, come! I have been longing for your arrival,” she exclaimed, taking his hand. “An old friend has arrived, and is waiting to see you.”

She led him on, when great was his joy and surprise to see standing in the porch, with outstretched hands, his former commander, Captain Beauport. They entered the cottage, when, sitting down, the captain briefly narrated his history, and the circumstances which had brought him again to the coast of South America. He little expected to find Nigel and Constance alive. The crew and passengers of the ship which was conveying him as a prisoner to France, who were all Protestants, had insisted on his liberation; and the commander, who was well-disposed towards him, had, without much difficulty, yielded to their wishes. By great exertions the ships had been kept afloat; and, after enduring severe hardships, had reached Hennebonne, in France. Here the commander, as directed, delivered his despatches to the chief magistrate, who, providentially for the passengers, was a staunch Protestant. On opening them, he found that the traitor, Villegagnon, had denounced them as arch-heretics, worthy of the stake, and advised that they should be immediately delivered up to punishment. The worthy magistrate, indignant at the treachery with which they had been treated, assisted them by every means in his power; while Captain Beauport, knowing that his life would not be safe should he remain in France, immediately embarked on board a vessel bound for England. He there found many Protestant friends, who had fled to escape the fearful persecutions to which they were subjected in France. By their means he obtained the command of an English ship. He had made two or three short voyages, and had, some time before, come out on an exploring expedition to South America, from which he was returning. He was sailing northward, on his way to England, when he observed Jacques Baville’s signal.

As may be supposed, Nigel and Constance, with honest Jacques, did not lose the opportunity of returning with him. They parted from Cora with sincere regret.

“It is but natural that you should wish to dwell in your own country, and among your own people,” said the Indian girl. “My love makes me wish to accompany you, but my duty compels me to remain with my tribe. On our hearts your images will remain engraved as long as they beat with life.”

She, with all her people, attended them to the beach, as they put off towards the ship, which lay at anchor in the harbour. As long as any object was visible on the shore, Cora was seen waving her adieus. The sails were spread to the wind, and the ship glided out into the ocean on her destined course towards the shores of England.

They reached that land of freedom in safety, and Nigel resolved to take up his residence here, with his young wife, rather than expose her to the dangers to which she would be subjected in her native land. He wrote to honest Maître Leroux, who had heard from the count of Constance’s marriage, and was ready to pay over to Nigel the rents of the estate.

During the occasional intervals of peace, Nigel paid several visits to Tourville, and, on the death of the steward, sold the estate, and invested the money in an English property, both he and his wife agreeing that it was far better to live on moderate means in a land where they could enjoy the blessings of civil and religious liberty, than in any country under the galling yoke of Papal tyranny.

The End.

W H G Kingston

"Fred Markham in Russia"

Chapter One.

A Trip to Russia proposed—Cousin Giles and his History—Preparations for the Voyage—Journey to Hull—The Steamer described—The Voyage commenced—A Fog at Sea.

“Thank you, thank you; it will be very delightful,” said Fred Markham.

“It will be jolly, that it will!” exclaimed his younger brother Harry; and home they ran as fast as their legs could carry them to find their father and mother.

“Oh, father, father!—mother, mother!—may we go? May we go?” they exclaimed in a breath together. “Cousin Giles has asked us, and he says that he will take very good care of us, and that he is not joking; that he is in real earnest, and that, if you will give us leave to go, he wishes to set off immediately.”

“But you have not told us where you wish to go to,” said Captain Markham. “If it should chance to be to Timbuctoo, to the Sandwich Islands, or to the antipodes, I fear that I must refuse your request.”

“Even should Cousin Giles be answerable for your safe return, I could not part with you for so long a time as would be required to go to either of those regions of the world,” added their mother, smiling.

“But it is not to Timbuctoo, nor to the Sandwich Islands, nor to any place near so far off that Cousin Giles wants to take us,” replied Fred eagerly. “It is only to Russia, and that is no distance at all, he says.”

“Only to Russia!” exclaimed Captain Markham, with an emphasis on the only. “That country used to be thought a long way off from England in my younger days; but railways and steamers have worked a great change in our notions of distances. We must, however, hear what Cousin Giles has to say before we decide on the subject.”

The lads had not to endure their uncertainty very long before Cousin Giles made his appearance, his somewhat weather-beaten countenance beaming with a glow of benevolence and vivacity which seldom forsook it. Now it must be understood that Cousin Giles was not really the young Markhams’ cousin, any more than he was that of several other families in the county who called him by the same affectionate name. He was a lieutenant in the navy, but, having received a severe wound in battle, which incapacitated him, he considered, from doing his duty properly, he retired from the service, though he ultimately recovered sufficiently to travel about without inconvenience. As in the course of his professional career he had visited the sea-coasts of nearly every part of the world, besides taking journeys inland from them, while he made his observations on what he saw, he possessed a large fund of information. What was also of great consequence, he had a considerable talent for describing what he had seen. Besides possessing these qualifications, being the life and spirit of every juvenile party, and the promoter of all sports and pastimes in-doors and out of doors, he was a welcome guest, both, with old and young, at every friend’s house which he could find time to visit. More than all this, he was a religious, honourable, generous-hearted man. He could not, therefore, fail to be a most desirable travelling companion for his young friends. He had been several times to sea with their father, who was himself a captain in the navy, and who had the greatest confidence in him.

“What is all this, my dear fellow, the boys are saying about Russia?” asked Captain Markham as he entered the room.

“Why, that I have bethought me of paying a visit this summer to the land of the Czar; that I want companions; that I like young ones, who will follow my ways better than old ones, who won’t; that I enjoy fresh ideas freshly expressed, and am tired of stale platitudes; in short, if you will entrust your youngsters to me, I will take charge of them, and point out what is mostly worth seeing and remembering at the places we visit.”

“I cannot refuse you, Fairman,” replied Captain Markham. “You offer is a very kind one, and the boys cannot fail to benefit by the excursion.”

“Do not talk about that,” said Cousin Giles, interrupting him. “Fred must undertake to keep a log, and note down all our adventures.”

Fred, though somewhat diffident of his powers of composition, promised to do his best, and Mrs Markham begged that Harry might keep another note-book for her especial edification.

“All I bargain for,” she added, “is to have descriptions of scenes written down as soon as visited, and ideas as soon as they occur.”

“By all means, freshness is what we want,” said Cousin Giles. “A short sketch made on the spot is worth a volume of after-recollections.”

Thus the matter was speedily arranged. Before he left the house, their kind friend gave the young travellers a list of the things they would require. He would allow them only a small portmanteau apiece, which they could carry in their hands. He told them each to take a warm greatcoat, and a complete suit of waterproof clothing, including boots and hat. “Thus,” said he, “you will be independent of the weather, and need never be kept in the house, however hard it may rain.” He told them that, although the weather is frequently much hotter during the summer in Russia than in England, yet that at times it is as rainy, and cold, and variable as at that season of the year at home. Their Bibles, a history of Russia, and a volume of travels in that country were the only books he would let them take, advising them thoroughly to master the contents of the history and travels before they reached Saint Petersburg. He had got, he said, a good map of Russia, and a chart of the Baltic, which they were to study; as also a book called, What to Observe; or, The Traveller’s Remembrancer, which is not only full of useful information, but also turns a travellers attention to what is most worth remarking abroad. Fred Markham was about fifteen; his brother, a year younger. Both of them were fine, intelligent lads. Cousin Giles was not far removed from fifty, thin and sinewy, though strongly built, and not tall, with large hard hands, which gave a warm, cordial grasp to a friend and a firm one to a rope; his heart was like them as to size, but a great contrast to them in hardness—a more thorough-going, honest sailor never existed.

No merrier party ever left London than the three travellers who started by the mail train for Hull a few nights after the above conversation. They put up at the Railway Hotel, which Cousin Giles said reminded him of a Spanish palace. In the centre is a large court glazed over, with an ottoman instead of a fountain in the centre, and broad flights of stairs on either side leading to the upper chambers. The younger travellers had never before been in so large and comfortable a hotel. Their first care in the morning was to visit the steamer Ladoga, in which they had taken their passage to Saint Petersburg. She was a gaily-painted, sharp-built, fast-looking screw.

“She’ll carry us there quickly enough, if at all,” muttered Cousin Giles. “But she’s not the craft I should have chosen.”

She had only a small part of her cargo on board, and yet the master promised to sail on the following morning. The boys were incredulous.

“Modern cranes, system, and activity will work wonders,” said Cousin Giles; and he was right.

By nine o’clock the next morning the vessel was ready to sail. They spent the interim in walking about the docks, full of vessels of all nations,—sixteen steamers, they heard, ran between Hull and Saint Petersburg,—in looking at the quaint old houses of the town, and in visiting the monument raised to Wilberforce,—a lofty pillar, the first object which greets the mariner as he returns home. At the base is a simple inscription: “Negro Emancipation, 1832.”

“How far more worthy was he of the pillar than most people who have monuments raised to them; and yet how he would have despised such an honour, unless it induces others to labour as he did for the benefit of their fellow-creatures,” remarked Cousin Giles. “Remember, my lads, this monument, and endeavour to walk in that great man’s footsteps.”

A lovely morning found the voyagers on board the Ladoga, and, after much pulling and hauling, clear of the docks, and steaming down the Humber.

Cousin Giles face wore an expression of dissatisfaction as he found her deck crowded with huge, heavy iron machines and bales of cotton.

“This is nothing; we are often obliged to carry twice as much deck cargo,” said the master. “Competition is so great, we must do everything to make the vessel pay.”

“Were a heavy gale to spring up, it is your underwriters would have to pay, I suspect,” answered. Cousin Giles.

“Oh, you don’t know what this vessel would go through,” replied the young master.

“Humph!” remarked the old lieutenant; “I know where she would go to if you did not heave all this deck lumber overboard.”

“I presume you have been to sea before?” said the master.

“At times,” answered Cousin Giles quietly.

England sends large quantities of machinery of all sorts to Russia. The cotton had come from America to Liverpool, had been thence sent across the country by railway to Hull, and was going to supply numerous manufactories of cotton goods which have been established in Russia, and fostered by high protective duties. They are chiefly managed by Englishmen, and the foremen are mostly English or German. Manual labour is cheaper than in England, as is the expense of erecting the buildings; but, as all other items cost much more, the Russians have to pay very dearly for the cotton goods they use. Even with the high duties imposed on them, they can buy English manufactures cheaper than their own.

In addition to the cargo on deck, there were twelve fine horses which an English groom was taking over for a Russian nobleman, who was to figure at the approaching coronation of the Emperor. The Russians set great value on English horses, and employ a considerable number of English grooms, many of whom raise themselves to respectable situations, as had the man who had charge of the horses in question.

There were several other passengers, some of whom were English merchants who had resided in Russia for many years, and from them the friends gained a considerable amount of valuable information. This Cousin Giles had particularly the art of eliciting from his companions, and Fred and Harry had abundance to do in noting it down. The cabins and saloon were both comfortable and handsome. The latter was lined with mahogany, had gilt mouldings, and the sofas which surrounded it were covered with cool, clean, antibilious-looking chintz, while in the centre there was a sociable table, with a skylight overhead. Everything, also, was provided by the young master to conduce to the comfort of his passengers.

On the afternoon of the day they sailed, the sky looked wildish, and the master prognosticated either wind or heavy rain. A thunder-storm played at a distance round the ship; the lightning flashed vividly, but scarcely a mutter of the clouds’ artillery was heard; some heavy showers fell, then the weather cleared up. The stars shone forth brightly from the clear sky, and the waning moon arose and shed her silvery light on the calm water, over which the breeze played with just sufficient strength to crisp it into silvery wavelets. It was a night for meditation and prayer. Unhappy is the state of man who can look forth from the deck of a ship on such a scene and not feel gratitude to the Framer of the magnificent firmament above him,—whom it does not make more meditative, more prayerful, than his wont,—whom it does not cause to think of eternity.

The next day a bright silvery fog hung over the sea, yet so dense that no eye could pierce the bowsprit’s length through it. The engines were therefore put at half their power, yet even then the vessel went nearly seven knots through the water.

The lads were delighted with the smooth, easy way in which the vessel glided on. They remarked it to Cousin Giles.

“You think it is very pleasant, because you see no danger, my dear boys,” he answered. “Much the same aspect does vice bear to the young, while they shrink with fear from the storm of adversity. Now, ‘a wise seaman dreads a calm near a coast where there are currents, and a fog far more than heavy gales of wind in the open ocean.’ Put that down in your log,—it is worth remembering, as the lesson you have learned from a calm and a fog.”

Chapter Two.

Cousin Giles finds an old Shipmate—Tom Puffing’s Account of the Wreck of the Victoria—Miraculous Escape of Part of the Crew—God’s merciful Providence displayed—Cousin Giles converses with the Crew—First Sight of Denmark, Elsinore, and its Castle—View of Copenhagen—Description of the Battle and its Cause—Sunday Service on board Ship—Voyage up the Baltic—The Gulf of Finland—Cronstadt and its Batteries—Why the British did not take them—The Czar’s Mode of Manning a Ship in a Hurry—The Russian Fleet—Leave their Steamer and proceed towards Saint Petersburg.

Cousin Giles soon found his way forward, over the bales of cotton and piles of hay, followed by Fred and Harry, and entered into conversation with the crew. He had not been long there when an old weather-beaten seaman put his head up the fore hatchway. “Ah! Tom Pulling. I thought that I had caught sight of the face of an old shipmate,” exclaimed Cousin Giles, stretching out his hand. “How fares it with you?”

The old man’s countenance brightened as he returned the grasp warmly.

“Is it you, indeed? I am glad to see you—that I am,” he answered. “I’ve a good berth now, though I’ve had knocking about enough since I sailed with you last in the Juno. I was cast away in these very parts some time back, and never had a narrower chance of losing my life, so to speak.”

Cousin Giles asked old Tom how this had happened. The other seamen who were not on duty drew near to listen to the old man’s oft-spun yarn, and our young friends stood by, eager to hear what he had got to say.

“Why, you see, sir,” he replied, “after I was discharged from the old Melampus, I thought I’d try if a short-voyage steamer would suit me better than a man-of-war, seeing that I’d got a wife and family to look after; so I shipped on board the Victoria steamer, running from the port of Hull to Saint Petersburg. It was our last voyage that year. About the 6th of November, I think, we left the Humber; but we hoped to get to Cronstadt and away again before the ice set in. The weather was as fair as could be wished for, and with smooth water; so we all made up our minds that we were going to have a quick run of it. Howsomever, the wind breezed up a little on the second day, and by nightfall it blew pretty freshish, with a heavyish sea on. We had much the same sort of weather on the third day, and at night it came on so thick and dark that we could not see our hands held out before us. Still all seemed going on well. We supposed that we were steering a course through the Skaggerack, with a good offing from the land, when, just about the middle of the first watch, as the passengers were in the cabin, maybe thinking of turning in to their warm beds all snug, and talking of what they would do next day at Copenhagen, where we were to touch, without an instant’s warning—bang! Crash!—loud shrieks and cries of terror were heard, the ship quivered from stem to stern as if her last moment was come. It was not far off, either; the sea came roaring up abaft and made a clean sweep over her. She had struck heavily on a rock of some sort, that was certain; but where we were, or how it had happened, no one could tell. Every one was running here and there, crying for help, when there was no one to help them; some took to praying, some to blaspheming; terror seemed to have taken away their senses. I did think that all of us had seen the sun rise for the last time, for it was too dark by far to allow us to try and help ourselves; and, from the way the sea kept striking the ship, I knew full well she could not long hold together.

“Well, Mr Fairman, I’m not ashamed to say I prayed as I never prayed before; and, you’ll believe me, sir, I felt a comfort and an assurance of my Maker’s protection which also I had never felt before. As my ears caught the sound of the dreadful oaths of the blasphemers, I thought of the Day of Judgment. When that awful time comes, and the world breaks up like the ship, how will such men and many others, amid the clouds and thick darkness which will surround them, be able to pray? No; they’ll blaspheme on, as they are doing now, to the end. The captain, to do him but justice, behaved nobly. He did his best to keep order and discipline on board. He told the people that, if they would but remain by the ship, they all might be saved. He could not say, like Saint Paul, they would be saved. Few listened to him; some, however, stayed by his side and promised to support him. They had been on their knees asking support for themselves; whence only it can come, you know, sir. Others, on the contrary, got hold of one of the boats, and began to lower her into the water. The captain prayed and begged of them to desist, but they would not hearken to him. There were some of the crew and some of the passengers, and when he tried to prevent them they threatened to heave him overboard. At last they got the boat into the water, and eight of them jumped into her and shoved off from the ship’s side. In an instant, as he had told them it would be, the boat was capsized, and all hands were thrown into the raging sea. One poor wretch had on a life-preserver—he thought, at all events, that he was all safe, and that he could not drown; the rest had nothing to float them. For half a minute their cries were heard, and then they sank nearly all together, and his voice alone struck our ears, shrieking out for help, but no help could be given him. He was striking out for the ship, I judged; sometimes by his voice he seemed to have got nearer, but that might have been my fancy; then a sea came rolling by, and drove him farther off again. It was very dreadful to hear that poor dying wretch, and not be able to help him. He was a strong man, and for long struggled on; nearly an hour perhaps passed, but his voice grew fainter and fainter, and at last was no longer heard.

“All this time the ship was striking heavily, hammering away on the rock as if she was pile-driving. We burned all the blue lights we had on board, in the hopes of drawing the attention of some fishermen or other passing craft; but they only enabled those on board to see the horrors of our situation. Nearly four hours had thus passed, when a shout from the cook, who said he saw a signal, made us fancy help was coming to us; but in another minute we found that it was only the moon rising through a gap in the clouds. We all earnestly longed for morning, for till daylight came we could do nothing. The moon only served to show us more clearly the horrors of our situation. Piece after piece of the vessel was washed away, but still all those who remained round the captain were safe. At last there was a faint light in the east; it grew stronger and stronger, and there was twilight enough to let us see to the distance of a mile or two. About a mile off appeared a rock high enough out of the water to serve us as a refuge. The captain at once ordered a boat to be lowered, and all the women and children to be put into her, with five men to pull her to the rock. It was a work of no little danger to the poor creatures, but we at last got them all safe off, and with many a prayer watched them till they reached the rock. We had another boat, and there were fourteen of us remaining on the wreck. We all got into her, but we instantly saw that thus crowded she would be swamped before she could reach the shore. ‘Never mind, my fine fellows, I’ll stay by the wreck!’ exclaimed the captain, jumping on board again. ‘Who’ll follow me?’

“‘I’ll stay by you, captain,’ said I; and five others said the same. The rest shoved off, and reached the rock in safety, but the sea was too high to allow the boat to return. Then we seven souls were left on the wreck, which was every moment breaking up beneath our feet. The after-part of the vessel was soon completely gone—then we retreated forward; then the forecastle—that soon began to break up, and we had to hold on amidships. We tried to keep up each other’s spirits by telling how seamen had often been preserved in worse situations even than ours, and most of us did not cease to pray to God to save us. The sea, after we returned on board the wreck, got up even more than before.

“At last a sea, still heavier than the rest, came rolling towards us. ‘Hold on! Hold on, my lads, for your lives!’ shouted our brave captain; but in a minute there was scarcely anything to hold on to. He himself was carried away some fathoms from the wreck. Our situation was bad enough, but it did not make us forget our captain. We would have done anything to help him, but there was not a rope we could lay hold of to heave to him. By God’s mercy he had on a life-belt, and he got hold of a piece of plank. Thus he kept afloat, and, working away with his feet, he was able once more to reach the wreck. His return—it seemed almost to life—cheered us up not a little. No long time, however, passed before another sea struck the fragments to which we clung, knocking them all to pieces, and sending us to float alone on the waves. One part only of the wreck remained above the water—it was the boiler. We all swam back to it, and clung on as well as we could; but we saw that, what with the cold and the sea, which kept breaking over us, we should soon be washed off again. ‘If we could but get inside the boiler, we might find some shelter,’ said the captain; but, try all we could, we could not make a hole big enough to get through. We were almost in despair. A fourth great sea came tumbling in on us. We all thought that it would prove our destruction; so did the captain. ‘Good-bye, my lads, good-bye!’ he exclaimed. ‘God have mercy on us all!’ On came the breaker, and for a moment we were all under it. When it cleared away, we were still holding on.

“Directly afterwards the engineer gave a shout of joy. ‘See what Providence has sent us!’ he cried out, as he held up a large pair of blacksmith’s pincers which that very sea we thought would destroy us had washed on to the boiler. ‘God intends us to save our lives,’ he added; for he was a pious man, and always acknowledged whence all blessings come to us. We set to work manfully with the pincers, and soon forced off enough of the top of the boiler to let us all creep in. We felt that it was firmly fixed on the rock, and here we were much more sheltered than before from the sea. Hunger and cold next began to tell on us. We had not before had time to feel either. One of our men had an apple in his pocket. He handed it to the captain. ‘There, captain,’ said he, ‘what is sent to one is sent to all. Serve it out, if you please, among us: if any one has a quid in his pouch, or a bit of biscuit, let him do the same!’ We all felt in our pockets, but could find nothing to eat; so the captain took the apple, and, cutting it into seven bits, each took one, and munched away at it as long as it would stay in our mouths. All the time we were looking out anxiously for a sail, but nothing could we see but the dark, tumbling, foaming breakers around us. Not even the rock where our companions had got could we see. Noon passed, hour after hour crept by after it, the horrors of another night threatened us, and we began to give way to despair. Some of us talked of giving up, and dropping into the sea. The captain rebuked the grumblers sternly. ‘You heard what the engineer said, my lads: “God intends to save our lives,” and I feel now he was right.’ Scarcely had he spoken when the engineer shouted out, ‘A sail! A sail!’ We all looked out eagerly. There was a fishing-boat standing towards us. In half an hour she had hove-to to leeward of the wreck. Her brave crew lowered their sail and pulled in towards us: but they could not venture very near, and it was no easy matter to get on board. All we could do was to wait till the seas washed over us, and then one by one we plunged in; and they carried us clear of the rocks, which would otherwise have knocked us to pieces. Thus we all got on board the little craft, and were carried safely on shore. The same fishing-boat had before taken off our companions from the rock, and they had then sent her to our assistance.

“Now you will like to know how the accident happened without any blame to the captain, or any one on board? The truth was that we had, as part of the cargo, a quantity of iron. This had set all our compasses wrong, making us twenty or thirty miles out of our course at least. I’ve often since thought, Mr Fairman, if we hadn’t a true compass to steer by like the Bible, which of us would escape the rocks which lie in our course in life; and it’s my opinion that those who do steer by it never get far wrong.”

The young travellers thanked old Tom very much for his interesting narrative, and Cousin Giles spun a long yarn with him afterwards about old times. Cousin Giles had also a talk with each of the crew, and gave them some books and tracts, for which they were very thankful.

All Friday night the lead was kept going, for the master judged that they ought to have been in the very centre of the Skaggerack passage, which is very deep; but it told him that the ship was still in shallow water. The very same circumstance which caused the loss of the Victoria had happened to them. Their compasses, attracted by some of the iron in the ship, were not pointing truly. They had reason to be thankful that the error was discovered in time, or they might have suffered the same disasters they had lately heard described. When the fog cleared away, they found that they were off the coast of Jutland, twenty miles south of where they should have been. In the afternoon they sighted the Scaw lighthouse, built on a sandy point, with sand hills, and a ruined church on them—no very interesting object, except as being the first part they saw of Denmark.

Sunday morning, at five o’clock, the steward called to them to say that they were close to Elsinore. They hurried on deck, and found that they were passing that far-famed castle, where the ghost of Hamlet’s father was wont to walk and tell its tale of horrors to any one it might chance to meet and had time to stop and listen to it. Seen in the bright glow of the morning sun, the castle had a pleasing, cheerful aspect, with nothing of the dark, gloomy, hobgoblin style of architecture about it, such as Mrs Radcliffe delighted to describe. It stands on a narrow neck of land a little to the north of the town, and is of a quadrangular form, with three Moorish-looking towers and a square one of modern style at the four corners. It is surrounded by a fosse and low ramparts, of a modern style of fortification. The royal family of Denmark came occasionally to the castle to enjoy sea-bathing for a few days. The Sound is here very narrow, the shore of Sweden being not more than three or foul miles off. It was crowded with shipping, the place serving as a roadstead for Copenhagen, which is about twenty miles distant. In the forenoon they came off Copenhagen, but did not touch there. The nearest point to them was the Trekroner, or Three-crown Battery, as an artificially-formed island directly in front of the city is called. This is the point which, in the attack under Nelson, gave the British so much trouble, and cost so many lives. Beyond it, within a mole, were seen the masts of some shipping, and behind them arose towers and spires and public edifices, and trees, and houses of various shapes, springing, as it seemed, out of the water.

Cousin Giles gave the lads a description of the battle of Copenhagen, which was fought on the 2nd of April 1801. The destruction of the Danish fleet was a sad necessity. The attack was made on our old allies and natural friends, to prevent their fleet from falling into the power of Napoleon, who would have employed it against us. The Danes have not yet forgotten that untoward event.

For most of the day they steamed on with the shores both of Sweden and Denmark in sight. The usual morning work of the ship having been got through, Cousin Giles asked the captain if he ever had service on board.

“When we have a clergyman,” was the answer.

“How often is that?”

“Once I took one over; but, to be sure, he was sick, and had to cut it short.”

“Then, how often are you in port on a Sunday?”

“Not often in England, and sometimes in foreign parts we are so pressed for time that we are obliged to be discharging or taking in cargo on a Sunday.”

“I am sorry to hear that. Sailing-vessels used seldom to be so pressed. But why do not you hold service for your people at sea, at all events?” said Cousin Giles.

“I!—how should such an one as I hold service?” replied the master simply. “The men are accustomed to hear me swear at them and abuse them. They would laugh if I proposed to pray with them.”

“Leave off swearing, and take to praying, then, my friend,” said Cousin Giles solemnly. “Ask yourself which is the best of the two.”

“I am afraid I should make but a bad hand at the prayers,” said the master carelessly.

“Try,” answered Cousin Giles earnestly. “But, my friend, if you will give me leave, I will hold a service on the sacred day of rest, and perhaps some of the passengers may join us.”

“The passengers may, but I don’t think you’ll get many of my fellows to attend your service,” was the reply.

“I will try, at all events, if I have your permission,” said Cousin Giles.

“Oh, certainly, certainly,” replied the master in a somewhat supercilious tone; but he was not a little puzzled to make out what sort of man Cousin Giles could be.

Cousin Giles on this went forward, and spoke to each of the men separately, in his own peculiar, kind way, and told them that he was anxious to thank his Maker and theirs for all the mercies they had so often received, and invited them to join him in that act of devotion in about an hour’s time.

They all not only willingly but gladly assented to his proposal, and promised to go aft when they were summoned. Although the master had not discovered that Cousin Giles was a seaman, they had, and knew him to be a true man. He then returned aft, and spoke to the passengers in the same strain, and but very few refused to join the service. Two said they would think about it; one had an interesting book to finish; and another asked him if he was a parson, and said he only attended services held by properly ordained ministers.

At the appointed hour, to the surprise of the master, every seaman, engineer, and stoker who was not on duty came up to the wide deck over the engine, and most of the passengers assembled there likewise. Never was there a more attentive congregation. Cousin Giles read part of the Church of England Liturgy, and then spoke to them from the fifteenth chapter of Saint John’s Gospel: “I am the true vine.” Those who heard him said that he explained the subject well, and that what he said went to their hearts. The reason of this was, that he was deeply in earnest, and anxious about the souls of his hearers. The master began even to think that he was a parson in disguise.

The steamer passed several islands, and on Monday was running up the Baltic in a perfect calm, the hot sun striking down on her decks, with its shining brightness dazzling the eyes of the passengers, the numerous vessels they passed having their canvas hanging idly down against their masts.

On Tuesday morning they were at the entrance of the Gulf of Finland, and in the evening they were passing the island of Nargen, with the town of Revel, just rising out of the water, seen through their glasses beyond it on the starboard hand.

The morning of Wednesday broke cold and grey, but in the forenoon the sun burst forth and shone brightly; and the sea was rippled over by a westerly breeze, which increased every hour in strength, and carried before it numberless vessels of all nations and rigs, though the galliots of Holland undoubtedly predominated. About noon, in this numerous company, they passed the lighthouse on the island of Tolbuken, which was held by the English during the late war, and whence the British officers with their glasses could discover all that was going on behind the batteries of Cronstadt. At about half-past one, a gun fired across the bows of the steamer by the Russian guardship hinted to her that she must heave-to; which being done, some officers came on board to examine her papers and the passengers’ passports, to drink the master’s wine, or spirits, or bottled ale, and carry away any gunpowder or fireworks which might be on board. Ahead lay a large Russian fleet of line-of-battle ships, frigates, steamers, brigs, and schooners, now at length able to show their noses out of port; while a little way beyond rose those formidable batteries which had so lately, by their very appearance, been able to damp the ardour of some of England’s naval chieftains. On the left side was the island of Cronstadt, with its fortifications, its town with its spires and domes, and its harbour, capable of sheltering a large man-of-war fleet; and on the right, opposite to it, were two circular batteries, which looked like huge white factories rising out of the water; only instead of windows, there were ports, while enormous guns in lieu of rainspouts crowned their summits, without even a parapet to hide their carriages. On the southern part of the chief island was a similar tower.

Most of the passengers had some favourite plan of their own for taking the fortress,—especially some commercial travellers, who were loud in their expressions of scorn at the want of success of Napier and Dundas, and the sad degeneracy of the British navy. Cousin Giles was much amused, and advised them to lay their plans before the English Government, and to offer their services as commanders-in-chief of her fleets and armies.

As the vessels steamed on, the travellers had on their left side the rocky and wood-covered heights of Finland, between which and the island of Cronstadt there is a narrow but tolerably deep passage. Through this passage, which was unknown to the Russians themselves, the English admiral proposed to send up a fleet of gun-boats and small steamers had the attack on the fortress been resolved on. On the right hand from this entrance into the Gulf of Finland they had had the province of Esthonia. They now had that of Saint Petersburg, the shores of which appeared high and well wooded. They by this time had reached what may be considered nearly the end of the Gulf of Finland; for, although above Cronstadt there is still a fine expanse of water, it is generally very shallow, there being only a narrow and intricate channel, worked by the strong current of the Neva.

Among the various craft they passed, they were much amused by the little Finnish schooners, which went careering on before the breeze, laden chiefly with firewood, or some other not very valuable cargo, for the Saint Petersburg markets. They were built of fir, with very little paint, very few ropes, and had very white canvas. Altogether they had, as Cousin Giles observed, an exceedingly fresh-water look about them. The Finns who manned them were, however, hardy fellows, and formed by far the best seamen on board the Russian men-of-war. The Russians are not good salt-water sailors; they have no taste for the sea, and are not likely to obtain it. Peter the Great tried to form a navy. He succeeded in building ships, but it was quite a different thing when he tried to find seamen to man them. A gentleman on board told the lads a story, and they much wished to know if he could vouch for its truth. The late Emperor Nicholas on some occasion wanted to send a line-of-battle ship in a hurry to sea. No men were to be found. The Emperor was indignant that anything should oppose his imperial will. He stormed and raged; but even to appease his wrath no men could be made to rise out of the earth. At last his eyes fell on a regiment of dragoons who were defiling slowly by.

“Ah!” he exclaimed, as a bright thought struck him, “why should not those tall fellows make good seamen?” He called the colonel to him. “Colonel,” said he; “order your men to dismount, and do you and your officers lead them on board that ship, and get her under weigh immediately. There is no time to be lost. You’ll have something to learn, probably; but that does not matter—it is my will—do it.”

The poor colonel knew that there was no use expostulating. The men were ordered aloft—cocked hats, jack-boots, and spurs. Up they went, the upper ones with their dreadful spurs catching those following by eyes, or noses, or mouths; and the surprising thing was that any got up at all. There is, however, nothing that a Russian cannot do, in a way, when put to it. The topsails were at length loosed, the anchor was got up, and the ship was actually under weigh; but where she went to, or if she ever went anywhere at all, their friend could not exactly say.

All this time the steamer was passing among the Russian men-of-war. Some of them were huge, towering line-of-battle ships, and all of them, outwardly at least, were in prime order. At length the steamer ran in past a high white tower between two piers, the screw stopped, she was hauled alongside a wharf, and the voyage was ended. Instantly she was filled with men in grey and blue uniforms. They were custom-house officers, who came professedly to prevent smuggling, but in reality to collect any fees they could pick up.

The travellers now heard for the first time the incomprehensible sounds of the Russian language, while their eyes were amused with the various and strange costumes of the wild-looking shouting people who surrounded them. Some of the officers had shaven chins, but most of the people had long beards, and straggling hair flowing from beneath their caps; but, unattractive as were their countenances generally, they wore an aspect of good-nature and simplicity which made amends for their ugliness.

In a short time a little steamer came alongside the Ladoga, into which the passengers and their luggage were transferred, to be conveyed up to Saint Petersburg under charge of a party of the militarily-equipped custom-house officers. The little satellite shoved off from the side of the big steamer, the master stood on the taffrail with his hat in his hand, the passengers waved theirs; and thus they bade farewell, most of them for ever, to the ill-fated Ladoga. After leaving the mole, they passed along the wharves of the Imperial Dockyard, within which were collected a great number of line-of-battle ships and frigates laid up in ordinary, which, as Fred said, looked like idle sulky fellows shut up in a poor-house with nothing to do.

“Very fine ships,” said Cousin Giles; “but without the men to handle them, in spite of their long guns, they are like dogs with broken legs: they may bark and howl, and gnash their teeth, but they can do no further harm. We should not despise Russia, but we need not be frightened at her.”

Their helmsman, who stood with the tiller between his legs, with his hands crossed and hid in his “Bosom,” was a picture in himself. A low cap covered a head of shaggy reddish hair, while his thick straggly beard was of the same hue. His upper man was clothed in a coarse white jersey, beneath which appeared the tail of a red-striped shirt, while his widish green cloth trousers were tucked in high leather black boots. He was a fine big fellow, and had a seaman’s air about him, so that he might have served as a model of a Scandinavian rover ten centuries ago. There were a number of other, to the young travellers, strange-looking figures, helmeted, long-cloaked, thick-bearded and moustached beings, who, with piles of luggage, crowded the decks; and in this numerous company away they hurried towards the modern capital of the Czars.

Chapter Three.

Distant View of Saint Petersburg—How it is built—Enter the City of the Czar—Its Appearance at First Sight—Mount a Drosky—The Travellers reach their Hotel—Outline Sketch of Saint Petersburg—A Tour round the City—Its Palaces and Public Buildings.

“There it is! There it is! There’s the city—Saint Petersburg itself!” exclaimed the young travellers, as, directly ahead, appeared rising out of the water a line of golden domes, and tall spires and towers, glittering brightly in the sun, like some magic city of ancient romance. Conspicuous above all was the superb pile of the Isaac Church, the most modern sacred edifice in the city, and by far the finest; and near it was seen the graceful tower of the Admiralty, tapering up like a golden needle into the blue sky. Soon other buildings—hospitals, and palaces, and houses, and towers, either not so lofty or farther off—rose to view; but no land could be discovered on which their bases might rest. This vast city, they learned, was built by the imperial will of Peter the Great on a marsh, he hoping to make it a great maritime port. Every house in it stands on a platform of piles, driven far down into the soft ground. Before a building can be erected, it is necessary thus to prepare its foundations, often at an enormous expense.

The shores of the lake-like expanse along which they were steering were covered with woods, from among which peeped the gilt domes of the Imperial Palace of Peterhoff, and many other golden cupolas and spires, and marble-white towers, and walls of churches and monasteries, and palaces and villas, and also some stables, larger than any other edifice in the neighbourhood, belonging to the Grand Duke Michael. On a hill above them, a little distance to the west, appeared the unpretending villa of the late Emperor. It is exactly like a second-class country house. Here he used to delight to retire with his family from the cares of state, and to throw aside completely all imperial grandeur.

“Ah! Notwithstanding his overpowering ambition, his towering pride and haughtiness, that villa alone shows that he was a man after all,” observed a fellow-passenger to Cousin Giles.

The head of the gulf narrowed a little, but very little, as they advanced. A few buildings now appeared ahead, and their friend was pointing out to the young travellers the walls of some barracks burnt long ago, and the ancient galley mole which sheltered the Russian galleys in the war with the Swedes, when on a sudden they found themselves among vast warehouses and manufactories, and tanneries and granaries, and the magnificent foundry and private residence of Baron Baird, who is by birth and education an Englishman. All the buildings are on the banks of the Neva, close to its very mouth. The steamer making several sharp turns among crowds of steamers and shipping of all sorts, they speedily found themselves in a region of colleges, and palaces, and churches, and other public buildings, the houses, which anywhere else would be palaces, each vying with the other in size and magnificence, and forming a vast street, the clear, rapid Neva flowing down the centre, with superb granite quays on each side of it. Nowhere in the world is there a finer street, though the height of the houses is lost from its great expanse. Along the line on either side arise marble columns and golden spires and domes innumerable, the two sides being connected by one bridge of iron—massive it must be to stand the ice—and several bridges of boats, which can be removed at the approach of winter; while in the centre of the stream were men-of-war and other steamers, and numerous vessels which had brought articles for the Saint Petersburg market. On the right side was the English quay, with a handsome building at one end, used as an English hotel. Farther on was the English church; and extending far away beyond it was palace after palace, many in the Italian style, the mighty pile of the Winter Palace being conspicuous above all, though in the far distance; and yet numberless other proud edifices were to be seen reaching to the same distance from it on one side as they do on the other. The travellers had little time to observe these wonders before the steamer brought up at a floating white and gold temple-looking building mooted at a granite quay. Elegant as it looked, it was only the custom-house examining shed. Under a graceful arch, which united a little office on either side, the luggage was arranged, and bearded heroes in military costume dipped their hands amid the clean linen and clothes. Their behaviour, however, was civil; and, having taken possession of all the books they found, with the exception of Bibles, which they gave back, they made a sign that the boxes might be closed. The luggage was then turned out through a gateway into the clean wide road, where there stood, as eager and vociferous as any Irish carmen, ready to seize on it, a number of drosky drivers. There are two sorts of hack droskies in Saint Petersburg. One is somewhat like a small phaeton with wide wings; the other has what Cousin Giles called a fore-and-aft seat, on which people sit with their legs astraddle, the driver sitting perched on the end of it. The horses, which are harnessed with ropes in shafts, are wiry, shaggy-looking animals, and have high wooden bows arched over their heads, with the idea of keeping them from stumbling. The drivers are no less strange to English eyes than their vehicles. They are long-bearded, shaggy-haired, keen-eyed men, with low-crowned, broad-curling brimmed hats, wider at the top than at the head. They wear long blue cloth coats, crossed at the breast, and fastened round the waist with a red cotton sash. Their wide trousers are tucked into high boots, and at their back hangs a square brass plate with their number on it, serving the purpose of the London cabman’s badge. They are, indeed, under very similar regulations.

Cousin Giles chartered three of these vehicles to carry themselves and their luggage, and the lads laughed heartily as they found themselves seated astride on one of them, rattling along the quays and over the bridge to the English hotel, among hundreds of similar vehicles and long-coated, bearded people, who looked as if they did not think there was anything strange in the matter at all.

The Miss Bensons, the kind-hearted landladies of the hotel, could just manage to accommodate the travellers; and they soon found themselves lodged in very clean rooms, and as comfortable as at any hotel in England. After the fresh sea air they found the heat very great, and the houses felt like stoves; indeed, they heard that the weather had been excessively hot for some days. They, however, had come up with a fresh breeze, which increased almost to a gale, and effectually cooled the air.

Cousin Giles was not a man to let the grass grow under his feet; so, as soon as dinner was over, he and his young companions sauntered out to take in, as he said, as much of Saint Petersburg as they could that evening. Just above the city the Neva divides itself into several branches, which form a number of marshy islands, on which islands Saint Petersburg is built. The streets have been laid out to accommodate themselves somewhat to the turnings of the river; so that they are not at right angles to each other, as might have been expected, though as much regularity as possible has been observed. The most central spot is the Admiralty Square, a vast, irregular, open space, with the river on one side of it; and near the river stands, on a vast block of granite, a colossal equestrian statue of Peter the Great, with his arm stretched out in an attitude of command. Forming the different sides of this vast open space are some of the finest public buildings in the city: the Admiralty with its golden spire, the beautiful Isaac Church with its superb granite columns, the Winter Palace with its long rows of richly ornamented windows, the War Office, the Senate House, and many others. At one end, with a crescent of fine buildings before it, which contain the War Office, stands a lofty column of polished granite, consisting only of two blocks of stone, it is said. It is called the Alexander Column, and is dedicated to him as “the Restorer of Peace to the World.” He is so called by the Russians in consequence of the part he took in the overthrow of Napoleon. On its summit stands a green bronze statue of the Archangel Michael, holding the cross of peace in his hand. From the space before the Admiralty radiate off the three longest and widest streets in that city of wide and long streets. The centre one and longest is called the Nevkoi Prospekt, or the Neva Perspective. The names of other two may be translated Resurrection Perspective and Peas Street. The larger streets in the city are called Perspectives. Even the cross streets in Saint Petersburg are mostly wider than Bond Street, and often as wide and long as Regent Street. Many canals intersect the city, and enable bulky goods to be brought to within a short distance of all the houses by water; so that heavily-laden waggons are never seen ploughing their way through the streets, as in most cities. There are no narrow lanes or blind alleys either, the abode of poverty and pestilence, within the precincts of the palaces of the wealthy and great. Here, truly, poverty and rags are removed out of sight; but still they do not cease to dwell in the land. While our young travellers were standing looking at the Alexander Column, their fellow-voyager, Mr Henshaw, joined them. As he had been much in all parts of Russia, he was able to give them a great deal of interesting information.

“I would advise you first to get a general view of the city, and then study details,” said he. “Get a knowledge of the plan of the city, and the mode in which it is constructed; then examine the outside of the more important buildings; and, lastly, visit their interiors when they contain anything worth seeing. The first thing you should do to-morrow morning is to ascend the Admiralty tower; the scene from thence, as you look down into the streets, teeming with their countless multitudes, is very interesting, while you will also obtain a perfect bird’s-eye view of the whole city and surrounding land and water. We will now, if you please, take a stroll along the quay beyond the Winter Palace. There are many objects in that direction worth remarking.”

Cousin Giles gladly assented to the proposal, and, returning to the river, they continued eastward along its banks, passing the front of the Winter Palace. Near to it they stopped to look at a magnificent pile, called the Hermitage, which is about as unlike the residence of a dweller in the wilderness as anything in nature can well be. Mr Henshaw promised them a sight of the interior another day, and told them it contained some of the most magnificent rooms in the world, and was full of fine pictures, rich articles of vertu, and numberless valuable curiosities.

“It was called the Hermitage by the Empress Catherine,” said he, “because she, purposed to retire thither from the cares of state—not, however, to live the life of an anchorite, but to revel in that indulgence of all the objects of sense to which her inclinations prompted her.”

“But come along,” said Cousin Giles; “we agreed not to spend our time on details till we had mastered the geography of the city.”

So they continued their walk along the quays. Next to the Hermitage, and joined to it by a passage over an arch which spans a canal,—like the Bridge of Sighs at Venice, only smaller,—they passed the Imperial Theatre, and then a succession of fine residences of nobles and private persons, and lastly the Marble Palace of the Grand Duke Michael. It is so called not because it is built of marble, but because it has marble pillars. Across a street, on the same line, stands a fine pile, which looks like another palace, but in reality contains only the stables and offices, residences of servants, etcetera, belonging to the Marble Palace. Among the palaces they passed was a huge white one, with a very ugly portico.

“That,” said Mr Henshaw, “was presented by the Emperor Alexander to the Duke of Wellington, when he became a Russian field-marshal, that he might have a house to inhabit should he ever visit Russia. On his death it reverted to the Russian Government. Opposite to this row of palaces the Neva is very wide. A branch of it runs away in a more northerly direction, forming an island which has been covered with fortifications, and is called the citadel. In the centre stands a church with a lofty golden pinnacle. Beneath it lie buried the Russian Czars. Here is also a cottage, built by Peter the Great, where he used to reside while watching the progress of his navy and the uprearing of the now mighty city, called after his patron saint.”

“From a history I have been reading, I find that Peter was not nearly so great a man as I fancied,” observed Fred.

“Hush! Hush! That is treason here,” answered Cousin Giles. “To his valet he certainly was not great, as Carlyle would say, though he was a very uncommon man. But we should not judge of people by what they appear, or even by what they are doing, so much as by the results produced by their doings. Now Peter contrived, certainly by no very romantic or refined means, to produce a great number of very wonderful results. He caused this great city to be erected, he built a large navy, he taught people to navigate it who had scarcely before seen a vessel bigger than a Finnish schooner, and he contributed to imbue a population sunk in barbarism with a desire to assimilate to the civilised nations of Europe, while he introduced many arts and sciences before unknown into his country. Considering his powers and the little support he could obtain from his countrymen, I must say I think he worked wonders. He was, therefore, certainly what the world calls a great man, though he had great faults, and many littlenesses and contemptibilities. I acknowledge, also, that many far greater men have lived, and are at present alive, and that there will be many more.”

“You have defended Peter, and I think on the only grounds on which he can be defended,” said Mr Henshaw; “his private character will not for a moment bear discussion.”

“Certainly not,” answered Cousin Giles; “remember, Fred, and Harry also, that I do not say that he ought properly to be called great, if he is to be judged by the law of Scripture, nor do I wish you to consider him so. Who is there, indeed, who can be so called? But he was great according to the received maxims of the world, by which maxims other men with as little desert have received the same title.”

“Before we return, I must take you to the Summer Gardens, where you see the trees beyond the Marble Palace,” said Mr Henshaw. “I wish to show you the statue of Kryloff, the Russian Aesop, as he is called.”

The Summer Gardens are surrounded by an iron railing, and contain long rows of fine trees, and gravel walks, and seats, and statues, generally of a very antique form and taste, happily now exploded, with heathen deities’ hideous faces, such as are to be seen in old prints. In the centre of a small open space, surrounded by trees, stands the statue of Kryloff, a fine, bronze, Johnsonian-looking, sitting figure, much larger than life, with a book and pencil in his hand. The pedestal on which he is placed has on each side figures of animals, in deep relief, illustrating his fables. There is the stork and the wolf, and there are bears and apes, and cats and dogs playing violins and violoncellos and other musical instruments. Several mujicks (peasants) were gazing at the figures with intense interest, apparently entering fully into the spirit of the artist.

On their return along the quays, they stopped to look at the long bridges of boats which cross the Neva in the summer. A portion of each can be removed to allow vessels to pass up or down the stream; but by a police regulation this can be only done with one bridge at a time, and at a certain fixed hour of the day, so that the traffic across the river receives no very material interruption. Near the end of one of them, on the opposite side of the river, they observed a handsome edifice with a fine portico before it, and two granite columns, ornamented with galleys carved in white stone. This building they found was the Exchange. Farther westward of it they observed other magnificent buildings, which they learned were the Corps of Cadets,—the name is applied to the building itself,—the Academy of Sciences, the University, the Academy of Arts, and several others,—all covering a vast extent of ground nearer the mouth of the river. By the time they reached their hotel they were tolerably tired, and, to their surprise, they found that it was nearly ten o’clock. Even then there was a bright twilight, though it was too dark to enable them to distinguish more than the grand outlines of the city.

Chapter Four.

The Russian Passport System—Baron Verysoft—Mr Tobias Evergreen—His Gratitude for the Baron’s Politeness—The Difficulty of reading Russian—The Travellers at a Nonplus—Russian Signboard—Fred and Harry lose themselves—Meet with Tom Pulling—How Tom and his Messmates managed to find their Latitude and Longitude, and to steer a right Course for Port.

The next morning our travellers were reminded that they were not in a free country, in which a man may come and go as he lists without let or hindrance, but that certain very stringent regulations respecting passports must be conformed to before they could attempt to do anything else. Most condescending gentlemen, “commissionaires” they called themselves, undertook for certain considerations to get the work done for them; but Cousin Giles declined their services.

“I have no doubt that we shall be able to get through the business ourselves perfectly well, and we shall see something of the way the Russians manage these affairs,” said he.

He intended to visit the mercantile house on whom he had a letter of credit, and he had also several letters of introduction which he wished to deliver as soon as possible. To his bankers, accordingly, they first drove, and they had no difficulty in finding the house. The merchant who acted in that capacity was very kind, and gave them all the information they could desire as to what they should do about their passports; he also wrote down for them a list of the names of the houses at which they had arranged to call. Their first duty was to visit the Alien Office, to take out their permission to reside or travel in Russia. It is in the south-eastern part of the city. The gentleman who presides over it goes by the name of Baron Verysoft among the English, from the peculiar suavity of his manners. Mounting a flight of stairs, they found the Baron at one end of a handsome room, more like a drawing-room than an office, with a number of persons seated round it, all waiting to undergo the ordeal of his friendly inquiries. Nearly all civilised nations were there represented,—English, Germans, French, and Spaniards. Among them they recognised some of their fellow-passengers. The simple, round, good-natured face of one of them they were glad to see. His name was Mr Tobias Evergreen. He was very civil to the lads on board, and seemed to take a great interest in them. Cousin Giles said he did not think he was quite the man to benefit by a journey in Russia; but one thing was certain, he was not likely to make the police very suspicious about his movements. Besides the strangers, there were two or three clerks in uniform, whose sharp, piercing eyes kept glancing round on the visitors, and narrowly scrutinising any fresh arrivals. They seemed to have little else to do beyond this, but to mend their pens, and to make occasional notes in some huge books before them. A number of people had to go up to the table of the Baron, and to reply to his questions; so our friends were compelled to exercise their patience till their turn came. Mr Evergreen spoke a few sentences, which he said was French. Cousin Giles also knew a little of that language, but Fred was able to understand it, and to speak it tolerably well. At last Mr Evergreen’s turn came, and they followed him up to the table.

The Baron, in the blandest and most courteous way, inquired Mr Evergreen’s name and country; whether he was married or single; what was his object in travelling; the name of his banker; how long he purposed remaining in the country,—to all of which questions he gave answers which seemed perfectly satisfactory to the Baron; and he then volunteered several particulars of his private history, at which the Baron bowed and smiled, as the lads observed he had bowed and smiled at several persons before, while he went on making notes in his book. Perhaps he did not understand a word Mr Evergreen said, or, what is very probable, he was not listening to what did not concern him, but was habitually too polite to let this be discovered. Mr Evergreen had then to sign his name several times in a book, and then the Baron bowed very politely, handed him his passport to take it to the passport office and various police offices, to be signed and countersigned again and again. Mr Evergreen on this bowed to the Baron, and the Baron bowed again. Mr Evergreen would have continued bowing before so great and benignant a personage had not the Baron summoned our friends to approach, Mr Evergreen meantime waiting for them.

They quickly got through the business, and the Baron gave a bow to Cousin Giles, which, if not so profound as those he gave to Mr Evergreen, was much more cordial, and seemed to say: “We understand each other; you are a man I can trust.”

When they got outside the door, Mr Evergreen was loud in his praises of Baron Verysoft.

“Nice, charming man!” he exclaimed; “so civil, so kind to me. Don’t you think I ought to ask him to dinner, now? It would be but a proper attention in return for his civility.”

“He would have to fulfil a very large number of dinner engagements if all thought as you do; but I suspect few people are so grateful for his attentions,” answered Cousin Giles.

It was some time before Mr Evergreen could be persuaded to give up his idea.

“The credit of our country is at stake,” said he. “Well, well, I suppose I must do as you advise, and let the Baron form his own conclusions of us.”

After all, the terrible passport work was got through with much less trouble and expense than Cousin Giles was led to believe would be the case. One of the head clerks at the passport office, a Dane, who spoke English perfectly, assured him that if he went himself he would get the documents signed at once without bribery. The Government fees were very low, and beyond these he paid nothing. He was afterwards told that the Government wished to produce a good impression on the foreigners who were expected in the country to be present at the coronation, and had therefore issued directions to expedite the delivery of passports.

About this time, certainly, new regulations were made with regard to the passports for natives, and many of the old and most obnoxious ones were altered. Till now, a Russian, if he wished to move from one town to another, could not do so without giving several days’ notice to the police; and if he wished to leave the country he was compelled to beg permission to do so three months beforehand. Now, by getting any well-known person to be responsible for any debt he might leave unpaid, he was able to travel abroad at the notice of a day or two—indeed, as soon as the governor of his district would issue his passport. Of course it was a question how long this improved system was likely to last. Even now, both foreigners and natives could only get passports from one city to another; and thus Cousin Giles had taken out one for Moscow, but would be obliged then to take another to go farther into the interior. All the passport arrangements having been made, the travellers agreed to leave their letters of introduction, as a drizzling rain had come on, and would prevent them from enjoying the views presented by the city. When, however, Cousin Giles came to examine the paper of directions given by the banker, he found that they were written in the Russian character. Now as the Russian letters, although some of the capitals are somewhat alike in shape, have a totally different sound to the English, or indeed to any other European language, he could not read a word.

“Never mind,” said he; “perhaps our drosky drivers, our ishvoshtsticks, can read it.”

He showed it to the two men, who bent their heads with profound sagacity over the paper, letting the drops of rain from their shovel hats fall down on the document, nearly obliterating the writing; and then they called another of their profession to their council, but the united wisdom of all three apparently could make nothing of the inscription; for, at last returning it, they shook their heads very gravely, and shrugged their shoulders in a most significant manner.

“I daresay we shall fall in with some one or other who can speak English before long,” said Cousin Giles, who was never long at a loss on an emergency.

He accordingly stopped one or two people, whom he addressed with a polite bow in English and French, but they shrugged their shoulders and passed on. At last they met a German who spoke English, and he very willingly directed the ishvoshtsticks where to drive.

While Cousin Giles was paying one of his visits, and as it was near the luncheon hour at the hotel, he advised Fred and Harry to return there, promising soon to follow them.

“We can find our way there easily enough!” they both exclaimed; “we know exactly what to say to the ishvoshtstick—Angliskoy Nabergenoy—that’s it—the English Quay. Oh, we shall get along famously.”

Saying this, they jumped up on their fore-and-aft drosky, and, giving their directions as well as could any Russian, they thought, away they drove.

They were then in the Vasiliefskoi Ostrof quarter, or on Basilius Island. This is the name given to the large island which is to the north of the main channel of the Neva. Here is the Exchange, and many public buildings before mentioned, and here most of the English merchants reside. They drove on, remarking a variety of novel and curious sights on their way; but, forgetting to take due note of the direction in which they were going, they passed along the quay, and over one of the floating bridges, and then through some fine wide streets. They were amused with the guards stationed at the corners of streets in every quarter of the city. They were mostly thin, tall, lank men, in long coats reaching to their heels, with huge battle-axes on long poles in their hands, and helmets on their heads. What use they were of it was difficult to say, for they certainly could not have run after a thief, much less have knocked one down. The signs, also, in front of the shops appeared very ridiculous. Instead of the display of articles made by an English tradesman in his windows, there were large boards over the doors and windows, and their sides, and under the windows, painted with gigantic designs representing the chief articles to be found within. Huge gloves and stockings, and cravats and pocket-handkerchiefs, and boots and shoes, and coats and trousers, and hats and caps, and knives and forks and spoons—indeed, it is impossible to enumerate all the articles thus represented.

“Those are what we may call Russian hieroglyphics, Harry,” said Fred; “I daresay, now, that the Egyptians had something of the sort in their shop windows before they knew how to write.”

“It is a capital sort of language,” replied Harry, “because, you see, the mujicks, who do not know how to read, and we, who don’t understand Russian, both understand it equally well.”

“The best universal language,” remarked Fred. “If something of the sort were established regularly in the world, it would save a great deal of trouble. But I say, Harry, where have we got to? I am sure we have never been here before.”

They had been so amused that they had not remarked the change in the style of architecture of the streets through which they were passing. They were now in a region of low houses, although of considerable size, mostly on one floor, very few having two storeys.

“I am sure this is not the way to the English Quay.”

Harry, who sat in front, on this began to pull the ishvoshtstick by his badge, and then by his sleeve, to make him stop. The fellow either would not or could not understand that they wanted to stop. At last he pulled up, and looked over his shoulder.

“I say, Harry, do you remember what they call the English Quay? For, on my word, I have forgotten it,” exclaimed Fred in some little dismay, feeling very like Mustapha in the tale of The Forty Thieves, when he forgets the talismanic words, “Open sesame.”

“I’m sure I don’t know exactly, but I’ll try and see if I can’t make the fellow understand,” answered Harry. “I say, you cabdrivowitch, cut away to the English Quayoi!”

The man shook his head and sat still, as much as to say, “I don’t understand you, my masters.”

“What’s to be done? He doesn’t seem to think my Russian very first-rate,” said Harry.

“I say, old fellow, we are very hungry, and want to get back to our inn to luncheon,” cried Fred, imitating the action of eating.

A bright idea seemed to have seized the ishvoshtstick, and, whipping on his horse, he drove rapidly onward. Harry thought that he had fully comprehended them. He pulled up, however, very soon before a door, over which were painted pieces of meat and sausages, and rolls, and bottles, and glasses. Evidently it was an eating-house, but the lads would not avail themselves of its accommodation, for two reasons—they did not know what to ask for, and they had no Russian money in their pockets; they therefore shook their heads, and signed to the driver to go on. The man evidently thought them very unreasonable and hard to please, but obeyed. It was soon clear to them that they were getting to the outskirts of the city, and they were about trying to make the man turn back when they saw three figures approaching, whom by their rolling walk and dress they recognised even at a distance as English seamen. When the men drew near, the lads were delighted to find that one was their shipmate, old Tom.

He hailed them with a cheerful voice, and told them that, having met two young friends belonging to a ship at Cronstadt, he had got leave for them to accompany him to see Saint Petersburg.

“But I say, Tom, can you tell us where we are?” said Fred.

“That’s just what we were going to ask you,” replied old Tom. “We’ve got out of our reckoning somehow, and we know no more where we are than if we had got into the Pacific without a chart or compass.”

“What is to be done?” exclaimed Fred; “this stupid fellow does not understand a word we say, and though we have told him to drive back to our hotel he won’t go.”

For a long time all hands consulted together. One proposed one thing, one the other. By this time two or three other ishvoshtsticks had stopped with their vehicles near the strangers, but could no more than the first comprehend where they wanted to go.

“If we could but get back to the large square with the big statue in it of Peter on horseback on a rock, we could find our way to the inn easily enough,” said Fred.

Old Tom thought a moment. “What, the chap who is holding out his hand?” he asked.

“The same,” answered Fred.

“Then I have it!” he exclaimed with exultation. “Jem, just do you go down on all fours, and serve me for a horse for a minute, and we’ll soon see what will happen.”

“What! Do you want me to carry you there, Tom?” asked Jem. “I’d do it willingly if I knew the way, but I think we should get there faster if we all walked on our two legs.”

“No, no!” answered Tom; “I want you to act the big horse, and I’ll do the rider.”

“Oh, ay, I see it all now, mate,” said Jem, going down on all fours, while old Tom, who, though serious-minded, was very much of a wag at proper seasons, leaped on his back, and stuck out one arm as Peter’s statue is doing.

“Now, Jem, rear up on your fore legs as the big horse is doing, and we shall come the statue to an affigraphy,” he cried.

The representation of the statue of Peter was unmistakeable. In an instant the ishvoshtsticks comprehended what was required, and, clapping their hands with delight, while they burst into loud laughter, made signals to the seamen to jump into a drosky, and away they drove as fast as their horses could go, in the very direction from whence Fred and Harry had just come. In about a quarter of an hour they saw the tall golden spire of the Admiralty directly ahead of them, and shortly afterwards they rattled into the vast open space in which it stands, when the ishvoshtsticks pulled up close to the very statue of Peter.

“Now, starboard your helm, my lads, and steer a westerly course,” sung out old Tom to the drivers. They did not understand what he said, but they saw the direction in which he pointed along the quay, so they all drove off again as rapidly as before. Harry pulled at their driver’s badge to make him stop in front of the hotel, where they found Cousin Giles looking out for them. He had not been very anxious about their safety, for he guessed that they had lost their way, and would probably find it again before long, while, as he said, it would teach them to keep a better reckoning in future. Old Tom and his companions could not be persuaded to come in, for they said that they must make the best of their way back to Cronstadt. They made Cousin Giles laugh heartily by their description of the mode they had hit on for making the ishvoshtsticks understand the point to which they wished to be conveyed.

Chapter Five.

Bird’s-eye View of Saint Petersburg from the Tower of the Admiralty—The Isaac Church—Politeness of a Russian Officer—The Hermitage Palace—Portraits of the Czars—Magnificent Hall—Superb View from it—Jewels—Relics of Peter the Great—The Winter and other Palaces—Bridge of Boats—Exchange—Church of Peter Paul—Tombs of the Czars.

Cousin Giles and his young companions had climbed up to the summit of the Admiralty tower on a fine bright morning, when they could enjoy the strange scene which this aerial position presented to their eyes.

“Let us take it in properly, and map it down in our memory,” said Cousin Giles after they had looked round and round, then to a distance, and down into the open spaces and streets below them, with their moving crowd of men, and horses, and carriages, of high and low degree, dashing and tearing here and there as if the lives of monarchs and the fate of kingdoms depended on their speed. “First, look to the east; there we have the rapid, clear Neva, flowing out of Lake Ladoga, which in our mind’s eye we can see in the distance, though it is too far off to be seen in reality. Then, in the same direction, near the outskirts of the city, the river branches off into several channels, making a delta like that of the Nile, and forming a number of islands of various dimensions—some so large that a considerable portion of the city to the north of us stands on them, others containing only a few gardens and villas. The country surrounding the city seems barren and desolate in the extreme, either an arid steppe or a stagnant marsh telling of the agues and fevers afflicting those dwelling near it. To the north, however, not many versts from the city, rise the hills and woods, and fields and orchards of Finland, inhabited by the finest peasantry of the Russian empire. To the west appear the shining waters of the head of the Gulf of Finland, with the fortifications of Cronstadt in the far distance, and a fleet of men-of-war before it; while higher up is a whole squadron of gun-boats, which were lately built and fitted out in a great hurry to meet those England had prepared to send into these waters. Across the head of the gulf, looking down on Cronstadt, peep forth amid a mass of green foliage the golden spires and domes, and white-walled palaces, and Swiss-looking villas of Peterhoff, beyond which, and far away as the eye can reach to the southward, and very, very much farther on, one great desolate steppe or plain, bearing for miles and miles scarcely a tree higher than a gooseberry bush, or a hill boasting a height of greater elevation than a molehill. Now let us bring our eyes nearer to our feet, to the mouth of the river. We see it crowded with steamers and every variety of craft of moderate size of all nations, and yet we know that the greater proportion of vessels which bade to the city do not come higher than Cronstadt. The large barges and lighters which we see moving up and down the river convey their cargoes to and from that place. High up the river, above the bridges, is another collection of vessels, and several are to be seen moving up and down the different channels; while the canals, which meander through the city in various directions, are literally jammed up with barges, chiefly unloading firewood. The canals pass down the middle of the broad streets, many of which are fringed with trees. At the mouth of the river, on the south side, is Mr Baird’s iron factory, where steam-engines and iron machines of all sorts are made; near it is his private residence. He is now a Russian baron, and is much esteemed by the Emperor. A little higher up is the new naval arsenal, with long sheds, where gangs of workmen are employed in chains, and through which runs a canal. Some men-of-war steamers are moored off it. Others are seen in different parts of the river, their guns commanding the quays; so that, should an émeute ever take place, the communication between the various quarters of the city would speedily be cut off. Groups of shipping are visible at different parts of the quays; but no ugly warehouses or stores of any sort are in sight, and their cargoes are quickly spirited away to other unaristocratical parts of the city. Here the mansions of the noble and wealthy have taken possession of the whole length of the quays. The first building of importance on the north side, opposite Mr Baird’s works, is the Corps of Mines. It is of great extent, and contains a museum stored with models, illustrating every branch of civil and military engineering, as well as some beautifully executed models of various descriptions of mines. Then come in succession, and nearly in the same line, the magnificent edifices containing the Academy of Arts, the University, the Academy of Sciences, the Corps of Cadets, and, lastly, the Exchange. Some of these buildings cover as much ground as many of the largest squares in London. Above the Exchange is Petersburg Island, which is covered with a strong fortification, called the Citadel. It contains a church called Peter Paul, built by Peter the Great, and which has a spire exactly like that of the Admiralty. On the island is also the cottage which Peter the Great inhabited while the foundations of his wondrous city were being laid. Beyond it, to the north and west, can be discerned some of the smaller channels of the silvery Neva, flowing among gardens and orchards, and green waving woods, with villas of every description of architecture, more suited apparently to the climate of the sunny south than to the cold atmosphere of this bleak region. Between the base of the building on which we stand and the northern portion of the city we have described, runs the main channel of the river. It is crossed by several broad bridges, resting on a chain of huge boats or barges, which can be removed when the approach of winter gives signs that, by means of the quick-forming ice, the inhabitants will be able to cross without their aid.

“We will now turn and face to the south. To the right is the long line of the English Quay, with its numerous handsome and substantial mansions, which in any other city would be called palaces. Then comes the great square or rather space below us, bordered by huge piles containing the chief public offices in the empire. Standing amid them, yet not pressed on too closely, rises the proud structure of the new Church of Saint Isaac, with its four granite-columned porticoes. Then radiating off directly before us are the three widest and longest streets perhaps in Europe: first in magnificence comes the Neva Perspective, and then comes Peas Street, and the Resurrection Perspective; but running out of them are also streets of great width, composed of houses of numerous storeys and undoubted pretensions to grandeur. The Neva Perspective is the most interesting. On the right side of it stands the Kazan Church, which it was intended should be like Saint Peter’s at Rome; but, except that it has a wide-spreading portico with numerous columns, it is in no way to be compared to that magnificent structure. On the same side is a building, or rather a collection of buildings, which at a distance have no very imposing appearance. This is the great market of Saint Petersburg, or the Gostinnoi dvor. It consists of a series of arcades, in front of stores of two or more storeys, forming the outside boundary of an extensive region of squares, which have likewise arcades running round them, the area being filled with garden produce and rough wares not liable to be injured by weather. Here every article, either for use or consumption, which the lower orders can possibly require, is to be found, from a hat to a cucumber, or a pair of shoes to a leg of mutton; but, as our friends were about to visit the place, it need not now be further described.

“At the very end of the street could be seen the terminus of the Saint Petersburg and Moscow railway, the iron road itself running far, far away to the southward across the flat and marshy steppe. On either side of this prince of streets, the Neva Prospect, and in many streets branching from it, could be seen a number of lofty and magnificent palaces with here and there golden-domed churches, and many public buildings, convents, and monasteries, and wide walks fringed with trees, and canals carrying produce from far-off countries into the very heart of the city. Let us have one look more before we descend at Peter’s Statue, not bigger apparently than a child’s toy, and the Alexander Column, and the golden domes of the Isaac Church, and the huge Winter Palace, and the Hermitage, and the Imperial Theatre, and the long line of palaces facing the quays of the Neva beyond them; then we have to-day witnessed a sight not easily forgotten.

“Saint Petersburg, as it stands on its millions of wooden piles, the liquid, rapidly-flowing Neva, the moving, living crowd of uniform-clad inhabitants—men, women, and children, coaches, droskies, and horses, infantry and cavalry, Cossacks of the Don on their ragged ponies, and skeleton-looking guards with their glittering halberds at every corner. Those at home may gain a fair notion of the scene from Burford’s Panorama, but they will soon forget it, while we shall remember it all our lives: there is nothing like the reality to impress it on our minds.” So said Cousin Giles as our friends began to descend into the world below.

“We must now visit some of these places in detail,” said Cousin Giles as they stood in the square outside the Admiralty gates. “Where shall we go first?”

“To the big new church!” exclaimed Harry. “I want to see if it is as fine inside as it is out.”

To the Isaac Church accordingly they steered their course. On their way they encountered a party of British naval officers, whose ship was lying at Cronstadt. Several of them were well-known to Cousin Giles, and they gladly accepted his invitation to visit the church. When, however, they got to the gate in the wooden paling which still surrounded it, the porter signified to them that without a ticket they could not be admitted. Even a silver rouble could not soften him. He looked at it wistfully, but for some reason was afraid of accepting the bribe. Just as they were going away in despair, a tall, gentleman-like officer stepped through the gateway. He looked at them for an instant, and then inquired in French what they wanted. Cousin Giles explained.

“Oh, I will soon arrange that, I doubt not,” he replied, returning into the enclosure. He quickly came back, and begged them to enter. “After you have seen the church, if you will come to the Hermitage, I will be there, and shall have great pleasure in showing you over it.”

Cousin Giles and the commander of the English ship and the other officers bowed and thanked him, and accepted his offer. He then left them, and they mounted the long flight of steps which leads up to the southern portico. It must be understood that there are three similar porticoes, with lofty granite columns, constituting the chief beauty of the exterior of the building. The roof is supported by massive columns: they, and every part of the walls, are covered with the richest marbles of every colour, highly polished. In the centre is a dome, near the summit of which, as if it were watching over the worshippers below, is seen a dove, floating apparently in air. The effect is good, whatever may be thought of the taste which would allow so sacred an emblem to be thus introduced. The great attractions of the church are a row of malachite pillars on either side of the high altar. Their appearance is very fine; the malachite is, however, only veneered on copper, of which the pillars are composed. There are also numerous pictures of saints, which at first sight appeared to be of the richest mosaic, like those of Saint Peter’s at Rome, but on examination they proved to be only on canvas; perhaps they are placed there till the real mosaics are ready. The three brass doors of the church, covered with figures in the deepest relief, are very fine, as is also a large window of stained glass.

Cousin Giles observed, that the richness of the decorations put him in mind of Saint Peter’s at Rome; but, both in respect to size and elegance of design, it is much inferior.

The party having satisfied their curiosity, set off across the square to the Hermitage. Their new friend the colonel was at the door to receive them, and, conducted by a guide in the imperial livery, they mounted a superb flight of steps, which led them into a series of magnificent rooms, the walls of which were covered with some of the finest pictures of the great masters. In the centre of each of these rooms were exquisitely-shaped vases of malachite and other valuable materials.

The colonel, in the politest manner, pointed out to the party the pictures most worthy of admiration. Cousin Giles was particularly struck by two holy families, by Raphael, painted at different periods of his life, very different from each other, and yet both equally beautiful.

There are a number of very large pictures in the halls, the favourite subject of which is the retreat of the French from Russia, and the burning of Moscow. This subject is treated in every possible manner. There are also a number of large pictures of the battles in which the Russians have been victorious. They are not fond of keeping up a remembrance of their defeats. There was a good picture of the late Emperor, with his haughty brow, fierce eyes, and determined lips, the very impersonification of self-will and human pride, now brought down to the very dust; but, haughty as was that brow, the expression of the countenance gave no sign of talent or true genius. It was indeed wanting. He had the sense to take advantage of the ideas of others, and the determination to carry them into execution. The colonel stopped to look at the picture, but there was no smile of affection on his countenance. There were also full-length portraits of many Czars, and among others of Paul, which had a rollicking, half-tipsy look about it, very characteristic of the man. The crown was on one side, and the buttons of the waistcoat unfastened, if not, indeed, buttoned awry. Intoxication or insanity was clearly portrayed by the too faithful artist. It was a way of speaking truth in which courtiers are not apt to indulge.

The colonel led the party through a number of halls, each more vast and more beautiful than the former. The walls of one were of white and gold, of another blue and silver, and of a third of a pinkish hue; but the most beautiful of all was the music hall. The pillars which supported the roof were white twisted with gold—a most aerial flight of steps leading to a gallery above, with a second row of pillars. It was more like a scene described in Eastern romance than what one expects to meet with in the solid reality of life. The windows of the hall looked out on a fine view of the Neva, with the citadel before it. The colonel caught the eyes of the British officers looking at it.

“Ah!” said he, taking the hands of the commander and pointing to the fortress, “that is the place you would have had to take if you had come here in the spring; but, believe me, my dear sir, I receive you much more willingly in this friendly way than I should have done at the point of the bayonet.”

The colonel spoke in so frank and cordial a way, and with so much grace in his manner, that he completely won the hearts of his guests. They all warmly pressed him to come on board, their ship, promising to show him everything about her. He replied that he would gladly have availed himself of their offer, but that he was compelled to go to Moscow to make preparations for the coronation.

Two fine old soldiers, tall and upright, with huge moustaches, and breasts covered with decorations, stood guard at the entrance of the treasury. It contained jewels of every description, and curious productions of rare art, such as a prince in the Arabian Nights might have been told to bring from a far distant country before he could hope to win the hand of some lovely princess. Among them was a clock under a glass case, consisting of a golden tree, with a peacock, an owl, a cock, a mouse, a stream of running water, and many other things. At each hour the peacock unfolds his tail, the cock crows, the owl rolls his goggle eyes, and the mouse runs out of its hole. But far more interesting than all the crowns of gold, the robes of silk, and the precious gems, are numerous articles manufactured by the great Peter, and the tools with which he worked. Among others is the chair on which he sat—a very rough affair, spy-glasses of huge dimensions, and walking-sticks in numerable—some thin-made switches, others thick enough to knock down a giant, with every variety of handle, ending with the old man’s crutch, a complete epitome of human life.

It would be impossible in our journal to mention all the magnificent pictures collected from every part of Europe, and the vast numbers of interesting curiosities.

This beautiful palace, as has been remarked, was built by Catherine, that she might retire to it after the cares of state, and endeavour to forget them among its varieties and objects of interest. That she attained the ease and happiness she sought, is more than doubtful.

“Depend on it, my lads,” observed Cousin Giles, “that powerful but bad woman was far from happy amid all the luxury which wealth could give her. Nothing but a good conscience, void of offence towards God and man, can bring happiness, and that she had not got.”

The Winter Palace is next to the Hermitage. Though much larger, it is far less interesting, as the interior was burnt down in 1837, when many fine paintings and articles of value were destroyed. It is said that in the old palace there resided not less than six thousand persons, some living in huts constructed on the roof, whence no one thought of disturbing them. Some thousands no doubt reside also in the present building.

That moon-stricken monarch, Paul, built a palace for himself, in the hope that within its fortified walls he might be safe from the attacks of his enemies. So eager was he to have it finished, that five thousand men were employed on it daily. To dry the walls, iron plates were made hot and fastened against them; but what is done in a hurry is generally ill done, and such was the case in this instance: the cost was three times greater than it need have been.

Scarcely had the unhappy Emperor inhabited his new abode three months, when he fell, pierced by the daggers of assassins, in the centre of the very fortress he had fancied would prove his security.

The Hermitage having been thoroughly lionised under the auspices of the polite colonel, the party steered a course across the bridge of boats to the Exchange, a large building with a fine portico and a flight of steps facing the river, on the north side, at the eastern end of Vasili Ostrof, and with a fine open space before it. It was presented by the late Emperor to the mercantile community of Saint Petersburg, whom he wished especially to conciliate. In front stand two granite columns, decorated with the prows of ships cast in metal. On a close examination of the building, our friends discovered that it was covered with stucco, which in many places was already crumbling away, as is the case with many other edifices of high and low degree in this rapidly constructed city. Cousin Giles and his friends were hesitating about entering when they were overtaken by Mr Henshaw.

“Come in,” said he. “The merchants here are happy to see strangers; they will not knock your hat over your eyes, as the frequenters of Change Alley are wont to do to intruders.”

They followed their friend, and found themselves in a vast hall full of long blue or green-coated gentry, with flowing beards and low-crowned hats, intermingled with others in modern European costume—some looking round in expectation of a correspondent, others in earnest conversation in knots of twos or threes, busily engaged in buying or selling, a word deciding the fate of hundreds of fat oxen now feeding securely in their native pastures, or of thousands of tall trees growing in the primeval forest thousands of versts away. They were much struck by observing an altar on one side of the entrance, with candles burning on it, and the picture of a saint, black, as usual, and in a golden habit, before which the native merchants bowed and crossed themselves as they passed onward to transact their affairs. Here were collected representatives of all nations, and from every part of Russia—a strange medley of physiognomies, tongues, and costumes; but so habitual has become to them a modulated tone of voice, that, in spite of the hundreds speaking at once, a gentle murmur alone is heard through the hall.

Among the foreigners the Germans probably preponderate, but the English hold a very high position: in no community abroad are British merchants more deservedly respected than those engaged in the Russian trade. Cousin Giles and his young companions made the acquaintance of several, and found them most pleasing, gentlemanly men. Mr Henshaw took them to see the portraits of the present and the late Emperor, hanging up in an inner room of the building. The present Czar is a slighter and shorter man than his father, and with a far milder expression of countenance. The picture of Nicholas speaks of undaunted courage and determination, and at the same time of a relentless and almost a ferocious disposition.

“I am glad he was not my master,” exclaimed Harry; “how hard he would have hit if he had begun to flog one!”

Leaving the Exchange, they returned to the south side, and then crossed another long bridge of boats, and afterwards a smaller one, to the Citadel. Here their object was to see the Church of Peter Paul, where Peter the Great, and all his successors, including the late Emperor, lie buried. After they had entered within the strongly fortified walls, an avenue of birch trees took them up to the church, with its lofty gilt spire. The richly painted roof is supported by massive square pillars, covered with pictures of saints, as is the pulpit. The altar blazes with gold and silver, and huge silver candlesticks. The faces and hands of the saints are all black, and peep out of holes cut in sheets of gold or silver maiked to represent their robes; thus the artist has very little labour in producing a picture. The tombs of the Czars are grouped on either side of the high altar. They are plain sarcophagi, are usually covered with black velvet palls, very simple and unostentatious. On the walls and pillars are suspended various trophies taken in war from the enemies of Russia. Over the windows, as Harry observed, were some “huge jolly cherubs—that is to say,” he added, “fat heads and nothing else to carry behind them; so it is no wonder their cheeks get blown out.”

“We have seen enough lions for one day,” said Cousin Giles as they left the fortress. “Fred will have work enough to write up his notes as it is.”

After dinner, Fred read out to Cousin Giles and his brother the remarks he had made on the various scenes they had witnessed in their walks and drives through the city. They will be found in the following chapter.

Chapter Six.

Remarks from Fred’s Note-book about Saint Petersburg, and the Habits and Customs of the Russians.

The streets and places of Saint Petersburg are very badly paved: the holes and ruts in them are full of mud when it rains, and of dust in summer weather; some parts are covered with blocks of wood, like the streets of London. Did the English learn the system from the Russians, or the Russians from the English? Other streets are paved with little round pebbles, very unpleasant to walk on. The side pavements are often narrow and very uneven. The frosts of winter much unsettle the flagstones.

The policemen at the corners of the streets look as if they were all cut from one model, like a child’s tin regiment of soldiers. They are all tall, thin, lathy fellows, in long greatcoats, with huge moustaches and long-handled halberds; their faces as long, solemn, and grave as if the weight of the empire rested on their shoulders.

Mr Evergreen, who had joined us near the hotel, had a cigar in his mouth; no sooner did the guard see it, than he made furious signs to him to put it out.

“Dear me, he’ll march me off to prison, and perhaps to Siberia!” exclaimed our verdant friend, hastily throwing the cigar on the ground. As we passed, I happened to turn round, when I beheld the long guard stalking rapidly towards the still burning weed; he seized it, and, placing it between his lips, coolly marched back to his sentry-box, where he continued smoking as if it were his own lawful property.

These guards are said to be great rogues. I suspect he would have dowsed his glim in no little hurry if one of his officers had hove in sight.

Passed a troop of Cossacks of the Don, mounted on the most rugged, roughly-caparisoned little steeds, looking as if just caught wild from the steppes. They act as the cavalry police of the city. They are little dark fellows, and wear fur caps with red tops to them, long brown caftans or coats, and yellow boots; having in their hands long tapering lances, with which they would, doubtless, prick a man in a street disturbance, or on any other occasion, with the slightest possible compunction.

When we first arrived, the houses, and even the streets, had an oveny smell, which showed us how hot it had been and must often be in summer. The westerly wind has now cooled the air, and made it very pleasant. The Russian wheaten bread is excellent, very light and pure, made up in long loaves or oblong rolls. We were shown a loaf which came from Moscow, made in the shape of a basket with a handle. A housewife returning from market hangs half a dozen of them on her arm. The bread of peasants is very different; it is made of rye, very brown—almost black, very close, heavy, and sour. They are, however, very fond of it, and so are even the upper classes, who seldom make a meal without taking some.

The streets, as one drives about, seem interminable,—long wide avenues of trees with gardens and places extending away at right angles in all directions. What dreary, hopeless work for a poor fellow on foot on a hot day, who has lost his way, to find it again!

They are here called lines, like the avenues of New York, Cousin Giles says. One is directed to the fifteenth or sixteenth line. Most of the private residences here are in flats—few people have a house to themselves. The entrance is either at the side of an archway, or from a quadrangle round which the houses are built.

At the north end of the iron bridge stands a shrine, with the picture of the Virgin Mary on it, before which tapers are constantly burning. Every one who passes, belonging to the Greek Church, takes off his hat and rapidly and energetically crosses himself; drosky drivers, soldiers, peasants, rein up their horses, even going at full speed, and perform their acts of devotion. People on foot stop and bow and cross themselves,—some scarcely breaking off a conversation, while others kneel before the altar and continue some minutes, if not in prayer, at all events in the attitude of devotion. This end of the bridge turns on pivots, to allow vessels to pass up and down.

In the streets are seen a number of pigeons, whom no one disturbs. The Russians have a superstitious veneration for them, believing, I fancy, that they are inhabited by the souls of their departed relatives. We, however, had a pigeon pie at the hotel. Fruit is very dear here. We were asked a silver rouble for a basket of strawberries, almost spoilt, and two roubles for a melon.

We saw some excellent figures of native costumes. Three roubles were asked for each. One of the late Emperor cost four roubles, the additional rouble being put on in compliment to his Majesty. It would be disrespectful to sell even a dead emperor at as low a price as a living subject.

In every quarter of the city, over the police stations, at which the thin halberd-armed guards are posted, are watch-towers. A man is stationed at the top, which is fitted with a telegraph, to give notice either of a fire or a flood. Fires may occur any day—floods in the spring chiefly, from the rapid melting of the snows of winter. Red flags tell of coming floods; black-striped balls by day, and lamps by night, of fire.

An omnibus, probably built in England, passed us with four horses; a postilion, dressed in a drosky driver’s hat and long coat, rode the leaders, while another man in a similar costume sat on the box to steer the wheelers. The omnibuses are painted black or dark red—very sombre-looking conveyances, making one think of prison-vans or hearses. Some of the little country carts are curious-looking affairs. They are built with ribs, and look like a boat with the stem and stern cut off; the hind wheels are kept on by a bow, one end of which comes out from the side of the cart, and the other presses the axle.

We remarked the washing stages on the Neva. In the centre is a long opening, at which the women stand and dip in the unfortunate garments to be cleansed, and batter them with a mallet.

There are also large stages with buildings on them for swimming baths. On one we saw “Swimming School,” written in German. A foot regiment passed us with black-and-brass helmets, dark-drab long coats, black belts and scabbards. They had a very sombre appearance, but were fine-looking fellows, evidently fit for service.

A number of wood boats are unloading at the quays. They are huge flat-bottomed barges, of white planks slightly fastened together. They are broken up and burnt like their cargo. The wood they bring is chiefly birch, and is cut up in pieces fit for the stove. The canals are crowded in some places with these boats. A number of vessels, chiefly Dutch, were unloading at the quays close to the Winter Palace; but not a particle of mercantile dirt or litter was to be seen. Carts came and quickly transported the cargo to less polished regions. It took us just two minutes and a half to walk rapidly from one end of the Winter Palace to the other. That does not seem much, but let any one try how much ground he can get over in that time at a walk, and it will give him a good idea of the extent of the building.

Droskies can be hired at a very cheap rate. For less than sixpence one may go from one end of the city to the other, and that is no trifling distance.

The peasant women whom we have seen in the city are dressed in rough greatcoats and boots, with coloured handkerchiefs tied over their heads and under their chins. Their appearance is not attractive.

On Sunday we went to the church of the English Factory, of which Dr Law has been minister for many years. The outside is like a house. The residence of the minister is under it. There is also a library attached to it. The church itself is a very handsome hall. The ladies sit on one side, the men on the other. Several persons in Russian uniforms were there. Their parents probably were English, and, though they have entered the Russian service, they are allowed to adhere to their own form of worship.

We find the Russian language perfectly unpronounceable. It is said to be like Hindustanee; for instance, a stick is palka in Russian, and palkee in Hindustanee, and there are numerous words equally alike in the two languages. It is very rich, we are told. There are but few words expressing the same thing. In English we say a man, a dog, and a tree dies; the Russians say a man dies, or rather departs, a dog perishes, a tree withers. This shows that, heathens though they were when their language was invented, they must have believed in the immortality of the soul.

The late Emperor disliked drinking and smoking. If either a military or civil officer was known by him to have been intoxicated, from that moment his promotion was stopped, if even he escaped being dismissed immediately from his office. The Emperor passed an edict prohibiting smoking in railway carriages. On one occasion, the Grand Duke Michael, who was going a short distance with a party of friends by the train, appeared on the platform with a cigar in his mouth, but threw it away before stepping into the carriage. This he did to show his respect for the Emperor’s edict, for no one would have ventured to stop him had he smoked on. Even then most of the imperial family smoked, as does the present Emperor.

Log-huts, very similar to those used in Canada, are the usual habitations of Russian peasants. They are found close up to that mighty city of Saint Petersburg. A groove is cut in the length of the log, into which the log above it is let. The interstices are filled with moss. They are considered far warmer than any brick or stone houses. Sometimes they are boarded over, and when painted gaily have a cheerful aspect. Ordinary plank houses are used in summer, but would scarcely be habitable in winter.

When people during the winter are travelling in Russia, they do not use hot bricks or water-bottles, as the Canadians do, for their feet, but wear very thick fur boots, made of ample size, so as in no way to impede the circulation of the blood. A tight boot is painful and dangerous, and many a person in consequence has lost a foot, even his life. When walking, India-rubber goloshes are worn, which are taken off when a person enters a house. A very large thick fur cloak, in which a person is completely enveloped, is worn when travelling. It is thrown down in a corner as soon as a person enters a house, where it lies like a heap of dirty clothes.

Spitting is as common among all classes as we heat that it is in America. Carpets have only of late years been introduced into the houses of the opulent, but people spit over them just as they did over their brick floors. A refined sort of spittoon has been introduced, with a high handle. By touching a spring the lid flies open, and drops again when made use of. Uncle Giles says the inventor would have done better to have invented some means of breaking his countrymen off a dirty habit; perhaps, however, the hot air in the rooms, and the sharp air outside, may have something to do with it.

The English here say that the habits of social life among the Russians have very much improved since they mixed with them: I do not know what view the Russians take of the case.

Thirty years ago, palaces and public offices were alike dirty in the extreme; but the Emperor Alexander, after his visit to England, introduced great improvements. Now the public offices at Saint Petersburg, at all events, are kept fairly clean. I do not think, however, that the housemaid has got so far south as Moscow; it is too holy a place, in a Russian’s idea, to make cleanliness necessary.

An English friend told us that once upon a time he went to pay a visit to a great man, who lived in a great house. The entrance-hall was unspeakably dirty; round it, against the walls, were a number of ottomans, on which slept numerous shock-headed, sandal-footed, long-coated, red-shirted serfs, with their master’s fur cloaks rolled up as pillows. The next hall was scarcely cleaner. The third was gorgeously furnished, but no neat-handed housemaid, apparently, ever entered to sweep the floors or brush away the cobwebs. An ante-room was a shade better; while the great man’s private chamber looked really comfortable, as if he had imbibed a sufficient regard for cleanliness to keep himself out of the dirt.

Perhaps with the same object the late Emperor introduced foot pavements in Saint Petersburg. Formerly foot passengers had to pick their way from stone to stone among rivulets of mud. English ladies used to be much admired for the propriety of their walking dresses; now, on account of the undue length of their gowns, they kick up so great a dust that it is most unpleasant to walk behind them. Uncle Giles says, “Perhaps they do it to keep off danglers.” Russian ladies never think of walking in the city—the streets of Saint Petersburg, in truth, do not tempt them; in spring and autumn they are thick with mud, in summer with the finest dust.

The ladies of Russia are, like those in other countries, very fond of lap-dogs, and give very high prices for them. The groom who came over with us brought two dozen, shut up in hen-coops, and expected to get 20 pounds at least for each of them.

The wealthy Russians generally give enormous prices for luxuries. Our captain on one voyage brought over some oysters, which sold, he told us, at fourpence each. They are not to be found in the Baltic. He made about nine hundred per cent, by them. Saint Petersburg is very ill supplied with salt-water fish; there are neither lobsters nor flatfish.

It is generally supposed in England that the very finest tea is to be found in Russia, brought all the way overland from China. This an English friend assured us is a mistake. There is certainly very good tea in Russia, but what costs there ten shillings is not superior to what can be bought in England at from four to five shillings. Very large quantities of very bad tea are smuggled over the German frontier, a large proportion probably having come round from China by sea, and not considered good enough for the English market.

Our friend on one occasion, being on his way home overland, having missed the diligence, had to stop a day at Tilsit, a place celebrated for the Articles of Peace signed there between Napoleon and the Allies. While wandering round the town, he saw large storehouses with chests piled upon chests of tea. He asked where all the tea was to go. Some people would not answer, but others told him that Russian merchants came and bought it, and carried it away over the frontier. Large quantities used to be smuggled through Finland, which has different custom regulations to those of Russia. A light duty only was charged on tea in that country, but how to get it into Russia was the question. To effect this, logs of wood were hollowed out, filled with tea, and floated down the streams. Carts loaded with casks of apples entered the country; inside the casks were chests of tea. This sort of smuggling just suited the taste and enterprise of a Russian peasant.

Once upon a time, the cart of an unfortunate smuggler broke down in front of the Emperor’s palace. Not only did the cart break, but so did the casks of apples, and out rolled the chests of tea. The affrighted smugglers fled, and left their property to the police, whose samovars did not probably smoke the less merrily in consequence. At all events, the contretemps opened the eyes of the Emperor somewhat to the folly of having high restrictive duties with a frontier so enormous as that of Russia; but, whatever were his plans of reform, the war and death cut them short. Large quantities of tea are at the present time imported into the neighbouring German ports, for the acknowledged object of sending them into Russia.

Of course, as is to be expected, there is much bribery and corruption in all departments of Government. An officer of the Guards, Count —, was appointed chief of the Custom-house. He had not much practical knowledge of business, but he resolved to make amends for his deficiency in that respect by looking into things with his own eyes. Once upon a time the daughter of one of his subordinates was married, and he was invited to the feast. Now, on so important an occasion, if a man has not a house of his own large enough to entertain his guests, he borrows one from a friend. On this occasion the father of the bride borrowed one from an official in his own department. When Count — entered, he admired the furniture and the rooms, and everything in it.

“Of course you have hired this; to whom does it belong?”

“It belongs to my friend So-and-so; he has lent it to me,” was the answer.

“Ho, ho!” thought the Count. “So-and-so must have a fine private fortune, or else he must have the knack of fingering large bribes.”

He consequently watched the unsuspecting So-and-so very narrowly, and soon discovered that he had fingers of a most tenacious description, which easily accounted for his handsome income. So-and-so, to his surprise, found himself one fine morning dismissed from his office, and compelled to retire into well-merited poverty and disgrace.

The Russians are at all times civil to strangers, and even during the war none of the English who remained were ever insulted by them. The English merchants, indeed, who have long resided in the country, were allowed to move about as they liked, and several even resided at Peterhoff, in sight of the British fleet. The only people who ever said a word against them were some Prussians, whose direct trade was injured by the war. Prussia herself, however, benefited by the transit of goods across her frontier.

The mode of heating houses has been very much improved of late years. The best houses have now fireplaces, as well as stoves, which add much to the ventilation of the rooms. The stoves are made of brick; they are peculiar to the country, and may be called air-stoves. The fresh air is introduced by pipes from the outside, and, passing over the stove, is conveyed in other pipes through the house. The air also passes over a plate of iron, which is sprinkled sometimes with plain water, or by the more luxurious with rose-water. By depressing or elevating this plate, a current of air is sent through the room.

All the rooms have double windows; the inside one is removed in summer—not the outside one, as in Canada. If the air was allowed to get in between the two windows, the glass would become permanently covered with frost. To prevent this, a glass panel, which opens at both ends, is introduced between the two windows, and through this the room is aired. Great care is taken not to begin to heat the rooms till the second window is put in, or the glass in this case also would become coated with ice, and would remain so all the winter.

The Russian peasants are very economical in their mode of cooking. They are horrified at seeing the broth in which a leg of mutton is boiled thrown away, as is too often done in England. They will make a dish out of almost any of the herbs of the field, or of birds, beasts, or creeping things. They make all sorts of fish soups, of which they are especially fond; so, indeed, are the rich. All classes have an especial affection for the black rye bread of the country. We found it very sour, though I daresay habit might make one like it. All classes use porridges of every description. Buck-wheat is used for this purpose, as also to make cakes, as in America. What we call manna croup is also used in a variety of ways. A favourite fish among the higher classes is the sterlet, a sort of sturgeon; soup is made of it, but it is very expensive.

Good as some of the police regulations are, others are very absurd. If a person is wounded or otherwise injured, no one may go near him; for, if the wounded man should die, the person who went to help him would be carried off to prison, and certainly be tried for the murder. An acquaintance told us that one day in winter he saw from the window of a hotel, where he was standing with a friend, an English lady driving in a sledge; at that moment a heavy sledge drove against it, upsetting it, and severely injuring her. A policeman was on the point of seizing her sledge, and would have taken it and herself to the police office, where, to a certainty, she would have died. There was not a moment for thought. His friend knocked down the policeman and then ran off, while he jumped into the sledge and drove off to a hotel, whence he sent for the lady’s husband. The lady was ill for many weeks. He never heard anything more of the knocked-down policeman, who probably, after picking himself up, was content with the capture of the heavy sledge which had committed the mischief.

We find that by going to Saint Petersburg we have lost two hours of time, but, as we hope to return home, we shall get it back again. The Russians, it must be remembered, in their love for Conservatism, keep the old style of time, which is about ten days behind the new. This rather puzzled us at first.

Skating is not in vogue in Russia; indeed, the ice so soon becomes covered with snow, that there is very little opportunity afforded to indulge in the pastime. The Montagne-Russe is the great out-of-door pastime. Huge hills are formed of ice and snow, and placed in a line, one beyond the other. People climb up to the top of the first with little sledges. A gentleman sits in front and guides the sledge, a lady holds on behind, and away they go down one hill, the impetus carrying them up the other, or a considerable way up it, and thus the whole line is traversed. So fond are the Russians of the amusement, that they have, even in summer, wooden mountains with greased roads, which answer the purpose of ice.

Chapter Seven.

Journey to Moscow—Russian Railway—Passengers—Mr Evergreen and his Hat-box—Refreshment Rooms—Scenes on the Road—Polite Spy—First View of Moscow—Unromantic Mode of Entering it—Hotel Chollet—The Chinese City—The Kremlin—The Great Bazaar—Cathedral of Saint Basil—The Holy Gate—Great Bell of Moscow—Tower of Ivan Veleki—Wonderful View from the Summit—The Tulip City.

“And now, my boys, we may pack up and be off for Moscow,” exclaimed Cousin Giles as they reached the Gostiniza Benson, after settling all the preliminary passport business, without which no one, either of high or low degree, subject or foreigner, can move from one city to another in the empire of the Czar. There is no great difficulty in this passport business, and no great annoyance; but still it is apt to ruffle the temper of the most mild and patient men, to have to spend the whole of one day, during their stay in each place, in performing a task which might well be dispensed with, not to speak of having to disburse several roubles on each occasion; it is not, therefore, surprising that everybody who writes about Russia should grumble at the system, and occupy many pages in abusing it.

The Moscow railroad station is at the end of the Nevsky Prospect. The travellers reached it soon after ten o’clock. Only one train started in the day, so that to miss it was to lose a day. The building is a fine one. It is entirely under Government superintendence, and the stationmaster, and ticket-clerks, and porters, and policemen, and guards are all in military uniform; it makes a person very much inclined to behave himself. A passenger must get to the station in good time, for there are all sorts of preliminaries to be gone through. One cannot jump out of a cab, rush to the ticket-office, sing out, “Porter, bring along my luggage!” jump into a carriage, and away to Edinburgh or Holyhead without a question being asked;—oh no! People do not go ahead quite so fast in the kingdom of the Czar. Before a ticket can be got, the passport must be shown at one office, where it is stamped; then one goes over to another office, where it is examined and the ticket granted,—all in the most deliberate way, rather trying to a person who fancies that he is late. Then the luggage must be taken to another place, and a ticket bought for it, and paid for according to the number of articles; then it must be delivered over the counter at another place; and lastly, the perplexed traveller is allowed to go on the platform and select his seat. The carriages are very long, the entrance, after the American model, being at each end, where there is a platform, a passage running down the whole length of the carriage, so that people can pass from one end of the train to the other. The second-class have seats arranged in rows like those in a church, and are not very comfortable for a long journey; but the first-class are more luxurious: at each end there is a small ante-room, then a saloon with ottomans round it, and the centre compartment is full of large, luxurious arm-chairs, far enough apart to allow long-legged men to stretch their legs to the full. The windows are large, and of plate glass, which, as Harry observed, would be very convenient if there was anything to look at out of them. Our friends had arranged themselves in one of the centre compartments, and the lime of departure was at hand, when Mr Evergreen made his appearance on the platform in a state of great agitation, first turning to one moustached fierce-looking official, then to another, appealing in vain to know, as it appeared, what had become of parts of his luggage.

“Does any one know the Russian for hat-box?” he exclaimed. “Hatboxichoff! Hatboxichoff!” he cried in piteous accents. “Dear me, dear me—there are all my writing things in it, and my letters, and my money, and my best hat, and my gloves; and I shall be sent to prison as an impostor, and not be able to appear decent at the coronation, and have no means of paying my bills, and be starved, and—”

At that moment he caught sight of Cousin Giles’ face. His countenance brightened up. “Oh, Mr Fairman, I am so glad to see you!—can you help me?” he cried.

Cousin Giles asked to see his luggage ticket, and, finding that the same number of packages which he possessed in all were marked on it, assured him that there could be no doubt his hat-box was safe.

Thus assured in his mind, Mr Evergreen took his seat. The ticket is a long strip of paper, with the names of the chief places on the road marked on it, and the fares to each of them. The passengers having taken their places, the military officials waved their hands, and the long train began to move.

The view as they left the city was not interesting. Some large red-brick houses appeared above the low huts in the outskirts, with a large reed-bordered lagoon, and a wide extent of dead level covered with low shrubs or rank dry grass. The distance to Moscow is about five hundred versts, nearly four hundred miles, and for the whole of that distance there is very little improvement towards picturesque beauty. Now and then, to be sure, they came to woods of birch or fir, but the trees were small and widely scattered; still the chief feature was a dead flat covered with scrub.

Russia, however, is very far from being a barren and unfruitful country. There are large tracts near its numerous rivers which yield an abundant harvest of all descriptions of corn, and there are forests full of the finest trees, whilst fruits of many descriptions also are produced. This particular road, however, gives a stranger a very unfavourable impression of the country; still there were many things to interest our friends. About a mile, it seemed, from each other were little oblong wooden cottages, with a square enclosure in the rear and a platform in front, all so exactly alike that Harry said they looked as if they had been taken out of some Dutch brobdignag toy-box and placed along the road. In front of each hut, as the train passed along, appeared a guard, presenting arms with an iron-headed pike; and so exactly did one look like the other that Harry said he was certain there must be some spring underground which made them all pop up as the train passed along. There must be at least five hundred along the line—every hut, man, cap, pike, and greatcoat formed after the same model; there were guards, also, at all the signal stations. Whenever, also, the train stopped, a fierce-looking guard, in the uniform of the French gendarmes,—bright-blue coats, helmets, and silver ornaments,—stood immoveable as sentries before each of the carriages, to prevent people from doing anything they ought not to do: altogether there seemed to be a very wholesome discipline established along the line. At all the stopping-places there were a number of Swiss-looking cottages, apparently newly erected; while the bridges and palings, and flights of steps and banisters, and refreshment booths, and vast long sheds in which heaps of logs were piled up, all looked as if they had been made in Switzerland, and were exactly like the models which come in neat white wooden boxes to England from that country of mountains and snow. They were very neat, and pretty, and picturesque, but certainly did not look as if they belonged to the place.

At every station there are refreshments of some sort. Our friends observed fruits, raspberries, strawberries, and peaches, though of an untempting appearance and very dear; and also cakes of various forms, bread, beer, and of course quass.

At all the larger stations there are large, long, handsome refreshment rooms, equal in appearance to those at the large stations in England,—there is one for each class. At one of these they stopped for three-quarters of an hour, when a good dinner was served at about half-past four. They did not note the name of the place, but Harry suggested that it must have been Chudova, which was one of the principal places on the road.

Chew!

“Oh, oh, Harry!” exclaimed Fred as he heard his brother’s atrocious pun.

The tea is excellent at these places; a tumblerful costs ten kopecks, but a regular tea costs thirty, about fifteen-pence; indeed, the charges are much the same as in England. Probably at home, more substantial and better fare is to be got at the same price.

As soon as the train stops, out get all the passengers, and a very motley assemblage they form as they pace up and down on the platform. Uniforms of all sorts predominate, from the modern-coated, richly-laced officer of the Emperor’s guard, to the sombre-dressed rank and file of the line. There were Circassians and Georgians, and Cossacks of the Don and Volga, and other remote districts, in blue and silver coats, fur caps with red tops, and wide trousers, and yellow boots, and gauntlets on their hands, and jewelled daggers, and chain armour, and carved scimitars, with black, flashing eyes, and thickly curling glossy beards and moustaches, their language as well as their appearance telling of far-off southern regions, which have succumbed before the arms or the diplomacy of Russia. Then there were Armenians and Persians, men of peace, intent only on making money, with high-pointed fur caps, long gowns, full, dark trousers, and waists belted not to carry swords, but inkhorns; and Tartars with turbans, and rich shawls, and gold-embroidered slippers; and priests with low-crowned, broad-brimmed hats, beneath which straggled huge quantities of long light hair, and long green coats, and crosses rather ostentatiously shown at their breasts. There were traders, too, from the northern cities of the Empire, dressed in long dressing-gown-looking coats, more properly described as dirty than clean, and high boots, and low-crowned hats, and beards of considerable length and thickness; while the humbler classes, the mujicks, evidently delighted in pink shirts with their tails worn outside their trousers, and fastened round their waist with a sash or belt. These wore caps, and high boots, and long coats, like the rest; indeed, the inhabitants of Russia may be said to be a long-coated, boot-wearing population. There were women passengers, but there was nothing very peculiar in their appearance. The upper classes wore bonnets, and the lower had handkerchiefs tied over their heads, or caps, with thick-padded cloaks. They all had brought huge leather pillows, and cloaks, and shawls, to make themselves comfortable in the carriages.

No sooner did the train stop than all the men lighted their cigars and pipes, and began to puff away most assiduously. Our friends were much amused at seeing a servant bring his master, an old gentleman, his pipe at every station. It was the servant’s business not only to light it but to draw it up, and the cunning rogue took good care to get as many whiffs out of it as possible before he removed it from his own mouth.

“That’s what I call smoking made easy,” said Harry. “I’ve heard of a man being another’s mouthpiece, and this old gentleman seems to make use of his serf for the same purpose.”

Some of the priests wore fur caps and dark gowns, and others had on broad-brimmed hats and green gowns, with dark overcoats; some had several crosses on their breasts, frizzy or straggling hair being common to all. One of them, who was in a first-class carriage, pulled out a comb and began combing his beard and hair with great assiduity—an operation more pleasant, doubtless, to himself than to his neighbours. There was a fine Abasian officer—Abasia is a province bordering on the Caucasus, conquered by the Russians. He wore a black fur cap with a red-and-white top to it,—night-cap fashion,—a white coat with cartridge cases in the breast and trimmed and lined with fur, a silver-lace belt round his waist, white gloves with fur backs, and green trousers with a silver stripe down the legs; yellow boots, a curved scimitar behind, and a richly-jewelled dagger in his belt in front completed his costume. He was a very fine-looking fellow, and was most evidently aware of the fact. He was on good terms with every one, and laughed and chatted with all the officers of rank. Such were some of the companions our friends had on their journey.

Mr Evergreen said that he considered it his duty to taste the tea at each stopping-place, to ascertain whether it was really superior to any to be found out of China. At some places he took only a tumblerful, but at others the samovar, with the little teapot on the top of it, and a small china cup were placed before him, with a tumbler also. Those who have not drunk tea out of a tumbler may be assured that it is by far the best way of taking it to quench thirst. The Americans put a lump of ice into it, which keeps bobbing up against the nose while the hot tea is being quaffed—also a very agreeable fashion. The result of all this tea-drinking was, that poor Evergreen could not manage to close his eyes when night came on, and the rest of his party went to sleep. After some hours had passed, he was accosted by an officer in uniform.

“Ah, sir, I see that sleep has fled your eyelids,” said the officer in very good English.

“Oh, yes; but I can do very well without it,” replied Evergreen, delighted to have some one to talk to; “there is always so much to think about and interest one in a strange country.”

“Your first visit here, I presume?” said the stranger.

“Never out of England before,” replied Evergreen.

“What do you think of affairs in general in this country?” asked the stranger.

“Very large country—very fine country—inhabitants very polite. Big city Saint Petersburg. People may not say exactly what they think, I hear; but that’s nothing to me, you know,” observed our friend.

“Oh, that’s quite a mistake, my dear sir,” replied the stranger; “people may say exactly what they think, I assure you: no one interferes with them. Now, for instance, in the friendly way in which we are talking, one man might unbosom himself to another of his most secret thoughts, and no harm could come to him.”

“Very pleasant state of society; exactly what I like,” said Evergreen, who thereupon, taking the hint, launched forth on several little bits of his own family history, with which he was fond of entertaining any casual acquaintance.

The strange officer appeared to be listening attentively, and finally offered to call upon Evergreen and to show him the lions of Moscow.

Cousin Giles awoke while the conversation was going on, and was exceedingly amused at what he overheard, especially with the warm way in which Evergreen accepted the stranger’s offer. After the latter had made numerous inquiries about Cousin Giles, and Fred, and Harry, he got up and went into another carriage.

“Wonderfully polite man that was who came and talked to me last night,” observed Evergreen in the morning, after the passengers had rubbed their eyes and stretched themselves. “I wonder who he can be. A man of some consequence, I should think.”

Among the passengers were some merchants from the north, who had never before been at Moscow. They had for some time been putting their heads out of the windows, and as they caught sight of a few gilt domes and gaily-coloured roofs, and some convents scattered about, which was all that was visible of the holy city, they began crossing themselves and bowing most vigorously. This ceremony lasted till the train rushed into the station. The luggage was handed out as each person presented his ticket, and Mr Evergreen found, to his delight, that his hat-box was safe. A vast number of ishvoshtsticks presented their tickets, and offered their droskies for hire, and, two being selected, away the whole party rattled through broadish streets, paved with pebbles, up and down hill, among gardens, and green-roofed houses, and pink, and yellow, and grey, and blue walls, till they reached their hotel.

They had been recommended to go to that of Monsieur Chollet, in the Grand Lubianka, and they had no reason to regret their choice. Nowhere could a more civil, active, attentive landlord be found. Every language seemed to flow with the greatest ease from his tongue. He would be talking to three or four customers in German, and English, and Italian, addressing his wife in French, and scolding his servants in their native Russian, answering fifty questions, giving advice, and receiving accounts, all in one breath. He did all sorts of things better than any one else. He went to market, came back and cooked the dinner, mixed the salad, and in another instant appeared dressed as if for a ball, and took his place at the head of the table. His dinners were very good, somewhat in the German fashion; and his rooms were very comfortable, and excessively clean for Russia.

As soon as our friends had dressed and breakfasted, they sallied forth to gain a general view of the city. Evergreen said he thought he ought to wait for his new acquaintance, who had promised to call; but an English merchant, who happened to overhear him, assured him that he must not be delicate on the subject, as the person in question was simply one of the guards of the train, and that he was employed by the police to pick up any information he could about passengers.

“Had he thought you a suspicious character, you would certainly have been honoured by a visit from him,” he added.

“Dear me, if I had said anything treasonable, I should have been whirled off to a dungeon to a certainty,” exclaimed poor Evergreen, shuddering at the thought of the danger he had escaped.

Moscow is one of the most romantic cities in Europe—indeed, there is no other to be compared with it; but our friends had entered it in so ordinary, every-day a manner that at first they could hardly persuade themselves that they had reached a considerable way towards the centre of Russia, and were really and truly in that far-famed city.

“Now, my boys, we will steer a course for the Kremlin,” cried Cousin Giles, having taken the bearings of their hotel as they walked along the street called the Grand Lubianka.

Their course was nearly a straight one. In a little time, crossing an open space, they found themselves before a line of fortified walls, and a gateway, such as they might have expected to see in a picture of China or Tartary, with strange-looking eastern turrets, and domes, and roofs rising within them.

“This must be the Chinese city we have heard of,” said Cousin Giles.

So it was. It is a city within a city. It has three sides, the walls of the Kremlin making the fourth. They passed through the gateway and found themselves in a narrow street, the buildings on either side of them having a still more Chinese appearance. On the left was a little church, with numerous parti-coloured domes, and minarets, and towers, and outside staircases leading nowhere, and railings, and balconies, and little excrescences of roofs, altogether forming an edifice much more like a Chinese than a Christian temple. Close to it, on the left, they saw a long open space, just inside the walls, crowded with people of the lowest order, with booths on either side. This was what may be called the rag fair of Moscow. The booths or shops contain all the articles either for dress or household purposes used by the mujicks. The sellers and purchasers were all talking and laughing, and haggling and chattering away as if the affairs of the nation depended on what they were about, and yet probably a few kopecks would have paid for any one of the articles bought or sold. At the end of the street the travellers came to the entrance of the great bazaar of Moscow, and as they looked down its numerous long alleys, glazed over at the top, they saw lines of little shops,—jewellers, and silversmiths, and makers of images, and hatters, and shoemakers, and tinmen, and trunk-makers, and other workers in leather, and head-dress makers, and blacksmiths, and toy sellers,—indeed, it would be difficult to enumerate all the various trades and handicrafts there represented, each trade being in a row by itself. Each shop was little more than a recess, with a counter in front of it, before which the shopmen stood, praising in loud voices their wares, and inviting passers-by to stop and inspect them. No time, however, was spent at the bazaar, for across a wide open space appeared a high pinnacled wall, with a line of curious green-pointed roofed towers, with golden crescents surmounted by crosses on their summits, and two gateways up a steep slope. Over the walls appeared a confused mass of golden and blue-and-silver domes, and spires, and towers, and green roofs, and crescents, and crosses, and gold and silver chains, glittering in the sun, altogether forming a scene such as is pictured in the Arabian Nights Entertainments or other Oriental romances, but such as one scarcely expects to find within eight days’ easy journey of sober-minded, old, matter-of-fact England.

“That must be the Kremlin,” exclaimed Fred. “Well, it is a curious place!”

“There can be no doubt about it,” observed Cousin Giles. “And that gate to the left, under the high tower, with the lamp and the picture over it, must be the Holy Gate. Let us go through it. It leads us at once, I see by the map, to the terrace overlooking the river.” As they went down the place towards the river, they found themselves before a fine bronze group on a high pedestal.

“Oh, those must be the statues of the two patriots, Posharskoi, the general who drove away the Tartars, and Minin, the merchant who devoted his fortune to the support of the army with which the victory was won. We will read about them by and by,” said Cousin Giles.

As they stood there, on their right side were the walls of the Kremlin, on their left the front of the bazaar, while some way beyond appeared a most extraordinary-looking church, the Cathedral of Saint Basil. It has nine domes or cupolas,—one large one in the centre, and eight round it, each one painted of a different colour, with various ornaments; some are in stripes, some in checks, some red, some blue, some green, while the structure on which these domes stand consists of all sorts of ins and outs; windows, and stairs, and pillars, and arches—all, too, of different colours, green, and yellow, and red predominating. Harry looked at it for a minute, and then burst into a fit of laughter.

“Well, that is the funniest building I ever saw,” he exclaimed. “It looks as if it was built up of sentry-boxes, and Hansom’s cabs, and dovecots, and windmills, and pig-sties, and all sorts of other things. It was built, I see, by Ivan the Cruel, and it is said that he was so pleased with its strangeness that he put out the eyes of the unfortunate architect, to prevent his ever building another like it.”

“Pleasant gentleman he must have been,” observed Evergreen. “A new way he took to reward merit.”

“Rather an old way,” said Cousin Giles. “I do not think that any sovereign would venture on such a proceeding now-a-days.”

Putting off their visit to the bizarre little cathedral, they turned to the right through the Sacred Gate. Mr Evergreen did not observe that every one passing under it took off his hat, and very nearly got a prod from the sentry’s bayonet for his neglect of that ceremony. The story goes, that the picture over the gateway was unscorched by fire, and that the lamp continued burning all the time the French were in occupation of the city, untrimmed and unattended. A newly-recruited regiment of soldiers, without arms, were marching through, and it was curious to observe each man in succession doff his cap and cross himself as he passed the spot. High and low, rich and poor, all do the same. The only persons who neglected the duty were some wild-looking, dark-eyed lads, whose marked features and olive complexions at once proclaimed them to be Zingari or gipsies, of whom a great number are found in Russia. Moscow is said, like Rome, to stand on seven hills, of which that occupied by the Kremlin is the highest. It is not, however, as much as a hundred feet above the Moscowa, which flows in a horseshoe form directly to the south of it. It is enclosed by four walls of irregular length—that at the west end being so short that the space it occupies is almost triangular. Round the walls are about eighteen towers, which vary in shape and height, though they all have high-pointed roofs covered with green tiles. Outside the walls are gardens with grass, and trees, and gravel walks. In the interior, on the south side, is a magnificent esplanade and terrace overlooking the river, and the strange jumble of coloured buildings which compose the city. The rest of the ground is occupied with a collection of churches of all shapes and sizes and colours, and towers, and convents, and palaces. One palace, however, surpasses them all in beauty and size, though its shining white walls and richly-carved façade and general bran-new appearance look sadly out of place among all the venerable, grotesque, many-coloured, odd-shaped, Byzantine edifices which are dotted about in its neighbourhood. It looks like some huge intruder into the place, which all the old inhabitants are collecting to put forth again; or like an emu in a poultry-yard, at which all the parti-coloured cocks and hens and ducks are crowing, and cackling, and quacking, in a vain endeavour to frighten him out. It required more than one visit to the spot before our friends could learn the geography of the place, and distinguish the numerous churches of all sizes, and heights, and shapes, and varieties of outside and inside adornment. The chief, called the Cathedral, has its walls painted with subjects taken from Scripture, which to the purer taste of Protestants appear shocking and blasphemous. However, our travellers did not then attend to the details of the strange occupants of the Kremlin. Their object was to obtain a comprehensive view of the city from the summit of that gaunt old monster, the Tower of Ivan Veleki. They first, however, examined the huge bell which stands on a pedestal at its foot. This bell was once suspended on the top of a tower, which was burnt, and the bell in its fall had a little piece broken out of it. When they got up to it, they found that this little piece was far too heavy for any ten men to lift, and that the gap it left was big enough for a man to walk through.

The door of the old tower was open, and they mounted a well-conditioned flight of circular steps towards the summit. Having climbed to the top of the first flight, they passed through a door into another tower, where there hung a peal of huge bells,—one more vast than the rest, which, on being struck, gave forth a wondrously musical sound.

“I should not like to be near that fellow while he was ringing,” cried Harry; “he would make noise enough to deafen a rhinoceros.”

They did not stop to hear those famous bells, but climbed on till they stood high above all the surrounding edifices. As they gazed forth from the narrow stone balcony which ran round the dome, they beheld rising on every side a sea of spires, domes, cupolas, minarets, towers, and roofs of every conceivable colour, shape, and size, not altogether unlike a vast garden filled with brobdignagian tulips, but with more hues than any tulip bed ever possessed; and, in addition to the many-coloured tints of the rainbow, there appeared numberless balls of burnished gold and silver, glittering brightly in the sun.

Cousin Giles first ascertained their position by his compass. Turning to the north, they observed in that direction fewer churches, but numerous villas and lines of wood, with the arid steppe beyond them. To the south-west arose the Sparrow Hills, those celebrated heights whence Napoleon and his then victorious army first caught sight of that magic city which they deemed was soon to be the reward of all their toils, but yet which, ere many days had passed, was to prove the cause of their destruction. In the same direction the Moscowa was seen flowing down towards the city, to circle round a portion of it under the walls of the Kremlin, and then to run off again at an acute angle to the east. To the south, on a plain near the banks of the river, rose high above other buildings the red towers and walls of the Donskoy Convent, several other convents, carefully painted of different colours, being scattered about.

“The birds which have their nests there can have no fear of mistaking their proper abodes on their return from their morning flight,” observed Harry, who generally formed quaint notions on what he saw.

Directly below them were the numerous and strange gold, and black, and blue, and green domes of the churches of the Kremlin,—its dark-green pointed towers, its wide gravelled esplanade, the roofs of its vast palaces and public buildings, its belt of turreted walls and gardens with their green lawns and shade-giving trees; but stranger still was the city itself, with its thousands of coloured cupolas, turrets, domes, spires, roofs, and walls. To define this strangeness more clearly, there were domes of bright-blue, with golden stars and golden chains hanging from the golden crosses which surmounted them. There were some domes of size so vast that they looked like huge mountains of gold; some were of dark blue, and others of green and gold; some were black, and others shone like burnished steel; some were perfectly white, others grey, and others of the lightest blue, scarcely to be distinguished from the tint of the azure expanse amid which they reared their heads, except by the golden ball and cross and glittering chains above their summits.

Again, some of the domes were of red and green stripes, and some of bright yellow, and pale yellow, and red; and some towers were surmounted by gigantic crowns, open and outspreading, as well as globe-like. The roofs and walls also exhibited a strange difference in their tints, though green, and red, and black, and grey, and brown predominated among the first; while the latter were white, and buff, and green, and blue, and deep red, and pink. Truly it was a strange scene, such as they had never before beheld, and could scarcely hope to behold elsewhere.

They returned to the top of the tower again in the evening, just as the setting sun was throwing his glory giving rays across this richly-jewelled expanse, which shone forth in a perfect blaze of light, coloured by every hue of which the rainbow can boast.

It is difficult to imagine the vast number of domes and cupolas which meet the eye in this strange city. There are said to be a thousand churches, though probably there are not so many. Few of these churches have less than five domes, and some have ten. Each tower also has a dome on its top, surmounted by a golden cross and chains. A large proportion of these domes are covered with gold, and some with sheets of silver; the others are either black and white, or of the various hues already described. Moscow may, indeed, most properly be called the Golden City. The only rule which the church architect here appears to observe is, to endeavour to make every new church as dissimilar as possible to every other existing in the city, in colour, shape, and size; yet they all evidently belong to the same style.

Altogether the venerable Kremlin and the buildings it contains, with the mass of coloured edifices which surround it, form one of the strangest architectural jumbles in the universe.

Chapter Eight.

Visit to the Imperial Palace in the Kremlin—The Granovitaya. Palata—The Terema, or Ancient Palace of the Czars—Cathedral of Uspensky Sabor—Rarity of Good Paintings in the Russian Churches—Public Discussions on Religion—Traps for the Unwary—Procession of Russian Monks—New Church of Saint Saviour—Preparations for the Coronation—Cathedral of Saint Basil—Sealing up Doors of Shops at Night—Shopmen bowing to Saints—Bazaar—Chinese City—Russian Vehicles.

Our friends got a good general idea of the city during the first day of their residence in it. The next day they obtained tickets of admission to the Imperial Palaces in the Kremlin, through a gentleman to whom Cousin Giles had letters. They were accompanied in their visit by some French friends of his. They were first shown the private rooms of the Emperor and Empress, which had just been refurnished for their reception after the coronation. All these rooms were on the ground floor. In the centre of each was a large square pillar, supporting the storey above. These pillars, with several screens and curtains in each room, made them appear small and positively cosy, such as may be found in the house of moderate size belonging to any lady or gentleman of somewhat luxurious habits. English people would probably have chosen a more airy situation for their private abode than the ground floor; but from the lowness of these rooms they are more easily warmed in winter, and from their being vaulted they are cooler in summer. After visiting the private rooms, their guide conducted them up-stairs, when they passed through several fine halls, similar in grandeur to those in the Hermitage at Saint Petersburg, and along galleries filled with pictures of very doubtful merit.

Through an opening in the new palace they walked into one of the old palaces called the Granovitaya Palata. The second floor is occupied entirely by the coronation hall of the Emperors. It is a low, vaulted chamber, the arches resting on a huge square pillar in the centre. Here the Emperor, clothed in royal robes, for the first time after his coronation, sits in state, surrounded by his nobles, eating his dinner.

“Ah, I see emperors have to eat like other people,” observed Harry when he was told this. “I wonder, now, what the new Emperor will have for dinner.”

By far the most interesting building in the Kremlin is the ancient palace of the Czars, called the Terema. It is complete as a residence in itself, but the halls and sleeping-rooms are remarkably small compared to those of the huge modern edifice by its side. The walls from top to bottom are covered with the most strange arabesque devices which imagination could design—birds, beasts, and fish, interwoven with leaves and sea-weed of every description. In each room a different tint predominates, although the same style of ornament is carried throughout, and the same colours are to be found in each. Thus there is the green room, the blue room, and the yellow room, and many other coloured rooms. The ornaments on the banisters, screens, railings, and cornices are great wooden heads of beasts—lions, or tigers, or monsters of some sort. The part of the walls enclosing the stoves are of curiously coloured tiles; indeed, the whole building is a most bizarre, strange place, a perfect specimen of a Byzantine palace. In variety of colouring it is something like the Alhambra, but, though equally wonderful, it is barbarous in the extreme compared to that celebrated edifice of Southern Spain. Our travellers climbed to the top of this strange little palace, and went out on the roof, whence they looked down on a whole mass of golden and coloured domes and minarets, a considerable number of them belonging to the smallest and most ancient church in the Kremlin. In the Granovitaya Palata is a window, at which the Emperor shows himself on state occasions to the troops, drawn up on the parade. It is one of the windows of the Hall of Justice, and here suppliants used to be drawn up in a basket, to present their petitions and to hear judgment pronounced.

“It would have been a convenient way of getting rid of a troublesome petitioner to let it and the petitioner come down together by the run, as you would say, Cousin Giles,” observed Fred, laughing. “Some such idea was probably in the minds of the inventors of the custom.”

From the old palaces the party proceeded to the Treasury. It is beautifully arranged, and full of arms and armour of all ages—the coats, and boots, and hats, or crowns, or helmets, and swords, or battle-axes of all the Czars who ever sat on the throne of Russia. Some of the crowns, or other head-pieces, are literally covered with jewels, placed as close together as the setting will allow. Most of them are rather curious than elegant; indeed, they nearly all look as if they belonged to a barbarous age and people.

Among other curious things there is a globe, studded with jewels, sent by the Greek Emperor to Prince Waldemar, and the crown of the King of Georgia, the diamond crown of Peter the Great, and the throne on which Peter and his brother, both children at the time, were placed when he was crowned. There is a curtain at the back, behind which their mother stood, and, putting her hands through it, held them in, and guided them to make the proper signs at the right moment, which movements caused much wonder and admiration among the admiring multitude.

In the armoury is the chair of Charles the Twelfth of Sweden. It is like a litter, somewhat rudely constructed, or rather can be used as a chair or litter by turns, having poles at the side by which it is carried. There are some battered-looking kettle-drums, one belonging to the same monarch. They were part of the spoils taken by Peter the Great at the celebrated battle of Pultova, when the Russians at length gained a victory over the Swedes, and Charles himself, hitherto victorious, was obliged to seek safety in flight. The most curious articles in the Museum are, however, the carriages, specimens of which are preserved from the earliest times in which they were used. They are, as may be supposed, huge, lumbering, gingerbread, lord-mayor-looking affairs. In some the coach-box is several yards from the body, and the hind seat is as many from it at the other end. There is a patriarch’s carriage, like a huge square trunk, and the travelling carriage of Catherine, which has a table in the centre, and is very like a modern saloon railway carriage. It is placed on runners instead of wheels, and could only have been used in winter. Probably in her day the roads would not have encouraged summer travelling.

From thence the friends went to the Uspensky Sabor, the cathedral church in which the Emperors are crowned. The lofty roof is supported by four round pillars, covered from capital to base with sheets of gold and paintings. There is not a particle of the church which is not thus ornamented. The effect is rich in the extreme, at the same time bizarre and barbaric. There are five cupolas, with the faces of saints looking down from each. An artist was making a drawing of the interior, introducing the coronation—as it was to be. The picture was for the Emperor. The outside of this church is ornamented with subjects totally at variance with anything like a pure taste. There are several other churches near it, all of which were being enclosed so as to form a spacious court, where the ceremony of the Emperor’s coronation was to take place. Every available space was being filled with galleries to hold spectators. Through this court he was to walk from the cathedral to the palace.

The party then visited all the churches in the Kremlin in succession. The interior walls are mostly covered with gilding and pictures of saints, from base to cupola. In some of them, which are dimly lighted with tapers, priests, in their gorgeous vestments, were chanting, with fine sonorous voices, the evening service; incense was being waved, and people from all sides were rushing in and bowing and crossing themselves, and as quickly rushing out again. The Russians of the Greek Church seem to think that much virtue exists in visiting a number of churches or shrines in quick succession on the same day; and certainly Moscow offers great facilities to the performance of this ceremony, for a person cannot go many hundred yards in any direction without meeting with a church, or chapel, or shrine of some sort. The churches in Moscow do not generally possess any fine paintings, the pictures of their saints showing merely the faces and heads. But there is one church, that of Le Vieux Croyants à la Ragosky, which has a fine collection. The priests of that church, being intelligent men, value it properly.

A gentleman who joined our friends gave them several bits of interesting information.

The small old church in the Kremlin was being renovated; nothing but the whitewashed walls remained. They found that the gilding and paintings which appeared so rich in the churches were merely fastened to wooden or canvas panels, and placed against the walls, so that a day was sufficient to turn a barn into a magnificent cathedral. He pointed out that the gates were of different sizes. The largest was for the admission of the Patriarch when he came to the church, the smaller for that of the ordinary members of the community.

“Exactly,” said Harry, “like the Irish peasant who has a big hole in the door for the pigs to walk through, and a small one for the chickens. All people are much alike.”

Religious liberty is very much curbed in the country; but they were told that every Sunday, at the Church of the Assumption, an open discussion on matters of religion takes place, chiefly, however, among the persons who wish to pass for savants. The priests seldom or never attend. It is suspected that these discussions are encouraged by the Government, not from any abstract love it possesses for truth, but for the sake of ascertaining the opinions of those who attend them. If the governing powers suspect, from any of the opinions he utters, that a person is likely to prove dangerous, his movements and words are ever afterwards narrowly watched till he is caught tripping, when he is without further ceremony marched out of harm’s way into Siberia.

As the party were walking round the Kremlin, they passed, outside the Arsenal, a number of guns of all sizes, many of them very beautiful.

“All those guns were taken from us,” observed one of their French friends to Cousin Giles. “How curiously things change in this world! Now, in early days our two nations were cutting each other’s throats, and yours was friendly to Russia; then lately we have been fighting side by side against the Russians. Now, behold, here we are walking freely and at peace within the walls of this ancient capital.”

Thus discoursing, they descended into the gardens on the west side, and proceeded towards the Church of Saint Saviour, then in course of erection.

Their French friend smiled again: “Ah, this church, now, is building to commemorate the retreat of the French from Russia,” he observed. “The Russians may well boast of what they did in those days, and we are not likely to forget it.”

The church is the finest in Moscow; the exterior is of white stone, ornamented with groups of figures in the deepest relief. The architecture is of the purest Byzantine order. The interior presented but one vast vault of brick, without pillars or any other support but the walls to its vast dome. Part of the walls were covered with wood painted in imitation of marble, to show the effect of the proposed style of ornament. It is in the form of a Greek cross. The altar is at the east end. The church is warmed by means of several large stoves, whence pipes are carried inside the walls all round the building, with vents at intervals, out of which the hot air can be allowed to escape. Broad flights of stone steps lead up to the entrances, which are on three sides. Cousin Giles altogether preferred the edifice to that of the Isaac Church in Saint Petersburg.

As our friends were returning homeward, a religious procession passed by. It consisted of a long line of priests walking two and three abreast, in somewhat irregular order, bearing banners of gold and coloured cloths, fringed and bespangled. They were chanting loudly, but not inharmoniously. Most of them had long straggling locks, which waved about in the breeze, and gave them a very wild appearance, which was increased by the careless, independent way in which they walked along.

The Russian priests seem to consider that, like the Nazarites among the Jews, an especial virtue exists in the length of their hair. As the procession passed through the streets, the people rushed out of their houses, or crowded to the turnings, eager to see the sight. There they stood, devoutly bowing and crossing themselves, though it was difficult to say what particular object claimed this respect. Altogether the procession, from the wild look of the priests, their loud voices, and the gaudy banners waving in the air, had much more of a heathen than a Christian character.

Vast preparations were at this time making for the expected coronation. The spires and domes and walls of all the churches and public buildings were being covered with laths, on which to hang the lamps for the illumination of the city.

Magnificent arches were being erected all round the large square opposite the Imperial Theatre; but they were of wood, and, though painted to look like stone, here and there bits of the pine peeped forth, showing the unsubstantial nature of the highly-pretentious fabric. Workmen also crowded the churches, furbishing up gilt candlesticks, refreshing the features of saints, adding rubies to their faded lips and lustre to their eyes, cleaning and polishing in all directions. Cousin Giles said it put him in mind of being behind the scenes of a theatre,—carpenters, painters, and gilders were everywhere to be seen; their saws and axes, their trowels and brushes seemed to have no rest; nor could they afford it, for they were evidently much behindhand with their preparations. Such furbishing, and painting, and washing, Moscow never before enjoyed. The whole circuit of the walls of the Kremlin, and its numerous towers, as well as the buildings in the interior, were covered, from pinnacle and parapet to the base, with a network of laths; so was the Cathedral of Saint Basil, and, indeed, every edifice in the neighbourhood. When the whole was lighted up, they agreed that the spectacle would be very fine, but they began to doubt whether it would be worth while to return to the city for the play itself after having witnessed all the preparations.

Cousin Giles told his companions that it is said that, when the Empress Catherine used to make a progress through her dominions, the peasants were driven up from all quarters towards the high road, and that wooden houses were run up just before her to represent thriving villages. As soon as she had passed they were pulled down again and carried on ahead to do duty a second time, the mujicks, meanwhile, being compelled to pace up and down before their pretended abodes, as Swiss peasants do before the pasteboard cottages on the stage.

People in Moscow were looking forward with eager expectation to the event of the coronation, and it was supposed that half the great people of Europe would be there. It did not appear, however, that the inhabitants were so anxious to see them for their own sakes as they were to let their houses and lodgings and rooms at hotels at exorbitantly high prices, every one expecting to reap a fine harvest out of the pockets of the gaping foreigners.

The most curious church, perhaps, in the world—the most outrageously strange of all the bizarre churches of Moscow—is the Cathedral of Saint Basil, which stands close to the river, at the north end of a broad, open space outside the walls of the Kremlin, and which space is bounded on the other side by the Bazaar. It is in the most outré style of Byzantine architecture. There is a large tower somewhere about the centre, running up into a spire, and eight other towers round it, with cupolas on their summits. There is also a ninth tower, which looks like an excrescence, in the rear. Each of these cupolas and towers is painted in a different way, and of different colours; some are in stripes, others in a diamond-shaped pattern, others of a corkscrew pattern, and some have excrescences like horse-chestnuts covering them. Then there are galleries and steps, and ins and outs of all sorts, painted with circles, and arches, and stripes of every possible colour.

“Well, that is a funny church!” exclaimed Harry, as Fred ran off to find the keepers to show them the entrance.

“An odd epithet to bestow on a church,” observed Cousin Giles; “but I cannot find a better.”

Underneath the building there is a chapel, which has no connection with the upper portion. A flight of steps led them into the building. Each of the nine domes and the pinnacle covers a separate chapel, which is again divided by a screen into two parts—one for the priests, the other for the worshippers. From each of the domes above, a gigantic face of the Virgin, or of some saint, looks down on those below. The huge, calm-eyed faces gazing from so great a height have a very curious effect. In the interior of the pinnacle a dove is seen floating, as it were, in the air. Every portion of the interior walls of this strange edifice is covered with the same sort of richly and many-coloured arabesque designs seen in the old palace, while a sort of gallery runs round the building, with an opening into all the chapels.

“A capital hide-and-seek place,” exclaimed Harry. “Why, Fred, I would undertake to dodge round here all my life, and you should not catch me till I had grown into an old grey-headed man.”

“You might find a more profitable way of spending your earthly existence,” said Cousin Giles; “yet I fear many people come in and go out of the world, and yet are of very little more use than you would thus be in their generation.”

“Oh, I know that, Cousin Giles; I am only joking. I want to try how useful I can be when I grow up, and how much good I can do.”

“You can be useful in many ways, even now,” observed their friend. “You are useful if you set a good example to those with whom you associate. You are doing God service if you show others that you are guided by His laws, if you act in obedience to Him, if you confess Him openly before men. All this can be done at every period of life. The old and young can and must do it, if they hope for a happy hereafter, if they love the Saviour who died for them; but more especially the young can do it, while health and strength and clear unworn intellects are theirs.”

Just after they left the cathedral, the bell of Ivan Veleki tolled forth the hour of evening, and numbers of shopkeepers, long-coated and long-bearded, rushed forth from their booths, and commenced a series of bowings and crossings, looking towards the Holy Gate of the Kremlin, which was directly in front of them. Having performed this ceremony for some time, they faced about towards another shrine at the north end of the square, and went through the same ceremony. By advancing a little into the open space, they could get a glance at another picture of some saint, when they bowed and crossed themselves as before. When their evening’s devotions were thus concluded, they went back to close their shops. Having put up the shutters, or closed the folding-doors which enclosed the front, one man held a candle, while another, with seal and sealing-wax, put his signet, with the likeness of his patron saint, to the door. No padlock or other means of securing it were used. Some Jews and Tartars, not possessing the same confidence in the protecting power of the saints, put padlocks on their doors. Very curious affairs these padlocks are. They have been copied from the Tartars, or rather from the Chinese. The key is a screw: by taking the screw out, the padlock shuts; by screwing it in, it opens. As the shrines which claim the poor Russians’ devotion exist in every direction,—indeed, they cannot walk twenty yards without seeing them,—while they run along on their daily avocations they are continually bowing and crossing themselves. The pictures of the saints which adorn these shrines were probably intended to remind people of their religious duties; but, like other unwise human inventions, which do not take into consideration the evil tendencies of the human mind, they have led to a system of degrading idolatry, while the simple truths of Christianity have been superseded by a flimsy tissue of falsehoods. Although the members of the Greek Church are iconoclasts, or image-breakers, and allow no actual images to be set up on their altars, it must be owned that they pay just as much adoration to the pictures of their saints as the Roman Catholics do to the statues of theirs.

One of the most amusing places our friends visited in Moscow was the great bazaar in the Chinese City. They made frequent trips through it, although their purchases were neither very extensive nor expensive. They bought some slippers made by the Tartars of Kazan, of gold and silk and silver thread, beautifully worked, and some ornaments of silver and steel made by the same people, and wooden bowls and spoons used by the peasants, as well as their leather purses and cotton sashes of many colours, and winter boots of white felt, and the head-dresses worn by the women, and a hat such as is worn by ishvoshtsticks, and many other things, all helping to illustrate the customs of the people. Among them was a samovar or tea-urn. It is in shape like an ancient urn. In the centre is a cylinder with a grating at the bottom. The water is held in the space between the cylinder and the sides of the urn. It is filled with water, and then a small piece of ignited charcoal is dropped into the cylinder, which is filled with black charcoal. A chimney is then placed above the charcoal, which now ignites and boils the water. By adding fresh charcoal and more water, a supply can be kept up for hours together. A frame fits on above the chimney, on which the teapot can be placed, to keep it warm, while a lid, called a damper, is used to put out the fire.

These samovars are used on all occasions, and are especially valued by the peasants at their picnics or open-air tea-parties, of which they are very fond. They purchased also several prints of the city, and some very amusing ones descriptive of the battles between the Russians and the Allies, or the Turks or Circassians, by which it appeared that the accounts received by the rest of the world must be totally incorrect, as in all instances, at the Alma, Inkermann, in the Caucasus, the Muscovites were signally victorious, their enemy flying like chaff before them.

The Chinese City, or Kitai Gorod, to the east of the Kremlin, was one of their favourite resorts. The name is most appropriate; and certainly it is most unlike any place in Europe. It is enclosed on three sides by a thick buttressed and round-towered wall, the upper part of which projects considerably; and altogether, from its strange style of architecture, it looks as if it had been imported bodily from some city of the Celestial Empire. The fourth side is formed by the east walls of the Kremlin, of which the Kitai Gorod appears to have been an outwork. The interior contains two long streets, and several smaller ones, besides the truly Oriental bazaar, already spoken of, with its numerous narrow lanes, running under one vast roof, dirty and mean, and crowded with shops of every possible description. Tea-sellers, with their Chinese signboards; paper-sellers, ironmongers, and perfumery and spices, silks and cottons, and shoes and hats, and trunk-makers and workers in leather,—indeed it is useless to enumerate all the trades there carried on. There is generally a row or half a row of the stalls of each trade together. As visitors pass along, the long-coated dealers rush eagerly forward, and with bows and grimaces endeavour to induce them to become customers. Here also the dealers in the holy pictures, or images, as they are called, are to be found. These pictures have the faces and hands only shown, the rest being covered with a casing of gold or silver. They are of all sizes, from two feet to one or two inches square; but as even for the smallest our friends were asked four roubles, they declined buying any of them. Here, also, are sold cups and censers, and all sorts of utensils used in churches. The travellers, however, were little disposed to become purchasers.

Near the bazaar stood, ready to start, three or four diligences—huge black machines, having a vast boot behind, a roomy inside, and a large, comfortable-looking coupé. They were bound for Nishni-Novogorood, where a large fair was taking place. Several rough-looking carts followed them, piled up with goods for the same destination. The fair of Nishni is the largest in Russia, perhaps in the world, at the present day. Here the merchants from the west meet the traders and producers from the numerous countries bordering Russia on the east, as well as from all the Russian provinces, and exchange their various commodities. Here transactions are arranged not only for the present, but for the following year, and many a farmer undertakes to deliver timber, and flax, and hemp still growing thousands of miles away, or hides and wool yet adhering to the backs of his cattle or sheep on the far-off prairies, or thousands of sacks of wheat yet ungrown, at Saint Petersburg, Riga, or Odessa, with every certainty of being able to fulfil his contract. Our friends were so interested with the account they heard of Nishni that they were eager to visit it. Russian carts are curious vehicles, made without a particle of iron. The wheels are kept on by various contrivances; some have bits of wood from the projecting edge of the side, into which the ends of the axles fit; others have bows of wood from the perch, which fit on over the axle where the linch-pin should be. The carts used for conveying passengers are covered with an awning of black canvas, and look as if they were water-tight, with a fair possibility of being made comfortable.

The travellers had many other things to see, both in and about Moscow, but they resolved not to delay longer than necessary, as they were anxious to study more of the manners and customs of the people in the interior; and they therefore made preparations for their further progress into the country.

Chapter Nine.

Departure of Exiles for Siberia—The Russian Howard—Vast Exercise House—Tartar Mosque—The Sparrow Hills—Burning of Moscow—Magnificent View of the City—Ennobling of Merchants—The Schoolmaster in Russia—Decay of the Old Nobility—The Donskoy Convent—Russian Monks—Their Interpreter—Palace of Petrofsky—Encampment near Moscow—Preparations for the Coronation Fête—Public Gardens—Zingari Singers.

Early on Sunday morning our travellers left then hotel to witness a painful though interesting sight, the departure of the convicts condemned to exile in Siberia from the Ragoshky Gate of the city, where they bid farewell to their relatives and friends. They are first collected from all parts of the neighbouring country in a large prison near the city, till they amount to a sufficient number to form a caravan. Our friends met the melancholy band; clanking their chains, they moved along at a slow pace through the city. Numbers of people, chiefly of the lower orders, rushed out of their houses, and presented them with loaves of bread, biscuits, tobacco, sugar, money, and other things likely to comfort them on their dreary pilgrimage. After they had been thus exhibited to the public, they stopped at a wooden shed, where they were to rest before taking their final departure. There were about fifty of them, old men and youths, and even women, some of them young, poor creatures, looking miserable, heart-broken, and forlorn.

The men were dressed in coarse linen shirts and trousers, and the high boots generally worn by peasants. Half the head was shaved, and few wore hat or cap to conceal the sign of their disgrace. Most of them were heavily manacled, some few only being free of irons.

In the centre of the building was a platform, on which were piled up the prisoners’ knapsacks and bags of provisions. Round it the gang stood grouped. While they were there, many persons entered to bring them offerings of money and food. At one end of the platform was spread out a large handkerchief, on which the gifts were placed. As each person, after bowing to the saint which hung in front of the doorway, deposited his or her piece of money or loaf of bread on the handkerchief, one of the prisoners, who seemed to take the lead, cried out with a loud voice, “Unhappy ones, thank the donors!” The whole party then bent their heads at the same time, and replied, “Thanks be to you, kind and benevolent sir,” or “mother” if a matron was their benefactor. After this, the visitors being requested to leave the shed, the gang was marshalled by the man in command, who spoke in a savage voice to the prisoners, and by his significant gestures was evidently in the habit of striking them.

The escort consisted of six mounted lancers and about thirty foot-soldiers. At a sign they stepped out together, and, while many a sob and groan was heard from the crowd, they commenced their six months’ dreary march towards Siberia at the rate of about twenty versts a day.

Russia has not been without its Howard; indeed, perhaps that great man infused his spirit into the bosom of the benevolent Dr Haaz. He, like Howard, devoted his means, his talents, and energies to ameliorating the condition of the unhappy prisoners. He had frequently urged on the authorities that the manacles employed were too heavy for persons of ordinary strength, but they would not listen to him. At length, the better to be able to explain the suffering inflicted on the poor wretches, he had them put on his own limbs, and trudged the whole of the first day’s march alongside the party of exiles. The state to which even this one day’s march reduced him was so strong an argument in favour of his assertion, that he won his cause; and after that the chains, except of the greater criminals, were much lightened.

A few carts, containing stores and some prisoners who were unable to walk, followed the melancholy cortege.

“In England many guilty ones escape punishment, but in this country many innocent ones suffer, I fear,” observed Cousin Giles as they returned to their hotel, very tired after their morning’s walk.

The travellers were told, that persons of rank condemned for political offences are carried off secretly by the police in closed carriages, without the power of communicating with their friends; that frequently they thus disappear, and no one knows whither they are gone. A small dark carriage, with thick blinds, may be seen, strongly guarded by horse-soldiers, proceeding towards Siberia, but no one knows whom it contains.

The travellers attended the service in the British chapel, where Mr Gray officiates, and they were surprised to find it so well filled. There were several persons in Russian uniforms—Englishmen, or the sons of Englishmen, in either the military or civil service of the Czar, who are allowed to worship God after the mode of their fathers. By the laws of Russia no Russian may change his religious profession, but any stranger entering the country may worship according to his belief—as may his descendants, although they become naturalised Russians. If, however, a stranger marries a Russian woman, the children of the marriage must belong to the Greek Church. Laws, however, cannot change the mind; and not only has the Greek Church been split into numerous bodies of sectarians, but there are many who totally dissent from it, an account of whom our friends afterwards heard.

Sunday they made a day of rest.

Monday morning they again commenced sight-seeing. The first place they visited was the building near the Kremlin having the most extensive roof without arches in the world, and in which the Emperor is accustomed to manoeuvre several regiments of cavalry and infantry together. People at the farther end look like pigmies. The ground was now covered with lamps, in preparation for the illumination. Their next excursion was to the Tartar quarter of the city, where there is a Tartar mosque. The Tartar dwellings are low cottages in wide courtyards. The mosque was of much the same character, only there was a pigsty at one side of the yard. In their search for the mosque they entered several courtyards, where the women, old and young, in striped dressing-gown-looking robes, hurried away to hide themselves from the strangers. At the usual early hour the muezzin mounted to the roof of the mosque, and in a loud voice summoned the faithful to prayer.

“It is sad,” observed Fred, “to find people in the centre of what is called a Christian land who are totally ignorant of a Saviour.”

“Very sad indeed,” replied Cousin Giles; “but if we look at home we shall find sights still more sad. In London itself there exist thousands of Englishmen who not only have never heard of the Saviour, but do not know of the existence of a God. Every year is indeed working a change, and diminishing their numbers, through the exertions of christian and philanthropic men; but when you grow older it will be a subject worthy of your attention, and you should not rest till all in your native land have the gospel preached to them.”

On their way back they bought some of the rush shoes worn by the peasants. They are made of rushes which grow on the banks of the Volga. They are more like sandals than shoes, being fastened on with thongs round the ankles. Their cost is about twopence a pair.

After dinner they drove to the Sparrow Hills, about five miles west of the city. The road was execrable, full of ruts and holes. They passed the palace of the Empress-Mother, which has some handsome gardens. They saw also an asylum for the widows and children of decayed merchants. It is a wide, extended building, with a church in the centre. Russia contains numerous charitable asylums, generally well conducted. They are, however, not to be compared to the numberless ostentatious charities of which our beloved country, with all her shortcomings, may justly boast. Their carriage took the travellers to the top of the Sparrow Hills, which are of no great elevation. They slope steeply down to the Moscowa, which, after passing the city, takes a sharp bend close to their base, and then runs back again towards the southern end of it. The view was indeed superb. Below them, on the plain across the river, was the Donskoy Convent, with its red walls and lofty towers, several other convents being scattered about here and there. To the right, on the wooded and sloping banks of the Moscowa, were the Emperor’s villa and many other handsome buildings; and before them the Holy City itself, its numberless golden and silver domes glittering brightly in the sunshine, like a mighty pile of precious jewels from the far-famed mines of Gokonda. On the left, on a wide-extended down, were seen the white tents of fifty thousand of the choicest troops of Russia, assembled to do honour to the Emperor at his coronation, or to signify to the people the power by which he rules.

“I should very much like to go and look through that camp,” exclaimed Fred; “I want to see if all they say about the Russian troops is true.”

“We will make a point of going there to-morrow,” replied Cousin Giles. “I have no doubt the visit will be an interesting one; but, for my part, I do not expect to be so interested as I am at present. The whole of Russia cannot, perhaps, afford a sight more beautiful than the one before us. Here it was that Napoleon, after marching across Europe, first beheld the superb city which he hoped in a few hours to make his own—the bourn he so eagerly sought—the prize of all his toils! How grievously, yet how righteously, was he disappointed! As he, swelling with pride and elated with triumph, was gazing at the city from the west, the Russian army, having already devoted their beloved capital to destruction, were marching out on the opposite side. In a short time the city in which he trusted to find shelter for his troops during the winter burst forth into flames, and a very few days saw him defeated and a fugitive, and his magnificent army a prey to the rigours of the climate and the remorseless Cossacks. History cannot afford a more dreadful picture than the retreat of the French from Moscow, or a clearer example of the retributive justice of Heaven. Not many years afterwards the Russians, as allies of the English, paid a visit, as conquerors, to Paris. The French, united with the English, were lately on the point of returning the compliment, by looking in on Saint Petersburg. Heaven grant that neither of them may ever come to London in any guise but that of friends. To commemorate the retreat from Moscow, the Russians are now building the Church of Saint Saviour, whose golden domes we see so conspicuous not far from the towers of the Kremlin,” observed Cousin Giles, pointing it out with his stick.

After gazing on the interesting scene for some time, the travellers returned to their carriage.

In the evening a German gentleman, long resident in Russia, to whom they had been introduced, gave them several important pieces of information.

“The late Emperor Nicholas was well aware,” he told them, “that his power rested on very precarious ground, and that, though a despot in name, he knew that he was in the power of his own nobles. To liberate himself, he endeavoured to weaken, if not to destroy, the old nobility—first by leading them into all sorts of extravagance, and then by creating a new order between nobles and peasants, who should feel that they owed their elevation entirely to him.

“For this purpose he created what he called the Guild of Honourable Merchants. Every merchant of the first guild who had paid a tax of 150 per annum for ten years without failure was eligible to belong to it. The Honourable Merchants are free from all imposts, conscriptions, etcetera, and pay no taxes. Another mode Nicholas took of ruining the old nobility was to establish a pawn bank, where they could at all times pledge then property. By encouraging their extravagance, many were unable to redeem it, and, being put up for sale, it was bought up by the Honourable Merchants and other members of the trading community. The late Emperor also wished to encourage education. By an ukase he ordered that all children throughout the country should be educated. To effect this object every priest is bound to have a school attached to his parish church. In consequence, a considerable number of children do learn to read; but the ukase cannot make them go to school, and in many instances the priests are so ignorant and careless that these schools are of very little use. The present Emperor, it is said, wishes to encourage liberal institutions. He has erected municipalities in the towns. In the courts of law three officers are chosen by the Crown, and three by the municipality, with a president who acts as judge. He is anxious also to abolish serfdom; but to do so at once, without violence, is dangerous. He is, however, effecting his object, which his father also entertained, by slow degrees. When an estate is sold, all the serfs become free, and in this way a considerable number have been liberated. No serfs can now be sold: a person may inherit an estate and the serfs on it. (See Note 1.) Many of the great nobles would willingly get rid of their serfs if they could. On one of their estates, perhaps, they are overcrowded, on another they have not a sufficient number to till the ground or to work their mines; yet they have no power to remove the serfs of one estate to another, while they must find means for their support on the spot where they were born. If the peasants were free, they could literally have more power over them, because they could then turn them off their estates, and compel them to seek for employment where it is to be found. Nicholas, by several of his enactments, has enabled his son to rule with less difficulty than would otherwise have been the case. By the ruin of some of the principal nobles he has saved him from the worst enemies of his ancestors, who so frequently proved their destroyers; and by the creation of a wealthy middle class, every day improving in education and numbers, he has formed a strong body who find that it is their interest to support him. When it is no longer their interest so to do, the whole fabric of Russian government will crumble to the dust.”

The first excursion our friends made the next morning was to the Donskoy Convent. It stands on a flat near the Moscowa, and is surrounded with high brick walls, flanked by lofty towers, all of bright red-brick. It has entirely the character of an ancient fortress, erected to withstand the rapid incursions of an enemy’s cavalry, though unfit to hold out against a regular attack. The church, standing in the centre of a wide, open space, is a lofty pile, with the usual gilt dome; but the residences of the monks are low, unpretending buildings, on one floor.

A young monk, in a long dark robe, a broad-brimmed, low-crowned hat, and dishevelled locks hanging over his shoulders, came forth, and politely offered to guide the travellers about the convent. Cousin Giles had engaged a young Englishman to act as their interpreter, and he very much increased the interest of the scenes they visited, and their means of acquiring information.

The monk led them into the interior of the church, which consisted of a vaulted chamber divided into two parts by a large wooden screen. The carpenters and gilders and painters were busily at work, painting and furbishing up the ornaments; but the scene brought forcibly to the minds of the travellers the preparations for a new play at a theatre. The monk told them that the large church was so cold in winter that it was shut up, and that there was a small one, well warmed with stoves, where they could at that season worship in comfort. He then led them through the burial-ground, which they found crowded with the tombs of noble families, and other inhabitants of Moscow and its neighbourhood. This is the most fashionable burying-place of that part of Russia, and consequently people are very anxious to have the remains of their friends placed there, so that, though they could not enjoy good company when they were alive, they might at all events after their death have such satisfaction as it might afford.

The ground was laid out with walks; the tombstones were of every possible strange device, and crowded together in a way which would have been far from pleasing to some of the more aristocratic inhabitants in their lifetime; but the monkish sexton in his own graveyard read the lesson to visitors, often uttered before, that death is a leveller of all ranks, and no respecter of persons.

When the travellers thanked the young moppy-haired monk for his attention, he replied that it was his duty, as it was his pleasure, to show his convent, and seemed in no way to expect any remuneration. The Imperial family, it is said, have no affection for the monkish orders; indeed, the feeling of dislike is mutual. They predicted the overthrow of the Russian armies in the Crimea, and the death of the Emperor—the wish probably being the father of the prophecy.

In their way through the city the travellers entered an Armenian church. It was ornamented with pictures of saints, like those of a Roman Catholic place of worship; but the pulpit was in a conspicuous place, as if preaching was not altogether neglected; and there were chairs inside the altar railings for the Patriarch and other ecclesiastical functionaries.

The style of ornaments about the church showed that the Armenian community were either not wealthy or not disposed to spend much money on the edifice. It, however, spoke of a purer faith than that of the Greek Church.

After dining, our friends set out, and drove along the high road to Saint Petersburg, towards the Petrofsky Palace. Every part of the way, from the Kremlin to the Gate of Triumph at the entrance of the city, was lined with scaffolding and seats, in preparation for the coronation, to enable the lieges “to see great Caesar pass that way” from his palace of Petrofsky, where he was to reside three days before entering the Holy City to undergo the ceremony of his coronation.

The Gate of Triumph, which forms the northern entrance to the city, is built of stone, after the model of one at Rome, but with a taste which would make a Roman stare. All the statues and ornaments about it are painted of every variety of colour, so that it has the appearance of a wooden structure put up by the rustic inhabitants of some country village to welcome the lord of the estate.

The Palace of Petrofsky is itself a curious sight. It is a huge pile, of a bright red colour, intermingled with white, and covered with every conceivable device in the way of ornament. It has circular walls projecting out in front from the main building, in shape and colour very like lobsters’ claws, and there are the brightest green roofs, and numberless domes, and cupolas, and minarets, and towers, and spires, covered with burnished gold, which make one suppose that a very rich man must live within. On a wide, open space in front of the palace, wonderfully grand preparations were making for a fête which was to be given to the people on the occasion of the coronation.

At a short distance before the palace stood a magnificent pavilion, intended to hold the Imperial family. A little of the woodwork yet unpainted showed that it was not a solid structure of stone. No people can equal the Russians in making the false pass for the real. On either side of the pavilion were others, each of a different style of architecture, for the use of the chief nobility of the realm. Before them, at some little distance, were two theatres, in comparison with which the magnificence of the old fair-going booth of Richardson would have grown dim. They might be called theatres, but they were only the semi-part of the theatre; the open common, with the blue sky overhead, was the space intended for the audience. Then there were several Montagnes Russe, but, instead of being made of ice and snow, they were built of wood. They consist of high elevations, facing each other, with a slope between them; people ascend to the top by steps, where they find cars of wood. They place themselves in the cars, and then are sent sliding down one slope with such force that they are propelled up the opposite slope.

But this was only a small part of the entertainment prepared for the people. There were fountains which, instead of throwing up jets of cold, insipid water, were to spout forth incessantly into huge tanks a stream of the much-loved vodka, from which all around might draw forth and drink to their hearts’ content.

What more perfect idea of a terrestrial paradise would a thirsty mujick seek for than did these preparations afford him? How munificent and kind must he have considered the Emperor who could provide such an entertainment for him, especially when near to the fountains of vodka there were spread out long tables and benches, covering some acres of ground, which it was said were to be loaded with provisions, of which all-comers of humble rank might partake!

The travellers had to drive in and out among the tables, and they pictured to themselves the jovial, happy crowd who would soon be assembled around them, enjoying themselves, and drinking long life and prosperity to their Czar—a perfect picture of an Arcadian banquet. Farther on were large booths, containing the kitchens where the provisions for the vast multitudes were to be cooked; and there were also other sheds, where the bread, and meat, and grain of all sorts were to be stored. All this feasting and amusement was to last three days, and no one seemed to be able to estimate how many thousands of persons would attend the rural banquet.

“Alas!” exclaimed Cousin Giles, “this may be a certain way of winning the momentary applause of an ignorant mob, but it is a miserable way of gaining the love of a people, of improving their character, of instructing them in their duties, by thus pandering to their lowest tastes. I suspect that it will not even secure the object desired. What a contrast does it afford to the way our own enlightened sovereign takes to win the affections of her people!”

“We had the fireworks at the peace,” observed Fred; “they were only to please the mob.”

“Yes, to be sure,” said Cousin Giles; “that was an old-fashioned way of letting the people know that peace was concluded. They could in days of yore, when newspapers were rare, have scarcely known it without; now such a proceeding is quite unnecessary. A large sum was squandered which would have been much better spent in enabling our artisans in the dockyards, thrown out of employment by the peace, to emigrate; besides which, it was said that numbers of people were kept working on several Sundays to get them finished in time. If such was the case, a national sin was added to a national folly.”

Cousin Giles’ conjectures with regard to the uselessness of the feast prepared for the mujicks were realised. No sooner each day were the tables covered, than the mob rushed forward and bore off whatever they could lay hands on, so that the later comers had nothing to eat; while fountains of vodka refused to supply sufficient liquid to quench the thirst of the vast multitudes which thronged round them. There was, therefore, far more complaint and grumbling, than love or gratitude exhibited towards the supposed provider of the entertainment—the Czar.

About half a mile farther, in front of this scene of barbaric festivity, across the plain, over fields which had been beaten down to supply an open space of sufficient extent, was seen a sea of white tents, forming an encampment which at that time contained fifty thousand men, to whom many more were afterwards added.

Before them was a line of artillery, the muzzles of the guns turned towards the spot where the mujicks were expected to assemble—significant, as a cynical friend of Cousin Giles observed, of the way in which people in the parts there are governed. He may, however, have been wrong in his conjecture.

The travellers drove towards the tents, in front of which they found the bands of all the regiments practising together. They made a great deal of noise, but the music was not so good as they expected.

They got out of their carriage, and walked into the encampment without let or hindrance. They felt a curious sensation as they found themselves among the troops of those with whom their countrymen had so lately been engaged in deadly strife. Not only were they secure from receiving any insult, but they were treated everywhere with the greatest courtesy.

One thing is certain, that although a large amount of barbarism remains in Russia, the army, in certain respects, has attained a high state of civilisation. The younger officers are invariably well educated, and generally polished in their manners. The material comforts of the men are much attended to in many regiments, though not perhaps in all, and they have been brought into a good state of discipline.

The tents were arranged in long lines, with broad, well-gravelled roads at intervals between them, with a drained footpath on either side. The encampment, it must be confessed, looked very far neater and cleaner than that at Aldershot. Why should we refuse to give our late enemies their due, or to acknowledge our own shortcomings? It is far better that the rising generation should know that Englishmen are not perfect, and endeavour to correct the national faults, than to go on blindly fancying that we are superior in all things to all other nations on earth.

Our friends, with their guide, first walked into a sergeant’s tent. He and his comrade were very civil, and begged them to take a seat. His regiment had not been in the Crimea, but they had heard what brave people the English were. Even those who had been opposed to them felt no enmity towards them; very much the contrary—they had learnt to respect them.

The Russian officers who had been in the Crimea, it was said, whenever they met with any English officers who had been there also, were more than usually kind and attentive to them. The men’s abodes, into which the travellers went, contained sixteen persons, and very close packing they must have found it in hot weather. In cold weather they are thus kept warmer, and, if called to stand to their arms on a sudden attack, a large body of men can be instantly brought together. The soldiers were generally fine-looking, intelligent fellows; many of them as fair, and quite as clean-looking, as Englishmen. Some of the regiments, raised in northern latitudes, were composed of fine, dark-bearded men, while the officers were generally good-looking and gentlemanly. These, however, were crack troops, and were certainly very different from the slouching, loutish-looking recruits to be seen when no public exhibition is intended.

Highly pleased with this visit to the camp, they drove back to the city. On their way they stopped at some public gardens, where their guide told them a celebrated band of gipsies were going to sing. Harry declared that the place was called Waxhauloff. Certainly the name did not sound unlike that word. There was a garden, brilliantly lighted up with coloured lamps, and at one end there were scenic preparations, probably for a desperate sea-fight on a pond, for there was a lighthouse in the foreground and some ships in the distance; and the bills signified that this was to be followed by a superb display of fireworks. There was also a large music hall, where a number of people were collected, listening to a very good instrumental band. The object of the travellers, however, was to meet with the civilised specimens of the race of Zingari or gipsies, whom they would find there. They were not long in discovering them as they moved about among the crowd. There was the same swarthy hue, black, burning eyes, and cunning, quick expression of countenance which distinguish them in every part of the world. The women were somewhat fancifully, but not fantastically dressed. This costume varied little from that common in Europe. It is only on festive occasions that they wear the dress of their people. The men had on surtouts, with belts round their waists, and light-coloured trousers. They were remarkable for their small well-formed heads and sharp Jewish countenances. Cousin Giles said he should call them Arab Jews. One of the women, who was fairer than the rest, and somewhat picturesquely dressed in a red mantle, seemed to attract some attention, though when her features were seen near they bore the gipsy characteristics.

After some time the interpreter succeeded in finding the chief of the gipsies, and in drawing him aside to where Cousin Giles was standing. The interpreter told the gipsy chief that Cousin Giles was an Englishman who took great interest in the gipsies of all countries, and that he would like to hear about his tribe. The gipsy replied that he was much flattered; that he was the chief only of forty or fifty people, but that they were all well off; that they lived in comfortable houses, and had conformed to the religion of the country; that he had been offered a sum equivalent to a thousand pounds to each of his band to go to Paris to sing in public, but that they were well off in Russia, and did not wish to move. Some of his people at times became very wealthy, and some of the women, who had fine voices, went on the stage, while others married men of rank. There were many tribes of gipsies in Russia who were altogether of an inferior grade. They still lived in tents, and wandered about the country, and were chiefly horse and cattle-dealers. A few followed still less creditable occupations. His tribe, however, held no communication whatever with them.

It occurred to Cousin Giles that the life of the wandering gipsy was perhaps more creditable than that of his brethren in the city. The conversation was brought to a close by the gipsy and his band being summoned to the platform.

The band consisted of fifteen women and eight men. The women were seated in a semicircle; the leader and another man, with guitars in their hands, stood in front of them; the rest stood behind. Some of the women had guitars. One of the girls sang a solo very well, the rest of the band joining in an extravagantly wild, fantastic chorus; the leader, meantime, skipping and turning and twisting about in the most absurd and inelegant manner. They sang several songs in the same style, some more wild and extraordinary than the first, certainly not suited to a refined taste. Yet this place was evidently a fashionable resort; the entrance-money was very high,—a silver rouble and a quarter,—and the company were all well-dressed, well-behaved people, evidently ladies and gentlemen, chiefly the residents of the neighbourhood, a fashionable suburb of Moscow.

The houses in the neighbourhood were evidently built only for summer use, for they were all, though differing in shape, of a Swiss-cottage style. The travellers had been so busily engaged all day, that, having satisfied their curiosity by seeing the gipsies, they had no inclination to remain for the pyrotechnic display, and therefore, going in search of their carriage, they drove back to Moscow.

They had now seen a good deal of the outside of the city—not all, perhaps, that was to be seen, but enough to give them a very fair general idea of it. There were many convents, and churches, and colleges, and hospitals, and other public institutions, which they had not had time to visit; and then there was the great event which was to take place in a few weeks, the coronation of the Emperor, at which it was expected that the representatives of all the nations of Europe would attend; but our friends preferred seeing somewhat of the interior of the country to waiting for it, and they therefore resolved on setting off at once, and returning, if possible, in time for the occasion.

Since the period spoken of the serfs have been emancipated, and these laws are no longer in force. The peasantry are, however, subject to the fearful conscription, and are liable to be torn from their homes to serve in the armies of the Emperor.

Chapter Ten.

Journey in a Tarantasse—Monotony of Scenery—Description of Population in Russia—The Mujicks or Peasants—Their Habitations and Mode of Life—The Religion of Russia—The Priests—The Landed Proprietors and their Habits and Characteristics—Civil Officers of Government—The Army and its Organisation—Russian Officers—A Breakdown—A Russian Inn—The City of Vladimir—Nishni-Novogorood—Its Great Fair—Addressed by a Stranger—His Mysterious Conduct.

Away rattled the tarantasse, with our travellers inside, through the gates of the Holy City of Moscow towards the town of Nishni-Novogorood, where the great annual fair of Russia was then taking place. The rough vehicle bumped and thumped and jumbled along at a rapid rate over the uneven road, in a way to try the nerves and bones and tempers of those inside; but none of the tumblifications they endured had the effect of disturbing the equanimity of their tempers, or of dislocating their joints, each bump of unusual violence only making them laugh more heartily than ever. Once clear of Moscow, the road was tolerably smooth in most places, and the body of the carriage moved easily along between the two long poles to which it was slung. Such is the principle of the tarantasse. The body of the carriage may be of any form or size. It may have come out of Long Acre, or it may be a little waggon covered in with a tarpaulin. The important part is formed of the strongest and roughest materials, so that it is not likely to break, or, if it does, any peasant on the road can mend it. Cousin Giles had hired one of the common sort. It was, in truth, a little waggon with a tilt over it, and made very comfortable with a good supply of straw and leather cushions, for which the Russians are famous. All travellers carry them. They serve for their seats by day and their couches by night. Our friends had brought a supply of provisions with them, so that they were entirely independent of inns, which are very bad throughout the country.

The party in the tarantasse consisted of Cousin Giles and his two young friends, of Mr Allwick, their interpreter, and of Mr Evergreen, who had begged leave to join them. Cousin Giles would rather have had a more sensible companion; but he was so good-natured and so ready to sacrifice his own convenience to that of others, while his quaint and simple observations afforded so much amusement, that he was more desirable than many persons with superior pretensions.

The road was very unpicturesque, running chiefly between forests of birch and fir-trees, with few or no hills to vary its monotony. The journey, however, was far from uninteresting. They passed various parties of traders with their waggons going to the fair; also a group of exiles on their way to Siberia, already weary and footsore, though they had performed but a short portion of their long journey. There were woodcutters in the forests, and peasants in the few patches of cultivated ground which here and there appeared. Mr Allwick, too, had travelled over the greater part of Russia, and gave them much information about the country.

“I divide the population of Russia into five classes,” said he, “with the Czar, forming a sixth, at their head. First come the mujicks or peasants, who form the great mass of the population; then come the svestchenniks or priests, who are mostly sprung from them, and are often looked upon as but slightly their superiors; the third class are the pameshtchiks, the landed proprietors and serf owners. In the fourth class may be included the chinovinks or civil functionaries; and the grajdanuns or citizens; while in the fifth may be reckoned the military of all ranks.

“Of the mujicks or peasants, upwards of two-thirds are serfs or slaves. The other portion have either purchased their liberty or have been liberated by their masters. They are completely under the control of their masters, who can flog them or imprison them, but may not take away their lives nor remove them from the land on which they were born. An owner may, however, let his serf out to some other master for hire. The greater number of servants in Saint Petersburg and Moscow are serfs belonging to landed proprietors, who receive a part of their wages. Many serfs follow trades, and some have become wealthy merchants. Some have purchased their freedom for large sums, but in other instances masters have refused to grant their serfs their freedom, who thus, though rolling in riches, remain with the chains of slavery round their necks, liable at any moment to be called back and compelled to do their lord’s bidding, even in the most menial capacity. They have the general faults of slaves, being cringing, cunning, and delighting in falsehood; but they are intelligent, kind-hearted, and merry, and honest when property is entrusted to their charge. Their dress consists of a cap, a long sheepskin coat in winter, and a cotton one in summer, a red-striped shirt, worn outside their very full breeches, and high leather boots on grand occasions; but usually they wear on their feet willow or birch-bark sandals, their legs being swathed in rags of all sorts. A vest and sash of some gay colour is also worn; so that altogether their costume is picturesque, though much less so than that of Swiss or Spanish peasants. Their cottages are built of logs of pine, laid one above the other, the ends being notched to fit into each other, exactly like the log-huts of Canada, and having always a porch in front. They are roofed with straw. They contain two apartments, with a huge stove of brick built into the dividing wall. In each room there is a very small window. In a conspicuous place is seen the picture of the saint worshipped by the family, hung against the wall, sometimes glazed, and always having a lamp burning before it. The first act of each person who enters the cottage is to salute the image; indeed, the same veneration is paid to it as was paid to the household gods of the ancients. The temperature of these abodes ranges, both in summer and winter, from 70 degrees to 80 degrees. They are lighted at night by a pine stick stuck into the wall. As the interstices between the logs are filled up with hemp and other combustible materials, fires are very common, and whole villages are frequently burnt down. In order to extinguish these conflagrations, each serf is bound to bring some particular implement—a ladder, a pail, or an axe; and, that he may not forget his duty, the implement he is charged to bring is painted on the board with his name, which is placed in front of his hut. Thus, as soon as the signal is given that a fire has broken out, so many serfs rush forth with ladders, so many with pails, and so many with axes, towards the scene of conflagration.

“The serfs on an estate are allowed a certain portion of ground and materials for building their cottages. They labour three days in the week for their owners, and three days for themselves; so that, when the soil is good, they can easily provide themselves with the necessaries of life. But, at the same time, they are entirely in the power of unjust stewards or cruel masters, who can make their lives miserable, and quickly bring them to ruin. It must be owned that when serfs are well managed they are often contented and happy, and have no wish for freedom.

“Some proprietors are anxious to free their serfs, so as to be able to move them from one estate to another, or to get rid altogether of the charge of keeping them. The well-known Count Sheremetieff, however, who owns some of the richest merchants and shopkeepers in Saint Petersburg, will not consent to emancipate any one of them, although some have offered him large sums for their freedom. He is content with a small annual payment as tribute. When he dies, however, if his successor is avaricious, their condition may be very much changed.

“The Greek is the Established Church of Russia. The priests are as a class illiterate, and but little removed above the mujicks in their habits of life. A priest is expected to marry, but can only marry one wife. When she dies, he enters the monastic order. His sons enter the clerical seminaries, and his daughters marry priests, while another takes his vicarage. When a priest dies, or becomes a widower, and leaves a grown-up daughter, the living is generally given to some candidate for holy orders who pleases the young lady, and who is willing to marry her. Thus the clergy have become almost a separate class, the office descending from father to son. The value of livings is very small, seldom surpassing 15 pounds per annum. The priests are in general held in very little respect by all classes, even by the peasants, who, however, kiss their hands when they meet them, and often have a feeling of regard for them. There are numerous dissenters, who are frequently treated with the most bitter persecution by the orthodox Church.

“The Pameshtchiks or landed proprietors may be divided into two classes,—those who have vast estates, and, honoured by titles, live chiefly at courts, while they commit their affairs to the charge of stewards; and those who reside on their property and look after it themselves. The former are generally polished in their manners, well-informed, and luxurious in their habits, and are courtiers, diplomatists, or naval or military commanders. Though they occasionally visit their estates, when they keep up considerable pomp and ceremony, they reside chiefly in the capital.

“The landlord who lives entirely on his property is of a very different character, and thoroughly unlike an old English gentleman of the same social rank. Supremely indolent and unintellectual, he thinks of nothing but how he can most easily kill time. When he awakes in the morning, his attendant slave brings him his pipe, and he smokes till his first meal of tea and rusks is prepared; his bailiff then comes and makes his daily report, and serves as a vent for his ill-humour. Then he eats a substantial and somewhat greasy meal, which enables him to exist while he takes a drive round his estate till dinner-time. That meal is even more coarse and greasy than the former one. He then sleeps for a couple of hours, smokes, plays at cards, sups, and goes to bed,—not a satisfactory way for a person with a soul to spend his time. His wife spends her day much in the same way, smoking paper cigarettes instead of a pipe, and managing the female domestic serfs instead of the men. All matrimonial affairs come under the cognisance of the Pameshtchik, as no serf can marry without his permission. This, however, is rarely withheld, as it is his interest to have as large a number of people as possible beneath his rule.

“Owners often treat their serfs kindly, and make their lives happy, but a capricious or tyrannical master has the power of rendering every person on his estate miserable.

“The above description refers to the Russian landowners as a class. There are undoubtedly exceptions, and many very excellent, intelligent men may be found, who, living entirely on their property, devote themselves to its improvement, and to the amelioration of the condition of those who have been placed in dependence on them.

“The worst class in Russia are the Tchinovniks, or those employed in the civil service of the Government, of all grades, from the highest to the lowest. They are badly paid, and thus indemnify themselves by every description of peculation, and by endeavouring to wring bribes out of all with whom they come in contact. The Emperors have at times endeavoured to alter the system, but, although they have punished delinquents, when discovered, with the greatest severity, they have failed to put a stop to the evil.

“The mercantile class are considered generally respectable. No person can trade unless he is a member of one of three guilds. The privileges belonging to the first guild are purchased by an annual tax, calculated on the declared capital, but which cannot be less than 150; and those of the other guilds by sums in proportion to the smaller facilities for trading which they afford.

“The Russians are certainly not a warlike race, though their governors have endeavoured to make them so. The conscription presses most cruelly on the peasants, and it is with the most painful reluctance that its summons is obeyed. When they join, the officers may ill-treat them, pull their hair, and strike them with impunity. The officers have generally a fair supply of professional knowledge, and some are highly educated. The men have a larger amount of passive courage than of dashing bravery; yet they will usually follow where their officers lead them. The private has a possibility of rising to the rank of an officer after twelve years’ probation, and even sooner by some dashing act of bravery; and several even thus have become generals. There are numerous military colleges in which cadets are educated, but a commission may also be obtained by a youth of family by his serving two years in the ranks. No officer may appear on any occasion without his uniform, nor carry an umbrella. The cadets are exercised during the summer in camps, as, indeed, is the greater part of the army, to prepare them for actual warfare.”

Mr Allwick had got thus far in his description of the people of Russia, when, as the horses were galloping along at a great rate, a crash was heard, and over went the carriage on its side;—one of the long poles of the tarantasse had broken. The travellers got out in dismay, not knowing how long this accident might delay them. As they looked out they saw some cottages ahead. A peasant standing at the door of one of them had observed the occurrence, and now came running up with his axe in his hand to ascertain the amount of the damage. Two or three other men followed. “Oh, it is nothing,” said they; “we will soon put this all right.” They were as good as their word. While the travellers stood at the roadside watching what they would do, they disappeared into the forest, out of which they speedily issued with a young fir-tree, which in an incredibly short space of time they stripped of its bark and fitted to the carriage. A rouble amply satisfied them for their trouble. They were merry fellows, evidently, for they laughed and joked or sung all the time they were at work, so that Fred and Harry were quite sorry that they could not understand what they were saying. The tarantasse was soon moving on as before. In the evening they stopped at a place with a name too difficult to pronounce, to take tea. The inn was an unclean, straggling-looking mansion, with a long whitewashed corridor, and whitewashed rooms, very scantily furnished, opening out of it. The whole place was redolent of an odour which appears to be a mixture of vodka, onions, or rather garlic, and stale tobacco smoke. No house in Russia seems to be without it, of high or low degree, its intensity only being greater in those of the lower orders. Evergreen complained bitterly of it. His consumption of eau-de-Cologne was doubled, he said, and he declared that it alone would prevent him from ever willingly taking up his abode in Russia, irrespective of his dislike to the despotic system of government under which it was placed. The travellers were ushered by a waiter into a room with a straight-backed, leather-covered sofa, chairs with wooden seats, and an old card-table; while the walls were ornamented with some coloured prints of battles between the Circassians and Russians, in which a host of the mountaineers were flying before a handful of their enemies. The waiter would have astonished one of his brethren in England; for he wore jack-boots, into which were tucked his full Oriental breeches, a pink shirt, showing the tail outside, and a dirty, collarless, long coat, like a dressing-gown, fastened round his waist by a sash. “Tchai, tchai!” (tea, tea!), exclaimed Cousin Giles with as much dignity as if he was thorough master of the Russian language. “Si chasse, si chasse,” replied the jack-booted waiter, meaning thereby that he would bring it as suited his convenience. Mr Allwick, however, added a few persuasive words, and in a short time the hissing samovar made its appearance, with a teapot and cups. The tea, which would anywhere be considered excellent, the travellers had brought with them. The principle of the samovar is very simple. In the centre of a common-shaped urn there is a cylinder with a grating at the bottom of it. The urn is filled with water, and the cylinder with charcoal. A brass chimney fits on to the top of the cylinder. A light is then applied to the lower end, which soon ignites the charcoal from the bottom to the top, and boils the water in three or four minutes. A frame fixes on to the top of the cylinder, on which the teapot is placed to keep it warm. There is a damper or cap, which can be placed on the top of the cylinder when it is required to put out the fire. There is no more convenient machine for travellers, as breakfast can thus be prepared in a very few minutes. A sum amounting to little more than a shilling was paid for the accommodation thus afforded. For a less sum they might have slept all night, but then they would have had to wrap themselves up in their cloaks and pick out a soft plank on the floor. In an hour fresh horses were procured, and once more the tarantasse was rattling along the road. About twenty-four hours after leaving Moscow, the travellers reached the ancient city of Vladimir, with the Golden Gate. It was once upon a time the capital of the Empire, and is still a city of considerable size. It is picturesquely situated on a hill, on which stand about twenty churches, overlooking a wide extent of wooded country, with a magnificent river flowing through it. The Golden Gate, which still rises in dignified solitude, a proud monument of the past, is not an ungraceful building. It is no longer used as a gate.

The temptations held out by the hotel here did not induce our travellers to stop, but, ordering fresh horses, they pushed on towards Nishni. They were now entering a fertile tract of country; but, fertile as it is, the population is not more dense than that of the most barren districts of Scotland. Mile after mile of thick forest was passed through, varied occasionally, as they approached the river Okka, by large villages. These villages have a strong similarity to each other, the houses being built of logs, and the gable-ends being turned to the road, and being inhabited by people with a very great likeness to each other. At length the town of Nishni-Novogorood appeared before them. At most times of the year it contains but few inhabitants. It was now crowded by persons from all parts of Russia and the provinces to the south and east, who had assembled to dispose of the produce of their respective districts, or to make purchases for exportation. Here assemble merchants from all parts of Siberia, Tartars, Georgians, Persians, and Armenians, to meet Russians and Germans, and even English and French, from Saint Petersburg and Moscow, who come to buy their produce or exchange them for manufactures from the West. Nishni stands on a high promontory, whose base is washed on one side by the Volga, on the other by its tributary the Okka. The Kremlin, or Citadel, with its low, embattled walls, stands on the highest point, and overlooks a vast plain, through which, at the base of the hill, the Volga flows proudly past. On this plain, close to the banks of the river, was a whole city of booths of various styles of architecture—those for the tea merchants being in the shape of pagodas. Some of the booths are of considerable size, being, in fact, storehouses for a large amount of valuable merchandise. One of the most conspicuous buildings in this quarter is a mosque, whose tall, pointed spire, surmounted by a glittering crescent, towers above all others. This mosque is said to be the most northern Mohammedan temple, with the exception of the humble little structure at Moscow.

Our friends found the hotel in the upper part of the town far more comfortable than they expected. The rooms and beds were tolerably clean, and the eatables contained no larger amount of grease and garlic than might reasonably be expected. Having refreshed themselves with a quantity of fresh-water, which somewhat astonished the Russian attendants, and partaken of a substantial meal, they sallied forth to visit the fair. Mr Allwick, who had been there before, acted as their guide. The upper part of the town presented no unusual bustle, but as they descended to the plain they found themselves among dense crowds of human beings in every variety of costume. Long-coated, long-bearded, and high-booted Russians predominated. By listening attentively, our friends thought they could distinguish very many different languages and dialects; and all were speaking in an earnest, energetic way, showing that they had met for business, and not for pleasure. There was, in truth, no gaiety either in their manner or their costume; for their dresses also were of somewhat grave, sombre colours, though here and there gay sashes, or caps, or vests, or turbans were to be seen. They walked up and down the long lanes of booths, in which the traders sat in state ready to dispose of their merchandise. But the more interesting part of their employment was the visit they paid to the various storehouses. In some were packages upon packages of tea, done up in skins, in which mode it is brought all the way from China by caravans; in another were piles of hides, in another heaps of dressed leather, in another bales of hemp and wool, brought by the Volga and its tributaries from far-off regions. There were also less bulky manufactured articles—leather work and embroidery, slippers and belts, from Kazan, shawls and cloths from Persia, and saddles from Tartary; indeed, it would be difficult to name one-half of the articles exposed for sale. There were no means of amusement, such as are to be seen at an English or German fair. No jugglers, or actors, or roundabouts, or swings, though there were eating and drinking booths in abundance, where the buyers and sellers and carriers might refresh themselves after the toils of the day. The mighty Volga, even here a fine river, presented an interesting scene. It was covered with a great variety of boats, some of considerable size, which had brought to market the produce enumerated above, and were ready to carry off what was taken in exchange for it. There were steamers also, some going much above Nishni, and others navigating from thence its whole length to its mouth.

While the travellers had been moving about the fair, Cousin Giles, who had a great facility for remembering countenances, had observed a man in the costume of a mujick continually following them. His dress was dusty and travel-stained, but it was neither torn nor patched, nor had he the appearance of a poor man. His countenance was frank, open, and pleasant, though grave and somewhat careworn, so that it did not appear to Cousin Giles that he had any sinister motive for his conduct. Our friends were so much interested with all they saw, that quick-gathering darkness alone reminded them that it was time to return to their hotel. They had even then seen but a very small portion of the fair. Cousin Giles had before this lost sight of the mujick. They were on their way to the upper town, and were passing through a street, if so it might be called, with high walls on either side, when, coming from under a dark archway, the mujick presented himself before them.

He walked up at once to Cousin Giles, and took his hand, which he pressed to his lips, and then spoke several sentences in a low, earnest tone; but as the language was Russian, Cousin Giles could not understand a word. Mr Allwick, however, came up to interpret.

“He tells you,” said he, “that he knows some of our countrymen; that he has always found them honourable, kind, and religious, and able to sympathise with the afflicted; and that, after watching you, he feels that he may put perfect confidence in you and your companions.”

“What does he want us to do?” asked Cousin Giles. “I shall be very happy to assist the poor man if a few roubles will be of consequence to him; but I do not see how otherwise I can help him.”

“He says that, if you will let him call on you at the hotel in a short time, he will tell you what he has got to say, but that now he dare not remain longer talking to you, lest he should be observed. He says that he will not appear as he now does, and he hopes you will allow whoever asks for you to be admitted,” replied Mr Allwick.

“Very mysterious,” said Cousin Giles. “It may perhaps be a device of the police to entrap us.”

“I do not think that, sir,” replied Mr Allwick. “The man is, I believe, honest; at the same time I cannot advise you to have anything to do with him. In this country one cannot be too wary. With the best of intentions, we may easily be brought into trouble.”

“Very shocking, indeed, to be taken up and sent off to Siberia,” observed Mr Evergreen. “Tell the good man that I will give him ten roubles if that will help him, but that I do not want to see his face again—in case of accident, you know. Tell him that.”

“It is not pecuniary assistance that he requires,” said Mr Allwick, who had again been speaking with the stranger. “He says that he will explain everything by and by if he is allowed to visit us. He throws himself on our charity. He thinks the risk to us will be slight, and the gain to him great. He entreats that you will give him a reply, for he dare not remain longer.”

Mr Evergreen’s curiosity was aroused, and he forgot his fears. After consulting a minute, Cousin Giles replied: “Tell him that I will see him if he thinks fit to call, but I cannot promise to help him.”

Mr Allwick translated what had been said into Russian, and the stranger, bowing low, retired into the retreat from which he had come forth, while the travellers returned to their inn.

Chapter Eleven.

The Stranger Merchant commences his Story—The Molokani—Origin of their Faith—Progress among the Villagers—How the Bible was prized by them—Its Distribution—Captain Martineff—His Endurance of Persecution—Sad History—His Christian Fortitude—General Persecution of the Sect—Flight—Transported to a New District—Attempt to convert Captain Martineff.

The hissing samovar was on the table, and the fragrant tchai had just been made, when the waiter with the high boots and pink shirt entered to say that a merchant had called with some goods for the travellers to inspect. Cousin Giles desired that the man might be admitted, and in a minute a person in a long dark coat, with a case slung before him, entered the room. He at once began to display some caps and belts of gold and silk embroidery, several articles of silver, spoons ornamented with black-lined engraving, little hand-bells, snuff—boxes, slippers of leather richly worked, and many similar articles, such as English travellers in Russia are accustomed to purchase. The prices he named were very moderate. While he was displaying his merchandise, Cousin Giles was observing him narrowly.

“Why, he is our friend the mujick,” he whispered to Mr Allwick. “The man can masquerade well.”

The waiter had now left the room. The merchant went to the door and looked out. He then came back to the table on which he had spread out his merchandise, and addressed Mr Allwick in a low, earnest voice. The latter now grew very much interested, apparently, with what he heard. The stranger perceived that his cause was making progress, and continued his story with increased earnestness. At length he stopped to allow Mr Allwick to translate to his friends what had been said. Cousin Giles looked inquiringly at him for an explanation.

“I will translate, as nearly as I can, what he has told me,” said Mr Allwick.

“I am, you must know, sirs,” said he, “one of that class of dissenters from the Established Greek Church whom our countrymen designate as molokani or milk-drinkers. You have not heard of them, perhaps. I will tell you about them. Many years ago the unadulterated word of God—the Holy Bible, translated into our native language—was brought into Russia without note or comment. Some copies of it reached my native province, and were received most gladly by many of our peasants. Those who could afford it eagerly bought the book of glad tidings; those who could not clubbed their money together and became the joyful purchasers of a copy. How the book came, no one could tell. Some said that a stranger from another land brought many volumes of the book with him in a large chest, and that he travelled about from village to village, instructing certain men in each village, and making them desire to possess the book. Though such might have been the case, I never saw the stranger. All I know is, that a certain very pious man in our village had several copies of the book which he had bought at a great cost, though not too great for its value, oh no! And that he sold them without profit to all who would buy—rather, I would say, at a loss, for to some who could not pay the full cost he remitted part of the amount. When we got the book we lost no time in reading it. In the fields in summer, under the shade of trees, we sat and read it, where no one could watch us; in our huts, by torch-light in winter, we eagerly studied the book. We knew that we had got the word of God, that we possessed a jewel of rich price; we were afraid that thieves might come and steal it from us. We read and read on; most eagerly we met together to talk about it, to discuss the meaning of parts which we could not at first understand, to pray that our minds might be enlightened to comprehend it. We read it, as the book itself tells us to do, with earnest prayer; we read it with faith, and we read it not in vain. Soon passages which seemed at first obscure were made clear to our comprehension. Every day we understood it better and better. We had no one to whom to go for information. We had no one to instruct us, so we went to God; we asked Him to show us the truth, as He in the book told us to do, and His promises never fail. He instructed our minds; He gave us all we asked for. We now discovered, truly, how darkened had been our minds, how ignorant we had been, what follies, what fables, what falsehoods we had believed. We saw the gross, the terrible, the wicked errors of the Church of our country. We found that those who should have instructed us were generally as ignorant as we had been, and that if not ignorant, they had taught us falsehoods, knowing them to be falsehoods. We found in that book how the world was made; how man was first placed in the world; how he, by disobedience to God’s simple command, fell from his happy state, and how sin thus entered into the world, and all men became by nature sinful; how God in His mercy promised a Redeemer who should bear upon His own shoulders the sin of all the children of Adam who believe in Him; how God selected a people to keep His great name, and to make it known among men; how He promised to the patriarchs of old, from age to age, that the Redeemer of the world should be one of their chosen tribe, and that the glad tidings of salvation should first be offered to them; how, in process of time, the Son of God, the Saviour of the world, from His unbounded love to the human race, appeared in the form of a man, and in humble rank, to teach us that He regards not the persons of men; how He was despised and rejected of men; how He suffered toil, and sorrow, and persecution, though He spent His days on earth in doing good to all around Him, to show the humble, and poor, and afflicted that He can feel for them; how He was rejected by God’s chosen people; how they crucified Him, and invoked a curse on their own heads by taking on themselves all the terrible guilt of the deed; how He died and was buried; how thus He offered Himself a sacrifice for our sins; how He remained for three days in the vale of departed spirits; how in His own body He rose again to teach men the doctrine of the resurrection; how, having fulfilled all the work of the sacrifice, He ascended into heaven, and how He there acts as a mediator between God and man; how, too, in His abundant mercy, He sent down the Holy Ghost to lead men aright, to teach them the truth. That book tells us nothing of the Virgin Mary, except that she was the earthly mother of our Lord. It tells us nothing of the mediation of saints, but it tells us that God accepts but one great sacrifice, that offered by our Lord Jesus Christ; that He is our only Priest, our only Mediator in heaven; that those who heartily repent of their sins, who put their faith in Him, and Him alone, will be saved.

“We find nothing said in the Bible of a Patriarch, or any other head of the Church on earth. The only Patriarch, therefore, we can acknowledge, the only Head of our Church, is Christ in heaven. Yet the Bible has taught us to bow to the authority of earthly powers in all temporal matters, but in spiritual matters to yield to the authority of no one unless it is plainly and undoubtedly in accordance with the word of God revealed in that book. Putting aside all the customs of the country, which seemed to us so overloaded with error and abuse that we could not distinguish the right from the wrong, we have endeavoured to form a system of worship and mutual instruction as nearly similar as possible to that instituted by our Lord Himself and His disciples. We knew that we could not preach our doctrines in public without bringing down on our heads a severe punishment from the authorities of the Empire; but they, nevertheless, made certain though slow progress. No sooner did one receive the truth than he became anxious to impart it to others. All this time, who, think you, had joined our faith?—none but serfs, peasants, humble mujicks. But this did not cast us down, for we asked ourselves. Who were the first disciples of our Lord?—fishermen, humble men like ourselves. Because our faith was different to that of the great and mighty in the land, it did not make us less certain that it was the true one, or less anxious to impart it to others, to offer our brethren the same assurance of pardon and salvation which we had ourselves received. Hitherto the progress of our creed had received no interruption from the Government authorities. We had worked silently and quietly; even the priests knew nothing of the movement going on. We were well assured that, should they discover it, they would oppose us with all their power. We were, therefore, allowed to continue on without persecution. By degrees, however, our doctrines began to make progress among persons of a higher grade. An earnest, piously-minded land-steward had a Bible lent him by a peasant; he expressed his satisfaction at reading it, and was at last invited to attend one of our meetings. He came, and his heart was turned to the right way. For many months he worshipped with us, and at length the owner of the estate he managed came to live on his property. He was an officer in the army, who had seen much service in the Caucasus fighting against the Circassians. He had the character of being a brave and a stern man in the army. His serfs always found him a kind though a strict master—not indulgent, but just. To his master the steward was induced, after some time, to open the secret of his heart, and he at length persuaded him to study the Bible. The master read and read on. He became convinced of the errors of the Greek Church, and joined our fraternity. Truly as a brother, humble and lowly in his own sight, he moved among us.

“The truth had now spread widely; many thousands believed and worshipped with us, and we began to hope that the pure doctrines of Christianity might extend over the face of our beloved country. Alas! We deceived ourselves. We forgot that times of persecution, trial, and suffering must ever be looked for by God’s saints on earth.

“At length, as was to be expected, some of the Government officials got notice of our meetings. One night a congregation of us were assembled for prayer and instruction in the word in a rude hut constructed by us far away in the depths of a forest,—the only temple we dared raise to our God,—when we were startled by hearing the trampling of steeds and the crashing of boughs. Before we could rise from our knees, a party of police, headed by a priest and two of the neighbouring landowners, rushed in upon us. Some attempted to fly, others stood boldly up to confront our persecutors; but neither would it have been right or wise, or of any avail, to have used carnal weapons for our defence. Those who thus stood firm felt bolder than they had ever done before. We demanded why we were thus assailed and interrupted in our private devotions. We asserted our right to meet for prayer to God and to our Lord, and demanded that we might be left to finish our devotions undisturbed. In return we were jeered and ridiculed, and roughly ordered to marshal ourselves and hurry on before our captors. They told us that we should be tried before a proper tribunal; that there could be no doubt we had met together for political and treasonable purposes; that also we were schismatics and heretics, and that we had merited the severest punishment. We had no help for it, so, praying to God for help and support in this our first hour of peril, we did as we were ordered. How we had been discovered we could not learn. We feared that some one among our own body had proved false, but we trusted that such was not the case. Our meetings had probably attracted the attention of some priest more acute than his brethren, and he had subtly made inquiries till he had discovered the truth. It was a sad procession as we marched forth from our woodland temple, but yet we were not cast down; we trusted in God that He would deliver us. He did not even then forget us. We had marched a verst or more when thick clouds began to gather in the sky, and loud rumblings were heard. Soon the tempest burst over the forest, louder and louder grew the thunder, flash upon flash of lightning darted from the heavens; first heavy drops, and then torrents of rain came down upon our heads; the trees bent, trunks were riven by the lightning, boughs were torn from the stems and dashed across our path. The steeds of our captors began to snort and rear and show every sign of terror. Crash succeeded crash—more vivid grew the lightning; it played round the tall stems of the trees, it ran hissing like serpents of fire along the ground, it almost blinded us by its brightness. At last the horses could no longer stand it; their riders, too, were alarmed. Some of the horses wheeled one way, some another, and all set off galloping furiously through the wood in different directions. In vain the priest and the lords called to us to keep together, and to meet them at the town; in vain their servants and their other attendants endeavoured to keep us together. Feeling that the tempest was sent for our deliverance, with a prayer for each other’s safety we likewise dispersed in all directions, to seek places of shelter and concealment from our enemies. The large forests, the thin population, the rocks and caves of that region afforded us abundance of facilities for this object. Many of us reached such places of safety as I have described and the freemen were able to remain concealed, but the serfs were hunted up like wild beasts and brought back to their owners. Many were put to the torture, to make them betray those who had assumed what was called the new faith. Day after day some of our members were seized. The freemen were cast into prison and put to the torture, to compel them to deny their faith or to accuse others of following it. Our beloved brother, Captain Martineff, had hitherto escaped, but now he was accused of professing the new doctrines. He was seized and brought up before the officers of a commission appointed to try all such delinquents. He, who had ever proved a faithful soldier to his generals and the Emperor, was not now to be found false to his faith and his heavenly Lord and Master. He at once boldly confessed that he had taken the Bible as his rule and guide, that by that he would stand or fall; and he demanded that he might have the right of explaining and defending his doctrines in public court. This liberty was scornfully denied him. He was condemned for being guilty of desiring to subvert the Government and religion of the country, and thrown into prison. He would at once have been transported to Siberia, but the Government hoped by keeping him to discover others who held the same tenets. They little knew how far the true faith had spread, that thousands already held it, and that no power of theirs could extinguish the light thus kindled. They dreamed not also of the fortitude and courage of which a true Christian is capable. Captain Martineff would neither betray others nor deny his own faith. It was determined to break his proud spirit, as it was called, and now commenced a system of the most cruel persecution against him. His property was confiscated, his wife and children were seized and cast into dungeons separate from each other. They were fed on black bread and water. One by one they were brought to him and cruelly flogged before his eyes. He saw them growing thinner and thinner every day, the colour fading from their cheeks, the hue of sickness taking its place. He knew they were sinking into the grave—murdered by his persecutors. Still he would not deny his faith or perform ceremonies which he knew to be superstitious and idolatrous. With a refinement of cruelty worthy of demons, they told him that one child was dead. ‘It is well,’ he replied; ‘of such is the kingdom of heaven.’ A second died, a bright little cherub; it had been the joy of his life. ‘God be praised! He is in Abraham’s bosom,’ he answered. Soon a third sank under his treatment. ‘You have released him from prison to praise God with the angels in heaven!’ he remarked.

“His wife, a believer with him, mild, pious, and good, became a victim to their barbarity. They told him abruptly, to shock his feelings the more. A serene smile illuminated his countenance, ‘She has entered into her rest, where neither grief, nor pain, nor sickness can come. She is with the spirits of the just made perfect.’

“Still he had more children. It was known how he had loved them. One after the other died, till one alone remained. They brought it to him. They told him that if he would conform to the rules of the Established Church he should be released from prison, his property should be restored, and that this child—this darling child—should be sent to a place where fresh, pure air and the care of a good physician would quickly restore it to health. ‘Life and death are in the hands of the Almighty; to Him I commit the life of my child. I have but in faith humbly to obey His laws, and to follow the course He has marked out for me.’

“One, two, three, four years passed away, and he and his child remained in prison. The little boy grew thin and pale, and pined and pined away. They took him occasionally to be seen by his father—not to bring any joy to that father’s heart, but to tempt his constancy. The attempt availed them not. The child died; the father shed not a tear, uttered not a complaint, but remained firm as ever to the faith. Another year he was kept in prison, and then stripped of his property. He was dismissed from prison, and a certain locality fixed for his abode. Why he was not sent to Siberia was not known. It was the will of the Emperor, it was supposed, who had heard his story.

“While I have been narrating Captain Martineff’s history, I have neglected to speak of the condition of the poorer brethren. Numbers were seized, knouted, and sent off to labour in the mines of Siberia. They little thought that by that means they were taking the surest way of propagating the truth. Others were thrown into prison, and subjected daily to cruel tortures to force them to recant.

“A few unhappy men were overcome by the pains and terror, and returned to the Greek faith, but the greater number held firm. I remained in concealment, and it was supposed that I had died; but I had relatives and friends who were wealthy for our rank of life, and gave me support. All my family were free, yet in position we were not much above the poor mujick. I used after a time to venture out of my hiding-place and meet our brethren for prayer and praise; but it was at great hazard, and oftentimes I had a narrow escape of being captured. At length, after we had suffered years of persecution, a time of rest was awarded us, and we fancied that we were to be allowed to worship our God as we judged best. Still I dared not be seen in public, for I had refused to appear when summoned, and I was looked upon as a political as well as a religious offender.

“The mercy we were promised was but little mercy to us. We were to be removed from the land of our birth, from our once happy homes, and to be settled down, many hundred versts away, in a district between some German colonies and Tartary. It was believed that our tenets would not spread among the people by whom we were surrounded. Many hundreds of families were thus turned out of their homes and compelled to settle in this new region. The choice was given them of renouncing their faith or going. Few hesitated. I at length came forth from my hiding-place and joined my companions. We set to work assiduously to bring under cultivation the wild country in which we were placed, and God prospered our labours.

“Among the few of higher rank who belonged to us, Captain Martineff was sent here. Sickness and long confinement had turned his hair prematurely grey, and he looked an old man. He built himself a small hut with a single chamber in it, and here he took up his abode, while he used to labour with his own hands for his sustenance. His fellow-villagers were all poor enough, but we all sought to assist him and to take him food—without it, I believe at times that he would have starved. He received our gifts thankfully, but never would take them unless when he was absolutely in want of food. He had been much respected when he was in the army, and the Emperor himself desired much to bring him back to the world. More than one priest had come to effect this object. At length the Emperor sent a general who was celebrated for his great powers of argument. He arrived at our village in great state, but set out alone on foot to pay his visit. The humble captain had been apprised of his coming; he sat at his little round table, made by his own hands, with his only spare seat placed ready for his guest. His Bible lay open before him. The General struck his head against the doorway as he entered. ‘We have need of humility when we approach the word of God,’ observed his host with a gentle smile.

“The General spoke kindly and affectionately to the old man. They had been comrades, brothers-in-arms together. For months they had slept in the same tent, and eaten out of the same dish. For a short time they conversed of old times.

“‘But you came to talk to me of matters of more importance, my General,’ said the Captain, laying his hand on the Bible. ‘Out of this book I will reply to you. Of my own words I need speak none.’

“The General then commenced a series of arguments, which he had thought incontrovertible. As each was brought forward, the Captain turned to his Bible, and produced a text, which with its context clearly refuted it. Text after text was brought forward. At first the General had been very confident of success; by degrees his confidence decreased, but the Captain retained the same composure as at the first.

“‘You have a great knowledge of the book, my friend,’ said the General.

“‘I should have,’ answered the Captain humbly; ‘I study no other; for where can another of equal value be found? This shows us the way of eternal life.’

“‘Ah, you speak the truth, my old comrade,’ exclaimed the General, rising. ‘I came certain of succeeding to convert you to my way of belief, but I own that you have conquered. You have converted me to yours.’

“These were the General’s last words. He rose to take his departure. He grasped his old comrade’s hand, and went out. Alas! Alas! His reason was convinced, but his heart was unchanged. His own words had condemned him. He went back to the world to laste of its allurements and false pleasure, its titles, its wealth, its evanescent honours. He undoubtedly reported favourably of his friend, and obtained for him immunity from further persecution; but for himself he sought not the Lord where alone He can be found. He continued his old habits of life, seeking the praise of men rather than the praise of God.”

Chapter Twelve.

Steffanoff Saveleff’s Early History—Resolves to visit his Parents and his Betrothed—Commences his Journey—Meets Woodcutters—Takes Shelter in the Hut of old Sidor—Attacked by Fever—Compelled to fly—Pursued by Enemies—Concealed in a Cave.

“All this time I have been telling you about my people, but I have said nothing about myself,” continued the stranger. “When my people were ordered to take up their abode in the new districts appointed for them, I left my hiding-place, resolved to share their fortunes. I remained unmolested at the new settlement for some months, labouring hard to prepare a home for my aged parents, who I trusted might be allowed to join me. With them dwelt a young orphan; she had grown up under their roof from infancy to womanhood, and was betrothed to me. During the days of persecution, I could not venture to wed her; but now that they were over, and I had the prospect of being able to prepare a home fit for her reception, I hoped to make her my wife. A peasant can love as well as a noble.—I could not leave the settlement, that is, openly, without permission from the mayor, the chief man of the village. In vain I asked for it. I told him my object; still he would not listen to me. I determined, therefore, to leave the place without his permission. As soon as darkness set in, one night, amid a storm of wind and rain, I started on my journey. The police, or anybody who would stop me, were not likely to be out at such a time. I hurried on all night, and in the daytime climbed up into a tree far away in the depths of a forest, where it was not probable any one would discover me. I carried a wallet well stored with food; I wished to make it last me as many days as possible, as my great fear was of being captured should I enter any village to buy bread. I had scraped together all the money I could collect, so that I was well provided with the means of purchasing provisions when I could venture to do so. Night after night I toiled on, sustained with the hope that success would crown my efforts. I feared neither bears nor wolves; they seldom in the summer season attack people, and I had often contended with them. In winter the wolves are most to be dreaded; and often travellers, even in sledges, have fallen victims to them. On foot a person overtaken by a flock of them would not have a chance of escaping with his life, unless he could climb a tree or a rock out of their way. I dreaded famine more than anything else. Had I been able to buy food wherever I could find it, I might have carried enough to enable me to get on from one farm or one village to another without difficulty, but, as this I was afraid to do, I was obliged to husband my provisions. I found in the woods an abundance of wild fruit, such as strawberries and raspberries, which grow plentifully in the woods; also of many roots, with the nature of which I was well acquainted. Besides roots, there were many varieties of mushrooms, and I had a small pan with me in which I could cook them.

“It was a wild sort of life I was leading. Sometimes for days together I did not speak a word to a fellow-creature. Now and then I fell in with woodcutters, but they were poor men who knew how to commiserate those in distress, and seldom asked me questions. The greatest assistance I received was from men of my own faith. Our tenets have spread far and wide throughout the whole of the south of Russia, and I had no difficulty in discovering those who held them. I at first had little hopes of meeting with any friends, but He who governs by His will the mighty universe, and without whose knowledge not a sparrow falls to the ground, directed me to one. I one day had just climbed a tree after my night-march, and was commending myself to my Maker before going to sleep, when, as I looked once more around me, I saw coming through the wood an old man and a young lad. By their dress, and the hatchets in their belts, I knew that they were woodcutters. I thought, perhaps, that they might cut down the very tree I had climbed into; however, they went on a little way, and then, throwing aside their axes at the foot of a tree, they knelt down together and offered up their morning prayers. Then they sang a hymn, which our brethren often use when met together for worship. The sounds cheered my heart; I knew at once that they were friends. I quickly descended the tree, and went up to them. At first they were afraid, thinking that I was a spy upon their actions, but a few words reassured them. I told them at once my story, for I knew that I was in safe hands. They promised to assist me as far as they had the power. I by this time much wanted help. My provisions were well-nigh exhausted, my feet sore, and my boots worn out. I required a day’s rest, and here was an opportunity of enjoying it. The lad, who was the old man’s grandson, undertook to get my boots mended by a brother, who would ask no questions concerning me, and would gladly do it for charity’s sake. The old man promised to bring me next morning an ample supply of provisions, and, in the mean time, insisted on my taking rest while he and his boy watched near me. For this purpose they lopped off a number of branches from the surrounding trees, and formed an arbour. They then strewed the inside of it thickly with dry leaves, so as to form a more comfortable couch than I had enjoyed for many a day. I crept in, and was soon asleep. I had no fears, for I knew that the woodcutters were Christian men, and that nothing would induce them to betray me.

“They aroused me at noon to partake of their meal, which consisted but of black bread and fish taken from the neighbouring river. The fish, however, reminded me that, if I could but provide myself with a rod and tackle, I might frequently provide myself with food. I mentioned my idea to my new friends, and they promised to procure me what I wanted. I was always a good fisherman, and knew how to catch every sort of fish. I was surprised that I had not thought of this before starting from home.

“After dinner I again went to sleep, and rested soundly till the evening. I awoke up, and the old man came and sat down by me, giving me some more food. While we sat and ate we conversed earnestly of religious matters. The lad had gone away with my boots to the village, which was three versts off. He did more even than he promised, for soon after dark he returned with them thoroughly repaired.

“‘Our brother knew the importance of having them ready, in case you might be compelled to move away suddenly, so he lost no time in mending them,’ said the young lad as he gave them to me.

“Blessings on his head! He gave me also some provisions; but he did more than this, he brought out with him a Bible. It was not his own—he had borrowed it. By the light of a fir-torch, as we sat in the entrance of my bower, he read many chapters from its sacred pages. It was late before the old man and his grandson left me, promising to return early the next morning. They told me that I might securely rest there till then, sheltered by the bower. They brought some water and washed my feet, and anointed them with some salve, which the lad, most thoughtful for his years, had procured for the purpose. I had been too much accustomed to sleep out at night during my long years of hiding from persecution to have any fears after the assurance the woodcutters had given me, so, commending myself to my Maker, I quickly fell asleep.

“I was awoke by feeling a hand placed on my shoulder. I started up, believing that a police-officer was about to seize me. I had lived for some time in hourly expectation of being captured, and I could not throw off the feeling. I felt, notwithstanding, that to allow it to weigh on my mind was a sin, as it arose from want of faith and trust in God’s providence. I looked up, and beheld the honest countenance of the young woodcutter.

“‘You sleep soundly, father,’ said he with a smile. ‘Few but those who have good consciences can thus repose, I have heard. Well, father, I have brought you as much food as you can carry, and enough to last you for many days. Eat, and then we will set off. I am to go with you some of the way; my grandfather will meet us on the road. He wishes to say farewell to you. It is all settled, so say not a word on the matter.’

“I willingly agreed to the young lad’s proposal. I was too thankful to have a guide and companion for part of my dreary journey to desire to refuse his offer. Young Khor (that was the lad’s name) insisted on carrying my wallet, so I walked lightly along, with a cheerful heart. Thus I found, when most in distress, Providence had sent me aid. After walking about two versts through the wood, we saw the old man coming towards us.

“He embraced me warmly. ‘Heaven protect you, my son,’ he said; ‘all the brethren here will earnestly pray for you: may you escape our persecutors wherever you go, and may friends be raised up for you whenever you require them.’ I thanked him warmly. ‘Khor will go with you—Khor will guide you till you arrive at the abode of brother Sidor. It is but three days’ journey from hence. Khor will then easily find his way back, and Sidor will then guide you on your way farther;—farewell.’ With these words we parted. Young Khor was a pleasant, cheerful companion, and as he knew the country well, he led me by far more direct roads than I could have found myself. It was truly an agreeable change for me to have Khor with me. Instead of being left to my own thoughts, I had pleasant conversation. He, too, had brought a Testament with him, although he had not the whole Bible, and whenever we sat down to rest he pulled it out and read to me, or I read to him. We were now also able to travel by day instead of by night, as he was able to conduct me by byways where we were not likely to meet any one to interrupt us. At length we reached the abode of brother Sidor. He was a grey-headed old man, and from sad experience had learned caution. We knocked three times at his door before he opened it. When he had done so he did not speak, but stood in the porch, examining us from head to foot. This scrutiny was apparently satisfactory. ‘Come in and sit down,’ said he, at the same time placing fish, and bread, and cheese, and milk before us. ‘There, eat; when you have satisfied your hunger, I will hear what you wish to tell me.’ We gladly did as he desired, and when we had satisfied our hunger, I frankly told him all my history, and the object of my journey. ‘Ah, my son! I knew your father, Loutich Saveleff, very well, in my youth. We were fellow-servants together at Petersburg, in the establishment of Count Paul Illarionovitch. He kept up a great state, and gave great parties, and made us wear magnificent liveries, and we thought ourselves very fine fellows. When he died we could not procure other situations, and as we had saved nothing and could not pay our masters the tax, we were compelled to return to our native villages and to resume our labours in the field. This at first we thought very hard work, and grumbled at it exceedingly, but we could not help ourselves, and what at first we fancied a curse proved a blessing in the end. By that means the blessed light of gospel truth was made to shine on us. Your father was the first to receive it, and having procured two Bibles he sent me one of them, as the richest gift he could bestow. At first I valued it only as a gift from him, for I loved him much; and that he knew, or he would not have ventured to send it to me. I, however, began to read, and as I read on I learned to value it for itself, and would not now change it for all the wealth of the Czar. What, I often ask myself, would the world be without it? What can for a moment be compared to it? How dark, how gloomy would our life appear! How unjust, how unmerciful the Creator of the universe! No guide for the present; no certainty, no hope for the future. It teaches us all we should wish for, all we should desire to know; how to walk in this present life, how to bear affliction, what to expect in the future.’ Much more to the same effect the old man said. I loved the word of God, I had suffered much for its sake, but he opened my mind to many things; he showed more clearly to me its exceeding brilliancy. Thus Christian men always gain advantage by holding converse with each other about the volume on which their creed is founded. Oh! miserable, miserable men who have not that foundation! I spent a whole day under Sidor’s roof. Young Khor rested there too. He then set off with a light step to return home; he had no fears. In the solitude of the forest, on the vast steppe at midnight or noonday, he was sustained by a belief that One who could humble Himself to become man, and who so loved mankind that He could suffer death for their sakes, was ever watching over him. This knowledge had taught him to discredit all the foolish superstitions of our country. The Domvoi (the familiar spirit of the house, similar to the Brownie of Scotland) had no terrors for him; neither had the Roussalka (the wood fairy), nor the Leechie (the demon of the forest). He knew that there was no such being as the Trichka, who, it is supposed, will one day visit the country and commit incalculable mischief, nor any such thing as a Vodainoi, or water spirit; in truth, he felt sure that God would allow only one evil being to infest the earth, and that merely to try mankind, and the better to fit them for the time when he and his angels shall be chained for ever and ever. I was truly sorry to part from Khor, though my new friend Sidor was a man I was heartily glad to meet. He had seen much of the world: he had been in France and in England, and he told me that he much liked the English. At the time he was there he said he did not know the reason of this liking, but since then he had discovered that it arose from the national religion, so free from bigotry, superstition, and priestcraft, faults which have completely destroyed all purity in the national religion of Russia.

“But I must not stop to describe the conversations I held with old Sidor. He pressed me to spend some days with him to recruit my strength thoroughly before I should recommence my journey. I was glad of a little delay; at the same time I warned him that, should it be discovered that a stranger was at his cottage without a pass, he might be subject to severe penalties.

“‘We never calculate the risk when a brother requires our help,’ he replied, taking my arm. ‘He who went about doing good, and died for our sakes, taught us that lesson, with many others, which we are too apt to forget. Say, therefore, no more about it, my son, but lay thee down and rest till thy strength has returned, and thou canst prosecute thy journey with renewed hope and confidence.’

“I could not resist old Sidor’s pressing, and, with a satisfaction I can scarcely describe, I threw myself on his bed, and in an instant was asleep. My sleep, however, was feverish and troubled. I had felt ill before I reached his cottage, and now, when I awoke, I found a raging fever on me. How long I had slept I know not. Old Sidor was by my side. There he sat, day after day, and night after night, tending me with as much care as a father would an only son. Several weeks I thus lay, hovering between life and death. Oftentimes my old friend told me that he was inclined to summon a leech to see me, but, if he did so, he was afraid that I might be betrayed, and delivered into the hands of our enemies. He besought, therefore, with much earnestness and prayer, the great Physician of our souls, that He would, in His abundant mercy, heal me. Surely such prayers are not in vain. In a short time the fever left me, and my strength rapidly returned. I had been out of the hut more than once to ramble through the woods, but was yet, I fancied, unfit to prosecute my journey. I lay on the bed while Sidor sat by my side reading that book which was seldom out of our hands—the Book of Life, when we saw through the open doorway his little grandson running in haste towards the hut. He entered too much out of breath to speak; in his hand he bore a feather, which he held out towards me. I took it in my hand; it was from the wing of a bird. I guessed in a moment what it betokened—so did Sidor.

“‘Our foes have discovered your retreat, and this is sent by a brother to bid you flee.’

“The boy nodded, and waved his hand hurriedly towards the door. I threw my arms for a moment on the neck of my old friend.

“‘Keep straight on the way I showed you yesterday, till you come to a tree scathed and blasted by lightning. To the right of it is a thicket; on the farther side, midway down it, you will find some dried brambles; remove them, and you will perceive a narrow passage. Half-way down it the ground beneath your feet will sound hollow. On your right hand, by bending aside the boughs, you will discover a further pile of brambles, which appear to have been thrown there by chance. Draw them aside, and there will be found a cavity; enter without hesitation, drawing the brambles over your head. You will find there provisions for several days, and a couch on which to rest your yet unpractised limbs. Many a fugitive brother has there found shelter for weeks together. Farewell, my son; Heaven guard you; you have not a moment to lose.’

“These words he uttered as rapidly as possible, yet it was necessary to be precise, to enable me to find the spot capable of concealing me. Again embracing him, I darted from the hut in the direction he indicated as fast as my legs, long unaccustomed to rapid movement, would carry me. Once I looked back on hearing a shout; I could just distinguish between the trees several men, some on horseback, approaching the hut. For an instant I gave myself up for lost, yet I continued my flight. I found soon that I was not followed, then I trembled for the fate of my old friend. If he is accused of having harboured a fugitive like me, and cannot give an account of me, the knout and Siberia will be his fate. I felt inclined to turn back, but then I remembered that I should only the more certainly bring ruin on him, by proving him guilty of the crime.

“‘Alas! Alas!’ I cried, ‘is it my fate to injure those who benefit me?’ I had little time for thought, though. I must hurry on; my pursuers might soon be on my track. I began to fear that my destination was suspected at the settlement, and that notice of my flight had been sent along the road before me. Perhaps even at the very end of my journey I might be seized, and sent a prisoner to Siberia.

“Still, as long as I could, I resolved to struggle on, and trust to God’s mercy. This thought gave strength to my feet. On I went in a direct line towards the scathed pine of which Sidor had told me. I was too long accustomed to the marks on the trees, imperceptible to ordinary eyes, to be led to diverge from my course. There was an open glade, and the tree stood before me on the other side. I hurried across the glade, and had nearly reached the farther side, when I heard a shout, and saw several horsemen emerging from the shade of the trees. The thicket was before me. I darted round it, and at once saw the bramble which marked the entrance to the narrow passage. To creep under the brambles and to run along the passage was the work of a moment. The shouts of the horsemen grew louder and louder. Had I not known of the passage I should not have had a chance of escape. I searched with beating heart for the hollow ground. My foot discovered it by the sound. I removed the branches and the bundle of brambles, and crept into a hole, drawing them again over me. I found there was space before me, so I crept on. As I began to move, I judged by the sound of their voices that the horsemen had reached the thicket.

“‘I saw him near about here, to a certainty,’ said one; ‘he cannot be far from this.’

“‘We will unearth him, the impious rebel, if he is hid near here,’ exclaimed another.

“‘He ran fast; he may have got away again on the other side of the thicket,’ said a third.

“‘Let us try this place first,’ cried the man who had previously spoken, and immediately several shots were fired into the thicket.

“‘Come out, you rebel!—come out!’ exclaimed several together.

“These words gave me courage, for it convinced me that my pursuers knew nothing of my place of concealment, and also that they possessed no superabundance of bravery or zeal. Had they been very zealous, they would not have cried ‘come out!’ but they would have forced their way in, and dragged me out. So I lay snug, while they expended their powder and shot on the harmless bushes. My only fear was, that they would shoot each other. It would have been wrong, you know, to wish them ill—they were only doing what, in their ignorance, they thought their duty.

“I lay all the time perfectly quiet, but without alarm, only wishing that they would go away, and allow me to continue my journey. I was anxious, also, to discover by anything they said what had become of my kind friend Sidor, but they did not mention him. Still, I knew that his chance of escape was very small; all I could do was to pray that he might be supported in his affliction.

“My pursuers continued beating about the bush for some minutes; at last one exclaimed, ‘There is no use in looking here, men; he has gone on, depend on it.’

“‘One hunt more before we go!’ shouted another. ‘Unearth the miscreant! Unearth the heretic! Drive him out from this—drive him out!—he’s here, depend on it!’

“Scarcely had these words been uttered, when a number of shots were again fired into the thicket—the people apparently loading and firing as fast as they could.

“‘If he is in there, he must be killed or wounded by this time, so now, men, let us try if we can find him!’ cried one of the party, apparently more eager than his companions.

“On this I heard the crackling of branches, as if the bushes were being broken and pushed aside as the people forced their way into the thicket. I could not now help feeling some apprehension that my place of retreat should be discovered, for I fancied they had got into the very pathway which led to it, and I feared that I might have been careless in my hurry in drawing the brambles over the entrance to my burrow; or I might have broken some of the twigs, which would clearly indicate my whereabouts, should any woodman or hunter be among my pursuers. Fortunately there was no dog with them, or he would speedily have ferreted me out. I thought the time very long that they were hunting about for me. At last one of them exclaimed—

“‘Are you satisfied that he is not here?’

“‘I suppose he is not,’ was the answer.

“‘Well, then, he must thank you for not finding that out sooner,’ replied the man who disbelieved in my taking shelter in the thicket. ‘We have given him a good start, if he knows how to take advantage of it; but let us have no more delay—so after him again, my men!’

“These words were a great relief to me. My pursuers apparently worked their way out of the thicket as best they could, with torn clothes and scratched hands, and, mounting their horses, galloped away through the wood.

“I would not, however, venture to move out of my place of concealment for some time, for I thought it very likely that somebody might be left to watch the thicket by those who seemed convinced that I had taken shelter within it. I, however, crawled farther in, and then found myself in a chamber, hollowed out in the earth, sufficiently large to hold several persons. It was lighted, though somewhat dimly, by two apertures in the roof, grated over, and then covered with bushes, so ingeniously placed that no one could suspect what was beneath.

“There was a table and some benches, and several raised places for couches. Besides this, there was a sort of cupboard to hold provisions. The place had evidently been formed with great care for the purpose of concealment. Some parts had been hollowed out by art, though I concluded from the appearance of the roof and sides that there had been originally a cavern there formed by nature. Whether it had been constructed by our brethren the Molokani, or at a period antecedent to the persecutions they had suffered, I could not tell to a certainty, but I thought it very likely that it was of a much more ancient date. As may be supposed, I was not in a condition to consider the subject. The unusual exertion and excitement I had just gone through made rest very requisite, so, commending myself to my Maker, I lay down on the couch, and endeavoured to sleep. Sleep, however, for long refused to visit my eyelids. I listened, but not a sound could I hear. Thankful was I when I felt sleep stealing on me at last.”

Chapter Thirteen.

Fears for old Sidor’s Safety—Continues Journey—Encounter with young Horse-drovers—Superstitions of Russia—Young Vacia—Sleeps in a Tree.

“I awoke much refreshed. A glimmer of light still came into the cave, so I knew that night had not yet set in. My chief anxiety was now to learn what had become of Sidor. I arose, and took some of the food I found in the cupboard. It consisted of bread and cheese and dried fish, with a pitcher of water. The food, though very dry, was free from mould. It was sufficient to sustain nature; more could not be required. Much strengthened, I resolved before proceeding on my way to go back to Sidor’s hut as soon as darkness would allow me to approach it without risk of being seized by my enemies. I therefore crawled out of the hole, and, placing the brambles over the entrance as before, stood upright in the pathway leading to it through the thicket. I walked along cautiously, listening as I went; I heard no sound, so, removing the bushes at the entrance, I looked out. The sun had just set, and darkness was rapidly coming on. I looked around in every direction; I could see no one. It was, however, safer to wait till it was so dark that I could not be distinguished at a distance, should any of my enemies be prowling about. I went back, and sat down on the ground. When night came on I sallied forth from my hiding-place, and walked towards Sidor’s hut. No light gleamed through the window or open doorway as I approached. This foreboded ill, I thought. I reached the hut; all was silent. I looked in at the window; I could see no one, nor could I hear a sound. I entered the hut; it was empty. By the glimmer of light which yet remained I discovered that even the scanty furniture, the old man’s only property, had been removed. There was nothing to tell me what had become of my kind friend, but my fears suggested that by the cruel hand of the law he had been carried off, and would probably ere long be dragging his weary feet over the burning steppes, or the wide expanses of snow in Siberia, probably to sink down and die ere half the journey was performed. As I thought of the suffering I had brought on the kind old man, I threw myself on the ground, and for the first time for many a long year gave way to a bitter flood of tears. It was wrong, I know. It was mistrusting Providence; but human nature is weak. I remembered this, and prayed for strength. It came. I arose, and sinking on my knees, earnestly prayed that the old man’s sufferings might be lightened as much as was for his good. I knew on whom he would trust, and had no more fears for him.

“Calling my thoughts to the necessity of taking steps for my own safety, I hurried on my way. It was important that before the morning dawned I should have placed many versts between my pursuers and me. They were not men, I guessed, to venture through the forest at night, and I calculated that, after having chased me as they supposed for an hour or two, and not finding me, they would give up the pursuit and return home. All night I walked on; the fresh cool air revived my strength and spirits; when morning came I felt much less fatigue than I expected, for the chief portion of the night I had been in the open country. At dawn I again made for a wood for the purpose of concealment, and as day advanced, and people were likely to be about, I climbed up as usual into a tree to sleep. I used to fasten myself on to a bough with my sash, so that I had no fear of falling off. In the evening, having surveyed the country carefully, to see that there was no one apparently pursuing me, I came down and continued my journey. For several days I met with no adventure. I was daily gaining strength; and as I approached my father’s village, and expected so soon to meet him and my mother, and her I loved, my hopes grew stronger, and my spirits rose. Yet I had still a wide extent of country to traverse. I went on for days together without even seeing a human being. On the high road I should have met them, but the country itself is so thinly inhabited, that often for thirty or forty versts together not a hut is to be found. My provisions were now again running short; how to replenish my stock I scarcely knew. I had reached the brow of a hill one morning, when I saw below me an encampment. On looking closer I saw that it was composed of young lads who were tending a drove of horses feeding in the plain below. They had kindled a large fire, and were busily cooking their morning meal.

“I had no fears of their intentionally betraying me, and the fact of their cooking arrangements made me suspect that they were some way from home, so that they would not speak of me thoughtlessly, and thus get me into trouble. I was very soon among them.

“‘My dear boys,’ said I, ‘I am a wayfarer, hungry and weary; can you spare me some of your food?’

“They all looked at me earnestly for a minute before one of them spoke, as if they would learn if I was telling the truth. Then, satisfied apparently, they all found their tongues together.

“‘Gladly, gladly, stranger, whoever you are. Come and sit down and rest—you are welcome.’

“Ah! The candour and heartiness of youth before bitter experience has taught it to mistrust the world is very delightful. They were boiling potatoes. They had a large can of milk with them. The potatoes were just cooked. One of the lads plunged his long knife into the cauldron, and drew out a potato at the point. He presented it to me, with some salt, in a dish. There were eight lads in all, fine intelligent fellows, not serfs, but sons of freemen, small farmers and others: The occupation in which they were engaged is looked upon as honourable. It is highly exciting and interesting. Their herds were feeding together near them. The moment one was seen to stray, one or two lads threw themselves on their own steeds, which they kept tethered near, and galloped off in pursuit of the straggler. They had, too, to defend their cattle from the wolves—often hazardous work. They offered me some milk, and then each lad helped himself to some potatoes; they had an abundance cooked, so that I was not depriving them of their food. They were all light-hearted and communicative. They told me how they had been startled in the night by unearthly sounds, and whence they proceeded they could not tell.

“‘Not tell!’ said one, looking up from his dish of potatoes. ‘We did not see what it was, but we can tell well enough. It was the Vodainoi calling to us from the neighbouring river, trying to tempt us to come near, that she might draw us into the water. She has drowned many people in that way. Why she does it I do not know. Perhaps she wants their souls to destroy them; perhaps their bodies, to eat them. She is very beautiful, all clothed in green garments, glittering with jewels. She is never seen in the daytime—very seldom at night. No one would wish to see her, for she is certain to deceive all she meets. The only chance of escaping is to clasp the cross, and pray to our patron saint; even then she will try to tempt the unwary to let go the cross, and cease praying. Oh! She is very vile, with all her loveliness.’

“‘What you say is very true, I doubt not,’ said another lad, ‘but the sounds we heard last night were as likely to have come from the wood as from the water. Now, to my mind, it was the Leechie calling to us from the forest. He is as bad as the Vodainoï, and ugly instead of handsome. Anybody seeing him is frightened, and runs away; so far he can do much less harm. He is a great brown monster, the colour of the bark of a tree; he never appears in the day, and at night always keeps out of the moonlight, as if he was afraid of anything bright. He does not shriek out like some other spirits, but goes moaning and groaning about the forest as if he was in pain. So it will be to the end of the world; he never sleeps and never dies. Some time ago little Koulik, the cobbler of our village, was returning home at night from his brother’s cottage, three versts off, where he had been to the wedding of a niece, when just as he came to the wood by the side of the hill he saw a Leechie looking out at him from among the trees. He did not cry out, for he is a brave fellow, but tried to pass this evil spirit as fast as he could. He did not think of his cross, though, and he did not say his prayers, so the Leechie caught hold of him, and kept knocking him about, against the trunks of the trees and over the fallen branches and roots, till he had scarcely a whole bone left in his body. The Leechie did not say a word, but only went clack, clack, clack, and chuckled with pleasure. Poor Koulik was almost dead with terror and pain, but still he never thought of his cross. Had the Leechie once got him well inside the forest, I do not know what would have become of him. He would probably never have been seen again by mortal man. He had just sense enough to keep outside, and when he was driven in to run out again, till at length the dawn appeared, and the Leechie left him. More dead than alive, he had just strength to crawl home and take to his bed. Next day he went to the priest, and the priest asked him if he had thought of his cross, and said his prayers. He confessed that he had not. “Then you only got your deserts,” said the priest; “how can you expect to be protected from evil spirits if you do not pray to the saints, you infidel? Do you think they would take the trouble of looking after you if you do not pray to them and bring them offerings to their shrines?” Frightened out of his wits and deeply penitent, poor little Koulik promised to buy two dozen wax-tapers at least, as soon as he could scrape together the money, and to bring them to the shrine of his patron saint. The priest told him if he did this the Leechie would not dare to attack him for a whole year or more.’ The other young lads seemed deeply interested with this story of their companion, and to believe it implicitly, so I took the opportunity of explaining to them the folly, not to say the wickedness, of such a superstition. I told them that in this instance the appearance of the Leechie was easily explained. The cobbler Koulik had, without doubt, taken more vodka than his brain could stand, and that in his tipsy state he had fallen against the trunks and roots of the trees and hurt himself. The priest ought to have known this. If not, he was a blind leader of the blind. If he did guess it, and knew better than to believe in such folly, he was worse, and designedly imposed on the people. I told them that a belief in ghosts and goblins and omens, and such like things, was a sin, and showed a total want of faith in God’s guidance and providence. They were all lies and inventions of the Evil One, and were introduced into the world by him to deceive and mislead human beings. The lads listened to me attentively. Much more I said to the same effect. I urged them to think of what I had said, but not to talk about the matter to strangers till they were convinced I was right. How I longed to have a Bible to give them, but I could not spare mine. Some of them could read, but they had never even heard of the book, and knew not that the religion they professed was drawn from it. I grieved to part from these fine lads. I wished them farewell. They did not inquire who I was or whence I came, but I won their hearts by speaking to them the truth. They were ready to do anything for me, and one of them insisted on lending me his horse and accompanying me part of my way. This was a great help to me, because I got over the ground three times as fast as I could otherwise have done, and could besides venture to travel during the daytime, as a person on horseback with an attendant would be less suspected than a poor wayworn traveller on foot. Thankful for the assistance so unexpectedly afforded me, I set off with my young companion. He was one of the most intelligent of the lads, and full of life and spirits. Vacia was his name. He told me he was an orphan: he lived in the house of a neighbouring proprietor, more as a servant than as an equal, though his parents were both noble, he believed. He never knew them. ‘Ah! I wish that I had some one like you to live with,’ he exclaimed; ‘I would go with you round the world.’ I was pleased with the lad’s warmth. ‘I am but a poor man myself,’ I answered, ‘very poor, Vacia; believe me, I could not afford you protection.’—‘I care not for that; I like you much, very much; not for what you appear, but for what you say. You speak wisdom;—you speak to my heart.’ I told him where I got that wisdom; that I spoke not of myself, but that I spoke from the Bible, and that all who would go there would get the same. We rode on talking thus for many versts. I at last reined up my horse and reminded him that he must return home, that the horses were not his, and that I had no right to tire them.

“‘Oh, the Count would not object to my thus using them,’ he answered. ‘He is not unkind, understand. I am grateful to him for many things, but I cannot love him. He has no soul—he cannot talk to me—he never reads—he has no thought except as to what he will eat and what he will drink. He esteems his cook more than his wife—more than any one. Who can love such a man?’

“I fully entered into young Vacia’s feelings. ‘I should much like to have your company,’ I replied; ‘you would make my days far more pleasant than they now are, and I might instruct you in many things you do not now know; but, alas! My young friend, this cannot be. My course is full of difficulties and dangers, and I must not let any one share it with me.’ What I now said only increased the lad’s ardour. Difficulties and dangers he longed to encounter. He scarcely knew, however, what they signified. The danger was not death, but a protracted march to Siberia, or the knout, and imprisonment—inflictions far more trying than wounds or death. ‘Come, come, my young friend, we must part,’ I exclaimed, throwing myself from my horse. ‘I am most grateful to you for your regard and for your kindness, but farther I will not let you go with me.’ I was obliged to be firm. I gave him the reins of my horse. His was without saddle or bridle. He had guided it with a rough halter. When he saw that I was firm, he burst into tears.

“‘Who shall I have to speak to me? Where shall I again hear such words as you have uttered?’ he exclaimed.

“Again I told him I was but a poor peasant, and that I could not help him. All I could do was to advise him not to rest till he had found a copy of that book which had given me such wisdom as I possessed. I knew not how further to afford him advice.

“‘I will, I will!’ he exclaimed. ‘I will find that book before I rest from the search. When I have found it, I will not cease from studying it, and I will often think of you who told me of it.’

“This thought seemed to console him. He told me that if I would let him ride one verst more with me he would then turn back. This I could not refuse; but he rode very slowly, and made the verst a very long one. At the end of it I dismounted once more, on the skirts of a wood, when, embracing my young friend, I charged him to return, while I plunged hastily among the trees. I hurried on that I might get into the depths of the forest before I should chance to meet any one who might have authority to stop me. For several more days I travelled on, across plains and through forests, till my provisions ran short. I wanted rest also. A few versts on was a village, but I dared not enter it till the evening, and I must then depart privately and speedily, before any inquiries might be made concerning me. I had plenty of money, so that I could always purchase provisions. I, one morning, had just entered a forest; I walked on through it till I suddenly found myself on the farther edge. It was on a slight elevation, and, as I looked down on the plain surrounding it, I recognised the village I was in search of. It was scarcely more than fifty versts from my native hamlet. In two nights more I might be there. I longed to push on, and for the moment I felt that I could reach the place by the following morning; but I remembered that by precipitation or carelessness I should make unavailing all my long-continued toils and exertions. Of course every day, as I drew nearer home, I ran a greater chance of being recognised. I retreated, therefore, a little way into the forest, and climbing up into a tree, secured myself as usual, and fell asleep. Those who have not toiled on, day after day, can scarcely understand the suddenness with which I could lose all consciousness in sleep, or the ease with which I could again awake at the slightest unusual sound. Those placed in the position I so long have been in, can most fully appreciate the blessing of sleep.”

Chapter Fourteen.

A Russian Village—Danger of being discovered—Providential Warning—Flight—Approach to his Native Village—Horror on discovering his Home deserted—Encounter with old Soukhoroukof—Taken to his House—Account of his Parents—Aneouta carried away—His Agony—Encouraged to rouse himself—Plans for rescuing his Parents and Aneouta—Sets off again—Encounter with Zingari—Old Friends—A bold Exploit—They offer to assist him—Plan arranged.

“I have given a far longer account of myself and my travels than I intended, gentlemen, but I wished to interest you,” continued the stranger. “I trust that I have done so already. What I have further to tell you will, I hope, excite your sympathy and commiseration, and induce you to accede to the request I have to make. I awoke just before sunset, and descending from my tree hastened towards the village, now bathed in the calm glow of the evening. I knew the spot well. I had often been there. I recognised the little church with its gilt dome and blue and pink walls, the pride of all the inhabitants—the whitewashed houses of the richer villagers, and the rough log-huts, thatched with straw, of the poorer serfs. A sparkling stream ran by it, and green fields and orchards surrounded the place. It was altogether a flourishing little village. The stream ran from out of the side of the very hill from which I was descending. I stopped by its brink, and having enjoyed a draught of the clear, pure, cold water, I took off my upper garments, and washed away all signs of travel from my countenance. Much refreshed, I proceeded. I had hopes of finding some one who could give me information about my parents. I walked on with as unconcerned an air as possible. First I went to a baker’s shop, where I bought bread, but he scarcely knew the name of my village. I procured also some cheese, and salt, and dried fish. With a beating heart I made inquiries of those of whom I bought these articles, but not a particle of information could I obtain. At last I thought that people began to look at me suspiciously, and that it would be more prudent to take my departure. Having come to this resolution, I went straight on, neither looking to the right hand nor to the left, and endeavouring to appear as unconcerned as possible. I had gone a little way when a person passed me as if running to reach some object before me. He did not look at me, but I heard him say, ‘Hasten on, brother. Tarry not to-night—you are suspected, and may ere long be pursued.’

“‘Thanks, thanks; may our brother be rewarded by Heaven,’ I replied, without looking at him or altering my pace. To this day I know not the countenance of the man who gave me this timely warning. As soon as he had gone on some way, I began to walk quicker than before; and darkness having now concealed me from any loungers near the village, I hastened on as fast as my feet could carry me. Young Vacia’s horse would have been truly welcome, still I dared not rest. Never had I travelled on so rapidly. I had, indeed, two powerful motives to hurry my steps—fear of capture, and a longing desire to see my parents and my betrothed. I escaped the threatened danger. Suffice it to say that, after another night passed on foot, I stood within half a verst of my father’s door, yet I dared not venture into the village by daylight. I had hoped to reach it before dawn, but my weary feet refused to carry me along faster. I could gain no information of those I loved. All my friends whom I could trust had been removed. Many new inhabitants had been sent to the place, and I was as a stranger on the spot where my childhood and youth had been passed. I lay concealed all day in a sheltered nook on the hill-side, which commanded a wide view in every direction, and would enable me to retreat should any one approach. How can I paint the anxiety of those hours, as I looked down on my native village, and recognised my father’s cottage, and every spot I knew so well? I tried to discover any inhabitants moving about the door, but none came out whom I could see all day. Evening drew on; the cows came lowing home to be milked, the horses were driven forth to their pastures, and the field labourers loitered in weary from their work. Many a hearth in the village sent up its tiny wreath of smoke into the pure blue sky, but I could see none ascending from my father’s cottage. Forebodings of evil tidings grew upon me. It was impossible longer to curb my anxiety. I hastened down the hill, regardless of danger. No one observed me as I hurried on. The cottage stood in a small garden, railed off from a field. I ran across the field, leaped over the railing, and looked in at a window at the back of the dwelling. All was silent; no one was there. Perhaps they may be sitting in the porch in front of the house, I thought. My sudden appearance will alarm them, though; but it cannot be helped. I got over the paling again, and with beating, anxious heart went round to the front. The porch was empty; the door was off its hinges. My heart sank within me. A villager was passing—an old man—I remembered his face well. He used to be kind to me as a boy, but he liked not our new tenets.

“‘What has become of Loutich Saveleff and his wife and their adopted daughter, my father?’ I asked, with a trembling voice.

“‘Do you belong to this place, as your voice informs me, and ask what has become of them?’ exclaimed old Soukhoroukof. ‘I always told my friend Saveleff that the same thing would happen to him which has happened to his son, if he would persist in adopting the newfangled doctrines which have been so rife of late years. What has become of his son I know not. It is supposed generally that he is dead. He was a good youth, but fanciful and unsteady. Not content with the old-established, well-approved religion of this country, but he must needs run after these new inventions, and get himself into trouble. Well, I was telling you about friend Saveleff. He had long been suspected of harbouring those doctrines, when lately it was discovered that he had given shelter to three or four convicted heretics escaping from justice. None of our old villagers would have informed against him, but some of the newcomers brought the matter before the Starosta, who was obliged to look into it. He carried the matter, as in duty bound, to the steward, who, unfortunately for old Saveleff, owed him a spite, and was but too glad to indulge his ill-feeling. The steward, Morgatch (I will not say what I think of him), brought the affair up to our Barin, the Count. Now the Count is a staunch religionist, and wonderful orthodox; though between you and me, if his heart was looked into, he cares as little for priests and the good of the Church as he does for the Grand Sultan of the Turks. However, whatever that—hum!—Morgatch advises him to do he does. Morgatch brought forward plenty of witnesses to prove that the heretics had been seen in Saveleff’s house, and that he and his wife and daughter had served them with food; and what is more, read out of the Bible, and prayed with them. Such atrocious crimes, of course, could not go unpunished; Morgatch, to make sure of the condemnation of his victims, brought forward evidence to prove that, not content with holding those pernicious doctrines themselves, they had endeavoured to instil them into others. This, too, was clearly proved. Saveleff had not a word to say in his defence, nor had his wife, but rather they boldly confessed and gloried in their crime. Had they been serfs, their owners might have claimed them; but they were free, and the old couple, without the power of appeal, were condemned to be transported to Siberia. No mercy was shown them on account of their grey hairs and their excellent character. They were sent off with felons, murderers, thieves, and traitors, to Moscow. One consolation is, that ere this they have probably sunk down, overcome with fatigue and ill usage, and been released from their sufferings by death.’

“I groaned as I heard these words; I had no questions to ask concerning my parents—the worst was revealed to me. ‘And Aneouta, their daughter, what became of her?’ I gasped out. ‘Ah, poor girl, her fate was a hard one. She would have been transported also, but that—hum!—Morgatch proved that she was a serf, the property of a brother of our Barin’s, the Count; that her father and mother were serfs, and that she had never been manumitted, as old Saveleff, who had adopted her, supposed. Instead, therefore, of being sent to Siberia, she was packed off without ceremony to her native village, to work in the fields, I suppose, or—But what is the matter, young man? You are ill, surely,’ continued the good-natured Soukhoroukof, extending a hand to me, as he saw me at these words about to sink on the ground.

“‘Oh, nothing, nothing,’ I answered, trying to conceal my agitation, but in vain.

“‘Young men do not look like that for nothing,’ he replied. ‘Come along—come into my house. You require food; perhaps a glass of kvass will do you good. Come along,’ and seizing my arm he led me, scarcely conscious of where I was going, to his own cottage.

“Had I had time for consideration I would not have allowed the good man to have run the risk of harbouring me. He made me sit down at his table, and gave me food, and the kvass he promised. I ate and drank mechanically.

“‘When did all this happen?’ I asked, with a trembling voice.

“‘About a fortnight ago only,’ he answered, looking very hard at me. ‘You seem very interested in the people; did you know them?’

“‘I did,’ I answered, doubly agitated; ‘but oh, father, do not ask me questions; it can do no good.’

“‘I must ask you one. Are you young Steffanos Saveleff, my old friend’s son?’

“‘I am,’ I answered, bowing my head. ‘And oh, father, I would not have entered your house had you given me time to think of the danger I might place you in; and you, I am sure, will not betray me.’

“‘Speak not of it, my son. You have eaten of my loaf and my salt, and drunk of my cup, and you are safe. No one saw you enter, and no one need see you depart. Rest a little while, and then go on your way. I must not venture to harbour you longer than a few hours. Before daylight you should be far from this.’

“‘Thanks, thanks, father!’ I exclaimed. ‘And now you know who I am, will you advise me how to proceed? Have I a chance of rescuing my parents, should they be still alive? You know that I am betrothed to Aneouta. Can I save her from the fate to which she is doomed?’

“Soukhoroukof leaned back in his chair and thought for some time. ‘I have an idea,’ he exclaimed at length. ‘The Emperor, our great Czar, is about to be crowned shortly. On such an occasion he will surely grant the requests of his loving subjects. Get a petition drawn up: go to Moscow: present it. Tell the Czar your whole story. He will be interested. If he grants your petition, as he may, ask him boldly to increase the favour by enabling you to marry Aneouta. Say no more than that you are betrothed to a beautiful girl who loves you, and that difficulties which the Czar alone can overcome lie in the way of your nuptials.’

“‘Oh, my kind father, the advice you give is excellent,’ I answered; ‘but thousands will be offering similar petitions, and what chance shall I have?’

“‘You will have as good a chance as others,’ he replied. ‘Try and be one of the first. But I doubt if many will venture to present petitions. The difficulty of reaching the city is great, and few, even if they wish it, will be allowed to go, while those who dwell there are not likely to have any petitions to present. Try your chance, at all events.’

“‘I will, I will,’ I exclaimed, grasping eagerly at the proposal, as a sinking man does at a straw, though I had little hope of its success. ‘But how shall I reach Moscow?’ I asked. ‘It is a long, long way, I fear, from this.’

“‘Go to the banks of the Volga; you will there find steamers going up to Nishni; get on board one of them, and your way will then be easy.’

“I warmly thanked the kind Soukhoroukof for his advice, and rose to take my departure. I was unwilling to jeopardise him by remaining a moment longer under his roof than was necessary. ‘One thing more I would wish to speak about before I go,’ said I, taking his hand. ‘Oh, my father, if you would but study that book on which we place our faith, how happy, how wise it would make you!’

“‘Well, well, my son, speak not of it. Perhaps I do: I think not as I used to do. The times are evil. It is necessary to be cautious. I will say no more on that point. But I have another matter to speak to you about before you go. You will want money to prosecute your plans. I am a widower; I have no children left to me alive. The bones of my sons whiten many a battle-field. My daughters died giving birth to those who will be dragged off to the same fate;—slaves, slaves all. I have no one to provide for; I am rich—rich in gold, that is to say, poor in everything else. I can well spare what I give. Take this purse; it contains two hundred roubles. It will help you on your way. Heaven prosper you!’

“My heart came into my mouth as the old man uttered these words. I could not reply to him; no words could have expressed my feelings; I took his hand, I bathed it with tears. I fell on his neck and wept. He saw how grateful I was; I would not have had him for a moment think me otherwise. ‘And a less sum than this would have purchased my Aneouta’s freedom,’ I exclaimed; for I could not help thinking of my betrothed, though I did not in any possible way desire to withdraw it from the still more important object of saving my parents from worse than slavery—a banishment to Siberia, or rather, a cruel death on the road.

“‘I think not,’ answered my host to my last observation. ‘The brother of our Barin, the Count, who owns Aneouta, is not likely to give her her freedom for any sum a poor man can offer; through the Emperor, alone can you hope to succeed with him. He will not refuse to comply with any request made to him by the Czar; depend on that. If you fail with the Emperor then come back to me, and we will try what money will do with the Barin. I will offer to pay the money for the poor girl’s freedom, to adopt her. We must let her know, in the meantime, that she has still friends in the world, and that she must keep up her spirits. She must also endeavour to make herself of little value in the sight of the Barin, her owner. She must feign sickness or foolishness, and disfigure her countenance, or refuse to work; a woman’s wit will advise her best, though, what to do.’

“‘Oh, my father, my father, you overwhelm me!’ I exclaimed. ‘I will go and see her; I will carry your advice to her. It cannot be far out of the way; I will travel day and night not to cause any delay.’

“‘You may pass by the estate on your way,’ answered my old friend, ‘but the danger is very great. Any one seeking to speak to her is certain to be watched, and if you are captured, your punishment will be of the severest kind. They will knout you till you are nearly dead, and you will then be sent off to work for the rest of your miserable life in the mines of Siberia.’ ‘I know all that, but I will run every risk for Aneouta’s sake,’ I answered; and so it was settled. In spite of the almost desperate state of my prospects, I felt my spirits rise with the hope of overcoming the difficulties which lay before me. Soukhoroukof amply stocked my wallet with provisions, and before the end of another hour I had left my native village three versts behind my back. Five days’ hard walking would, I calculated, bring me to where I expected to find Aneouta. My strength, I felt, would sustain me till I had seen her, and to see her I was determined at every risk. I would entrust to no one our friend Soukhoroukof’s message and advice. The idea occurred to me that if I could but get a horse I might push on more rapidly than I possibly could on foot, but how to secure one was the difficulty. To purchase one would require more money than I could spare, and it would be impossible to get one at the postmaster’s without a pass. I should instantly have been questioned, and imprisoned till I could give an account of myself. Indeed, the greater portion of my route lay along byroads, or no roads at all, across the country. Morning was approaching, and I was getting very weary, for it must be remembered that I had taken but little rest the previous day, when I saw in the distance, reflected in the sky, a red gleam of light. It was a wild district, and I knew of no village in that direction, but it appeared to me to proceed from the burning of some cottage. ‘Some woodman’s hut, perhaps, has caught fire,’ I said to myself, as I pushed onward. As I drew still nearer there seemed to be several fires, and I began to fear that an entire village, perhaps, was on fire. I determined, at all events, to ascertain the cause of the conflagration before I stopped to rest. I walked on, therefore, as fast as I could, and at length, having reached a slightly rising ground, I saw before me a number of tents grouped together, at a short distance from each other, and enclosed by a circle of waggons. Outside the waggons were tethered horses, and donkeys, and mules, and several head of cattle. The whole encampment, even at that early hour, was astir: some persons were bending round the fires which had at first attracted my attention, busily employed in cooking; others were lashing up packages, filling panniers with the contents of the tents; while young lads were carrying round fodder and water to the horses and cattle. They might have been mistaken for a party of merchants going with goods brought from far-off provinces to the fair of Nishni, but I recognised them at once as a band of Zingari or gipsies, probably bound in the same direction. I had often met these people during the long period of my wanderings, and I was well acquainted with their habits. Under certain restrictions from Government they rove about the country, and lead a free and independent life of a purely nomadic character. They are not so wealthy as those who live in the towns, and sing on the stage and in public gardens; but they are more trustworthy, and have more rude virtues than their brethren of the city. Oftentimes had I spent nights together in their tents when they knew that they were running some risk by sheltering me, and might, perhaps, have obtained some reward by handing me over to Government. I was in hopes that I might find among them some of my former friends, so I resolved at once to go boldly among them. As I drew near the encampment, a number of dogs rushed out from beneath the waggons, and began barking at me furiously. The noise brought out several of the men, who came from among the tents, peering at me cautiously through the darkness.

“‘What do you want here?’ asked one of them gruffly, calling back the dogs.

“‘Shelter and assistance,’ said I.

“‘You are not likely to find either one or the other here. We are moving from hence, and require no strangers.’

“‘Lead me to your chief, then, and I will hear what he has to say,’ I replied, in a confident voice.

“‘He is here,’ said a man, stepping out from among the tents. ‘Tell me what you require.’

“There was nothing in the appearance of the man to distinguish him as the chief, except that his voice was particularly clear and firm, and there was an air of authority in his manner, as if he was accustomed to command.

“‘You are known to be kind to the persecuted and to the friendless, and I am one of those coming to seek your assistance.’

“‘You shall have what you require, my friend, if it is in my power to give it you,’ he replied; ‘but come in here, and let me know more particularly what it is you require.’

“He took me by the hand, and led me in front of a tent, where he made me sit down on a bale, which had just been prepared for loading a horse.

“‘We have met before, father,’ said I, as soon as I saw his features more distinctly by the bright light of the fire. ‘It was some time ago, though, yet you will remember the circumstance, I know. The first snows of winter had just fallen, and a hard frost had set in, when one of your children strayed into the woods. On, on she went, thinking she was approaching your encampment, but was all the time getting farther from it. The evening was setting in, when she saw three huge animals moving towards her; they were wolves, ravenous with hunger. An armed man might well have dreaded to encounter them alone. I was, happily, in the wood, a houseless wanderer. I beheld the scene from the entrance of a rude hut I had just constructed to shelter myself from the inclemency of the weather. The sweet child stood petrified with terror—the savage beasts approached her—my fowling-piece lay by my side—I levelled it, fired, and brought the largest wolf to the ground. Then loading as I went, I rushed forward with a loud shout, which made the animals stop to see whence it came. This gave me time to load and to shoot another through the head; the third took to flight, but I killed him also just as he was disappearing among the trees. The little girl stood staring at me with amazement, then burst into tears. I took her up in my arms, and wrapped a sheepskin round her. She was a sweet little creature. Her features and her dress told me the race to which she belonged. I had seen the encampment in the morning; it was more than two versts away, but I was strong and active, and I knew I could carry her as far. She rested quietly in my arms, with all the beautiful confidence of childhood. I took my gun with me, and went gaily on over the crisp ground. In less than an hour I reached the encampment. There was joy and gratitude in the hearts of those to whom I delivered her. They had been searching for her in vain, and had already believed her a prey to wolves, which much infested that region.’

“‘Ah, she was my own, my beautiful little Azeota,’ exclaimed, the gipsy chief, looking at me earnestly. ‘Every circumstance you relate was told me then, I remember. But was it you did that brave act? Was it you who saved my child? Pardon me that I did not know you; you are much changed since then.’

“‘So I believe,’ said I. ‘Toil and anxiety have done their work on my features, I doubt not. I am glad of it in one respect, for though at times it may prevent my friends recognising me, it will more effectually guard me from being discovered by my enemies.’

“‘Ah, my dear friend, my son, my well-beloved, I know you now, though,’ exclaimed the gipsy, springing up, and throwing his arms round my neck, while his countenance exhibited the deepest emotion. ‘Ah, my Azeota, my sweet flower! I have lost her; death has taken her from me, but I am not the less grateful to you for what you did for her, and I thank the fates who have sent you once more to me that we may converse together of her. But tell me, how is it that you come here to seek me?’

“On this I told him such part of my history as I thought would afford him interest, and informed him of my purpose of endeavouring to find Aneouta, and of going on afterwards to Nishni and Moscow.

“‘I will think over the matter as we go along,’ he replied; ‘we shall soon be on the move; you will ride along with me. But stay, you have had no food this morning, probably. Here, Kazan,’ he cried, calling to a lad who was passing; ‘bring some provisions here immediately for this, my friend; your mother will give them to you—the best she has, tell her. Then saddle my black mare, and bring her along with my horse; he will ride her.’

“I thanked the gipsy chief for his arrangements. Nothing could be more opportune than the encounter. The tribe were proceeding in the very direction I wished to go, and though I could have performed the distance almost as quickly on foot, I should now be enabled to do it without fatigue. I ate a hearty breakfast, and by the time it was finished, the gipsy’s mare was brought to me to mount. Accompanying the chief, I rode on to the head of the caravan. As he passed along the line he issued his orders in a tone which showed that he was accustomed to be obeyed, and this increased my confidence that he would be enabled to assist me effectually. There were nearly three hundred people, I calculated, altogether; quite a little army. Some of the younger men and boys were on foot, lightly clad, with sticks in their hands to drive the horses and cattle; others were on horseback, while some of the very old men and women and children were carried in the waggons, which were driven by some of the men on foot. The story of my having preserved little Azeota from the wolves had already got about, and as I rode by, I was saluted with expressions of gratitude, which were very satisfactory. I felt indeed thankful that I had again fallen among friends so well able to help me. At the time to which I allude, I had remained many days in the camp. I had conversed much with the gipsies on religious subjects, and, alas! Had found their minds totally ignorant of the truth. Though living in a land at least called Christian, they knew nothing of that pure faith; they were almost destitute of any hope, any fear; this life was all they thought of. The future, eternity, was totally beyond their comprehension. They put their hands before their eyes as if to shut it out when I spoke of it. Gradually I unfolded to them holy things; I spoke to them of the Bible and its wonderful history, and by degrees they listened and were interested. Finally, I believe that I made much impression on the minds of many of them. Then I was once more obliged to fly for my liberty. Still I often visited the Zingari whenever I had an opportunity, and never was otherwise than kindly received by them. But to return to my late adventure with them.

“We had ridden some versts, and the gipsy chief had long been silent, when he turned to me, and said:—

“‘I have thought of a plan by which you may not only see your Aneouta, but you may, if she will consent, carry her away from those who keep her from you. You shall disguise yourself as a gipsy, and, accompanied by one of the young women of the tribe, you will easily gain access to her, under the pretence of telling fortunes. If you can persuade her to fly from her persecutors, we will protect her. No one will suspect that you have gone to the house for any other purpose than collecting a few kopecks, or stealing chickens, perhaps; and who will think of searching for her with us?’

“I saw at once the advantages of the plan proposed by the Zingari chief, and yet I trembled at the thought of leaving Aneouta so long among his people; not that I doubted they would protect her to the utmost of their power, but I feared she might suffer from the hardships to which she would be inevitably exposed. Still I felt that I must wait to decide till I had seen my betrothed. For five days we travelled on with far greater ease than I had been accustomed to, so that at the end of the time I was fresher and stronger than when I fell in with the encampment.

“But I am wearying you, sirs, with my long history, and I am sure that this kind gentleman, who has been interpreting for me, is completely out of breath.”

Mr Allwick smiled as he said this.

“Oh, no, no,” exclaimed Cousin Giles, and the boys, and Mr Evergreen, in a breath. “We are very much interested. Tell him to go on. We would rather hear his adventures than see all the sights in the place.”

The stranger bowed, and continued his narrative.

Chapter Fifteen.

Disguised as a Zingari—Start on the Expedition—Minetta’s Fortune-telling—Communicative Serfs—A tyrant Land-steward—Outbreak of Peasants—Dreadful Result—Old Scratchichna—Discovery of Aneouta—Their Flight—Stratagem of the Zingari Chief—Aneouta left in the Gipsy Encampment—Reaches the Volga—Voyage to Nishni—Conclusion of History—Cousin Giles promises to assist him.

“The gipsy tents were pitched on a wild moor, surrounded by low, barren hills, about three versts distant from the estate of young Barin Peoter Petrovitch, the owner of my poor Aneouta. Although my features are not at all of the gipsy cast, and any one examining them narrowly would at once have seen that I was no Zingari, yet by dressing carefully in their style, and by having my countenance doubly dyed, and my beard shaved off, I certainly might hope to be taken for one by the casual passer-by.

“The chief himself attended to the arrangement of my costume. He was a widower, and childless, but he had a niece, the child of a brother, whom he adopted. She was a clever, spirited girl, and gladly undertook to be my companion; indeed Minetta—that was her name—fully entered into the spirit of the undertaking. It was arranged, also, that a little lad, her brother, should accompany us. I described Aneouta to them both, so that they might know her at once should they meet her. My countenance had been so altered by the dye and paint that I looked quite an old man, and no one could possibly recognise me. Whatever may be the faults of the Zingari, they may be safely trusted with the secrets committed to their tribe; therefore, though every one in the encampment knew my object, I had no fears of being betrayed.

“Many a good wish was uttered as we three set off together on horseback. The chief had furnished me with a strong, active steed, which would carry Aneouta as well as me, should I be so fortunate as to be able to bear her off unperceived. We rode on till we came to a copse, a quarter of a verst or so from the house of the young Barin.

“Minetta and I then dismounting, left the horses under charge of her brother, and sauntering along in an unconcerned way, we approached the house. I had agreed to feign to be dumb, lest the tone of my voice should betray me. Thus I knew I should be perfectly safe from detection, and even Aneouta would not know me. Our difficulty was to learn where she could be found. Eagerly I cast my eyes about in every direction, expecting to see her among the work-people in the fields, but nowhere did she appear. Minetta had a good excuse to go among them, to offer to tell the girls their fortunes. They were not unaccustomed to such visits, apparently, for they smiled and laughed as she talked to them, and willingly held out their hands that she might read their fate by the marks on their palms. She cleverly adapted her promises according to the age and appearance of each, and seemed to give universal satisfaction. After she had gained their confidence, she began to put questions to them, to which they seemed fully willing to reply. First she spoke to one; then to another a little way off; and what the first told her she made use of with surprising facility, as if she had been long informed of it, to draw information from the second. I listened with painful eagerness to all that was said to her, but for a long time she could elicit nothing which could give me information about Aneouta. At length she got nearer to the subject.

“‘Surely all the girls of the estate are not in the fields to-day?’ she said. ‘Not long ago I heard weeping and moaning, as from one in pain or grief. The sounds came a long, long way through the air, even to where I then was standing, many versts away from this.’

“The girls looked at each other.

“‘Yes, you are right,’ said one. ‘It was a maiden who had gone away from this when a child, and thought herself free, but she was mistaken; and the Barin, our lord, is fond of keeping all his people about him, so when he found it out, he had her brought back. Poor thing, she was very unhappy, for she was taken from all her friends; but she will be better by and by. She will marry one of our young men, and then she will make new friends, and be reconciled to her fate.’

“‘Ah, let any one beware who marries her,’ exclaimed Minetta, promptly. ‘I have read his destiny in the stars. He will speedily die. Let him beware, I say.’

“The girls looked at each other with horror, resolved to warn all the young men in the village of the fate they might expect if they wished to marry the new-comer.

“‘Then she has not yet been sent out into the fields to labour?’ she continued. ‘I thought not.’

“‘Oh, no, she is still in the overseer’s house,’ answered one of the girls; ‘she has plenty of work there, for he is a hard man, and not likely to excuse her because she is weak or ill. For my part, I would rather be in the fields, where at least we have freedom to talk, and laugh, and sing as much and as loud as we please, at least as long as the land-steward keeps away from us. When he comes all are dumb and grave. If we talk, he thinks we are plotting mischief; if we laugh, he fancies we are laughing at him. He is miserable himself, and he wants to make everybody miserable also.’

“‘Why is that?’ asked Minetta. ‘He is well-to-do in the world—a good house, and plenty to eat and drink.’

“‘Ah, but he is always in terror of his life,’ answered the girl. ‘Before he came here he was steward of an estate owned by a Barin and his wife, who were the most grinding couple in all the country round. They starved their house serfs, and ground every moment of work out of the peasants that the law would allow. No other man but Gavrillo, our land-steward, would have lived with such people, I verily believe. The mujicks bore it for many years, not without complaining and grumbling, but without trying to right themselves. At last they could bear it no longer. A bad season came, and they were starving, and when they complained, they were only ground more and more; so they rose up with arms in their hands, and attacked the Barin’s house one morning, just before daylight, and the Barin put his head out of the window, and they shot him, and he fell down into the road; and when his wife looked out to see what had become of her lord, they shot her too. When they were certain that they were both dead they went off to the house of Gavrillo, intending to shoot him also. He, however, hearing the shots, guessed that something wrong was happening, and, mounting his horse, galloped away as hard as he could go. The mujicks saw him, and followed. They thirsted for his blood; and as they well knew that no mercy would be shown them, they were determined to have it. They followed him across fields, and there they kept up with him. Then he reached a plain, a wild heath, and he distanced them, but at the other side of the heath was a wood—he must either skirt it or go through it. Fear drove him through it, and they rapidly gained on him again. They now were almost sure that they should catch him, but as they got to the farther edge of the wood they saw him tearing along, his horse all foam, and his clothes in shreds, and his hat knocked off, a quarter of a verst or less before them. Shots were fired at him, but the bullets missed. A broad and rapid river was before him. They thought that they should now certainly overtake him, and already they fancied their revenge secure, when he reached the bank. He hesitated not a moment. He heard the infuriated mujicks behind him—their cries of rage and fierce threats—and saw the broad rapid stream before him. Death from behind was certain. The water might float him—he urged in his horse—the animal was strong and fearless. Bravely it swam on, encouraged by its master’s voice. Shot after shot was fired at him—still he held on. He was mounting the one bank when his pursuers reached the other, uttering cries of disappointed hate. He shook his clenched fist at them, and galloped on. He did not stop nor think himself safe till he had reached the nearest town. He there gave notice of what had occurred, and the governor sent off for troops to punish the rebels. The mujicks, meantime, with shouts of vengeance, went back to his house. His wife and children were within, and a hoard of his ill-gotten gold. They could not fly. He had had no time to secure his gold. The mujicks surrounded the dwelling, and closed the doors that no one might escape. There was a shout for faggots, dried branches, logs of wood. They were brought, they were piled up round the house, and a fire was kindled on every side. It blazed up fiercely. It crackled, and hissed, and roared. There was a strong wind: the cries of the inmates were overcome. Soon the smoke stifled them; and Gavrillo, when he returned with the troops many days afterwards, found nothing but a heap of ashes where his house had been. The mujicks then burnt down the house of their lord and emptied his granaries, and then dispersed in every direction. Not an inhabitant was left in the place. Even the old men and the women and children were carried off. Some of the latter, alas! Were soon captured and cruelly treated, but many of the men escaped to the distant steppe, and there, banding themselves together, robbed and plundered all they could venture to attack. That is the reason that Gavrillo is so melancholy and morose,’ said the girl.

“‘Enough to make him so,’ answered Minetta. ‘But has he not married again? Who takes care of his house?’

“‘Oh, no, he has taken no second wife. I should pity the woman to whom should fall such a fate. He has a blind and deaf old woman who takes care of his house, and I suppose he thinks if his house was again burnt there would be no great loss if she was burnt too. She is as sweet tempered as he is. A pretty life poor Aneouta will have with her.’

“‘And Gavrillo himself, where is he?’ asked Minetta.

“‘Oh, he is away from home just now—gone to see after the sale of some timber; and the Barin is away on his road to Moscow, and won’t be back till after the grand doings at the coronation of the Czar, and that makes us all so merry, you know.’

“Minetta had now heard all she required—so had I. The Barin’s absence would enable me the better to carry off Aneouta; at the same time I fancied that he might make out a good story to the Emperor, and persuade him to disallow my petition when he found that I was interfering with one whom he claimed as his serf. The Zingari chief, however, who knows the world well, afterwards told me that I need have no fears on that score, and that if the Czar grants my petition no one is likely to interfere with me. Well, Minetta and I left the field highly satisfied with the information we had obtained, and betook ourselves to Gavrillo’s house. The old woman, his housekeeper, sat in the porch knitting. The girl we had spoken with had in no way done her injustice; a more unattractive female was never seen. I groaned as I thought that my poor Aneouta should have been committed to the charge of such a being. A brown handkerchief was tied over her head: from beneath it escaped a few straggling white hairs. The eyes in her parchment-like countenance were scarcely perceptible, while her mouth was garnished with two yellow bones, which did the duty of teeth; her feet were encased in straw shoes, and her entire dress was of a dark hue, obtained by age and dirt. There was not a spot of white about her.

“‘What do you want here?’ she growled out, as she saw us approach.

“‘To tell your fortune, dear mother,’ answered Minetta, in the blandest voice.

“‘My fortune has been settled long ago, and a bad one it has been,’ answered the old woman.

“‘The moon changes, and fine weather comes at last,’ replied the gipsy, smiling. ‘Those who are wise never mourn the past, but look to the future. See what wonderful things this age has produced! Steamers, and railroads, and balloons—all you have heard of, I doubt not. Even now the world is ringing with the latest and grandest discovery, made by our people, too. Those only who come to us can benefit by it.’

“‘What is it, girl?’ asked the old woman, with more animation than could be expected.

“‘What is it? What you, perchance, would like to have, if you could afford to pay for it,’ answered Minetta archly.

“‘How do you know that I cannot afford to pay? Tell me what your discovery is, and I will tell you whether I will pay for it,’ croaked out the old woman.

“‘Oh, no, no; you will not trust to it,’ answered Minetta. ‘There are others who will value the great secret more than you; I must keep it for them. Farewell, mother;’ and taking my hand, she began to move away.

“‘Stop, stop, girl; let me know what it is,’ cried the old woman, her curiosity fully excited.

“Still Minetta went on.

“‘Stop, stop!’ again croaked out the old woman.

“The Zingari maiden pretended to relent, and stopped.

“‘Well, mother dear, perhaps you would like to try the effects of this great discovery. Often has the attempt been made, but in vain, to give back youth to age, to renovate the beauty which years and sickness have destroyed. The secret has been obtained. A liquid, distilled from the dew found on certain plants at early dawn, has that wondrous power. Every day the effect is perceptible; the limbs become strong, the muscles vigorous, the cheeks fill out, the roses return, the eyes grow bright, the step elastic, the—’

“‘Oh, give me some of it!’ shrieked the wretched hag, stretching out her withered arms. ‘I’ll try it!—I’ll try it! What do you demand, girl?—say quickly!’

“‘Try it first, and as you prove its effects, then you shall reward me accordingly,’ said Minetta, producing a bottle with a colourless liquid from under her cloak. She poured out some of the liquid on a sponge, and held it to the mouth of the hag. In a few moments its effects were indeed perceptible; her eyes closed, her arms hung down, and she was in a state of stupor.

“‘What have you been about?’ I exclaimed, afraid that some injury might have been done the old woman.

“‘No harm whatever,’ she answered, laughing. ‘Do you go in, and bring out your Aneouta. I will watch here, and then the sooner we are away the better.’

“With a beating heart, I sprang into the house. There were but five or six rooms. In the last I found a female, sitting with her hands crossed on her knees, looking on vacancy. She started on hearing a person enter, and gazed up at my countenance. I knew her by her figure; but, alas! Grief and anxiety had sadly changed her features. Still she was my Aneouta. Of that I was certain. Eagerly, inquiringly, she looked at me. Her eyes ran over my gipsy costume, then she once more gazed into my eyes, and springing up, threw herself into my arms.

“‘It is you—you, my Steffanoff!’ she exclaimed, in a voice that went to my heart. ‘Tell me not that it is any one else. It is you—it is you. I know you through your disguise. The dark skin—the Zingari dress—the white hair cannot deceive me. You have come to save me from this—to take me away—to carry me to your home. Tell me that I do not dream. Tell me that it is a reality I enjoy. Tell me that it is you yourself I hold in my arms!’

“‘Oh, my Aneouta, it is indeed your Steffanoff who has found you out—who has come to carry you from this place,’ I exclaimed, pressing her to my heart. ‘But there is no time to delay—I will tell you all by and by. We must be away at once, or we may be pursued.’

“‘Yes, yes, I come. Take me with you at once, my beloved,’ she cried, pressing closer to me. ‘But ah!—old Scratchichna, where is she? She will give the alarm, and clutch us with her claws, till some one comes to stop us!’

“‘Fear not about her,’ I answered, as I led her out of the room and into the porch. ‘See, she will not stop us.’

“The old woman was sitting as I had left her, perfectly unconscious. Certainly she did not appear as if her youth was returning; she looked far more as if death had overtaken her. Minetta stood over her, and as we were going, applied the sponge once more to her nostrils.

“‘She is not dying, I trust?’ said I.

“‘Oh, no, no!’ answered Minetta, laughing. ‘She will come very soon to herself, and then sit quiet, indulging in the fancy that she is growing young again, forgetting all about her charge and us. When she finds that this bird has flown, she will give such a confused account of the matter, that no one will know what has occurred. Good-bye, old mother—you do look very young, certainly!’ Minetta laughed in a peculiar self-satisfied way as she said this.

“Minetta having thrown her own cloak over Aneouta, which much assisted in disguising her, we hurried towards the copse where we had left the horses. Anxiously we looked around on every side to notice if any one was watching us, but the peasants were in the fields, and we carefully avoided the high road and the main street of the village. We found the lad with the horses all safe—no one had come near him. Things may be done in a thinly-peopled country which could not occur in the denser population of a town. Taking up Aneouta on the horse before me, away we galloped—my heart lighter than it had been for many a year. Still I knew that the time might be far distant when I might hope to live with her in peace and security.

“We were cordially welcomed by the Zingari chief and his people, who seemed to take an especial interest in the achievement we had accomplished. Its success was, I confess, entirely owing to the tact and adroitness of Minetta. The means she took were, however, not such as in my calmer moments I could in my conscience approve of.

“The Zingari chief received Aneouta as a daughter. ‘You shall eat of my bread and dwell in my tent, and occupy the place of one who is lost to me, till your betrothed comes to claim you,’ said he, taking her hand. ‘Minetta will be your companion, and she will tell you many things to make the hours pass lightly away.’

“Soon after we reached the encampment the orders were given to strike the tents, that we might remove to some distance before nightfall. Of course we knew that directly Gavrillo, the steward, returned, he would make every effort to discover what had become of Aneouta. The chief had placed her carefully in a covered waggon, when he asked her for her mantle and the handkerchief she had worn over her head. He took them, and rolling them up, gave them to the young lad who had been with us. I asked him as we rode along why he had done this.

“‘The river which passes near the village is deep and rapid; I have told him to go there as soon as it is dark, and throw them on the bank. Their being found there will effectually mislead the steward, who will believe that Aneouta has drowned herself, and will make no further search for her.’

“In the hopes that this stratagem would succeed, my mind was relieved of a very great anxiety; for I was certain that if it was known that Aneouta had taken refuge among the gipsies, and she was demanded from them, they would not venture to retain her. I expressed my fears to the chief.

“‘We will see to that,’ he answered, laughing confidently. ‘They cannot prove that she is among us, and they may come and search through every tent, and not discover her if she desires to remain concealed.’

“‘How can that be?’ I asked.

“‘By disguising her, so that she will become like one of ourselves,’ he answered.

“‘You could not disguise me,’ I answered; ‘she knew me at once.’

“‘Ah, the eyes of love pierce deeper than any other eyes,’ he answered; ‘besides, Aneouta’s features are much of the Zingari cast, and her eyes are dark like ours. Depend on it, we will disguise her so that no one will know her. If any come to look for her, we will tell them to come and search, and take her if they can find her. Depend on it they will fix on the wrong person rather than on her.’

“The perfect confidence of the Zingari chief very much assured me, if it did not do so completely. When we encamped at night, I gave Aneouta a rapid account of all that I had gone through, and all I proposed doing. The watch-fire, by which we sat, had almost burnt out before we had ceased talking, and I had not then told her half I had to say. When I informed her that my great object, the sacred duty I had imposed on myself, was to try and rescue my parents from the cruel fate to which they were condemned, she at first eagerly besought me to let her accompany me, and endeavour to aid in the object. However, this I soon showed her would be impossible, and she then willingly consented to remain with the Zingari till I had accomplished it or found the effort hopeless.

“‘If you fail entirely, my beloved, then we will fly together to the far east,’ exclaimed Aneouta warmly; ‘for rather would I live among the wild tribes of the Tartars in their rude tents than exposed to the fate from which you have rescued me in this country.’

“I applauded her resolution—the same thought had been running in my own mind. To escape, however, from the confines of Russia is a work not easy of accomplishment. I will not detain you longer with an account of our progress towards the Volga. We were not pursued, and we had reason to fancy even that the Zingari were not suspected of carrying off Aneouta. Probably the chief’s trick succeeded, and she was supposed, in a fit of despair, to have thrown herself into the river. At last the time came that I must part from Aneouta. Sad as it may seem, I with more confidence left her under charge of those wild, untutored children of the desert, than I would with many who profess the tenets of Christianity. I neither exacted nor received any oaths from the chief and his people.

“‘Your betrothed will be safe, as far as we have power to protect her, while she remains under our tents; and I hope, my brother and my friend, when you return, to deliver her to you with renewed strength and spirits,’ he said, taking my hand.

“All the tribe assembled to wish me farewell. I will not describe my parting with Aneouta. Our mutual grief can better be imagined. While journeying with the Zingari, I had retained their dress. I had now again taken the stains from my face, and habited myself as a mujick. I stood at length on the banks of the mighty Volga among a crowd of travellers, waiting for the appearance of a steamer which was to touch at that village. I had been travelling lately with so much ease and freedom from care, that I forgot my present position. I was again in danger. I might be asked for my pass. Not having one to show, I might be stopped, and sent to prison. I had fastened my money about my body, but I kept a few roubles ready at hand in case of necessity. There is nothing like a bribe in Russia to alter a person’s vision—black is made white, and white black. I had never before seen a steamer. I was struck with amazement when I beheld the astonishing sight. On it came, gliding over the surface of the river, like a huge swan, without apparent effort. When it drew nearer I saw that it had huge wheels driving it along. I could scarcely contain my admiration; yet it would not do to exhibit it, lest I should appear a novice in the world. When the vessel stopped, people rushed on board; I followed them. They were all too busy about their own affairs to think of me. I passed on with a number of mujicks into the fore part of the vessel, where we stood huddled together like a flock of sheep in a pen. Everybody was talking, or laughing, or making a noise of some sort. Several had swallowed more vodka than their heads could stand, and were still more vociferous; but the confusion added to my security. I talked away as fast as anybody else, and tried to learn who people were, and struck up acquaintances with them, and I was so busy in asking them questions, that no one thought of asking me any. For several days we steamed on, living, and eating, and sleeping on deck; but the weather was fine, and it mattered not. I always have been happy in making friends wherever I have been, and on this occasion I fell in with a merchant, whom, from his remarks, I recognised as one of the Molokani. Although he took me by my dress only for a humble mujick, he had at first addressed me kindly, and I soon got into intimate conversation with him. He invited me to attend on him at Nishni, where I might assist him in selling his goods. He told me, also, that he thought he could succeed in procuring me a pass, which would enable me to proceed on to Moscow. He had been often to Nishni, also more than once to Moscow and Saint Petersburg, and through many other parts of Russia. As he knew somewhat of the world, therefore, his advice was of much value. By degrees I learned to place confidence in him, and told him part of my history. He much applauded my plan of petitioning the Emperor, but he advised me, if possible, to gain the friendship of some Englishmen who were going to Moscow, and would allow me to accompany them. In that way the pass he could procure me would be unquestioned, and they would afterwards probably assist me in gaining access to the Emperor. He, too, would undoubtedly be willing to appear magnanimous in the sight of foreigners, and be more ready to grant my request.

“There, gentlemen, I have told you my history; far more of it, I own, than I at first purposed. My object in so doing, you have, I doubt not, divined. I earnestly beseech you to allow me to accompany you to Moscow, to remain with you while you are there, and to assist me in getting access to the Emperor. Every word I have told you is true. You will run none of the risks of offending against the laws of the country which Russians in your position might do, while you will be conferring a great blessing, not only on me, but on my aged parents, and on my betrothed, and you may be the means of bringing, happiness to a whole family.”

“Tell him that we are all deeply interested in his history, and that we believe it to be perfectly true,” said Cousin Giles, as soon as Mr Allwick had ceased translating; “but that I do not see how we can assist him, as he proposes, while I certainly cannot suppose that we can in any way enable him to get access to the Emperor.”

“I hope that you will allow me to plead for him myself,” returned Mr Allwick. “I knew his parents. I have been to their village, and he himself is not a stranger to me. He recognised me this morning in the crowd, and that induced him to pay us this visit. The truth is, I have seen much of the Molokani. A more inoffensive, earnest, religious people do not exist. When travelling in the south of Russia with a gentleman, to whom I was attached as secretary, we have had thirty of them dining with us at once, and, though peasants of the humblest class, they have invariably behaved like gentlemen. Their Christianity has taught them not only to be kind and courteous to each other, but to put aside all dirty habits and customs, and I am certain that no persons in the most polished society would have acted in a more refined manner than they did.”

“If that is the case, and you are willing to be responsible for your friend, I, for my part, shall be happy to run any risk which may arise from our connection with him, and will most gladly give him every assistance in my power. He is a fine fellow, of whom any nation might be proud. Tell him that we wish him every success, and will help him as far as we can. What say you, Mr Evergreen; do you agree with me?” asked Cousin Giles.

“Oh, certainly, certainly,” answered Mr Evergreen, with his usual bland smile, “whatever you think right I think right also; so, Mr Allwick, tell him from me, that I will give him a helping hand whenever I can; and if we can get back his old father and mother from Siberia, or rather from their way there, we will see what can be done for them.”

The stranger, as soon as Mr Allwick had told him what had been said, warmly pressed the hands of the Englishmen, and placed them on his heart, to show the depth of his gratitude. Mr Allwick assured them that he was sure they were acting generously and rightly in thus affording the stranger their protection. So it was arranged that he was to return in the morning in his mujick costume, and be regularly engaged publicly to act as their servant.

They proposed remaining another day in Nishni, and then making a tour through the country, before returning to Moscow for the coronation.

Chapter Sixteen.

Cousin Giles meets an old Friend—Excursion into the Interior—Fine View on the Volga—Scenes on the Road—The Count’s Estate—Welcomed with Bread and Salt—The Count’s old-fashioned Mansion—A Fishing Excursion—Winter in Russia—Russian Stoves—Modes of keeping out Cold—Mode of Dressing in Winter—Result of a Snowless Winter.

“I know that man, I am certain,” exclaimed Cousin Giles, as the travellers were on their way from their hotel to the busy part of the fair. Just before them was a tall, gentlemanly-looking man, dressed in a shooting-jacket, with a stout stick in his hand, and walking along with that free and independent air which generally distinguishes a seaman. “Hallo, old ship! Where are you bound to? Heave-to till I can come up with you, will you?” sung out Cousin Giles, in a loud, jovial voice, which instantly made the person who has been described turn his head. His countenance brightened as he did so, and with extended hands he came back, and heartily shook those of our friend.

“Well, Fairman, I am delighted to see you,” he exclaimed heartily, “I am indeed; but what has brought you to this part of the world?”

“The love of travel, and the pleasure of showing a small portion of the globe we inhabit to these young lads,” answered Cousin Giles. “But I assure you, Ivanovitch, I am equally delighted to meet you, though I should little have expected to find you acting the part of a country gentleman when last we parted on the deck of the Asia.”

“I have been through a good deal since then, but we will talk of that another time,” answered the Russian in English, without the slightest foreign accent. “Well, we have met most opportunely. I stopped a day at this place to see the humours of the fair, on my way to take possession of an estate which has lately been left me, and if I can induce you to accompany me, it will indeed be a satisfaction.”

“The very thing I should like; and as I know you are sincere, I will accept your invitation; but I have several companions, and I fear we shall crowd you,” said Cousin Giles.

The Russian laughed heartily.

“A dozen people, more or less, makes no difference in on? Of our houses,” he answered; “I shall be delighted to see them, and any more you may like to ask.”

“My present party, with a servant we engaged yesterday, are all I will bring,” said Cousin Giles. “When are we to set off?”

“To-morrow morning, at daybreak, to enjoy as much cool air as can be obtained. We shall get there in two days without fatigue.”

So it was all arranged. Nothing could be more pleasant or convenient. The travellers would thus see country life in Russia to great advantage, and be able to get back to Moscow in time for the coronation.

Alexis Ivanovitch, Cousin Giles’ old friend, had been educated in England, and afterwards served for several years on board a British man-of-war, for the purpose of learning seamanship and navigation. Several Russians have been allowed by the British Government to study on board their ships; and they have, with perfect impartiality, allowed Turks, in the same way, to learn the art of naval warfare. It was while serving together afloat that Cousin Giles and Alexis Ivanovitch, now a Count, had formed their friendship.

Towards evening of the second day the carriages of the travellers reached a village standing on a height overlooking that father of European rivers, the Volga. The scene was a lovely one. The cloudless sky had a faint pinkish tint, while a rich mellow glow was cast over the landscape. Far in the east, across the river, were boundless steppes, their verdant hue depending entirely on the dews of heaven, there not being a well or water-spring throughout their whole extent. To make amends for the want, Nature has planted on them the juicy water-melon, which those only who have luxuriated on it, in a hot country, can appreciate. Here and there might be seen the camp-fires of troops of Cossacks, bivouacking for the night, or of herdsmen preparing to watch their cattle, or of haymakers, who go out there to prepare fodder for the winter food of their beasts; while in the west the eye wandered over ranges of hills, cultivated fields, and populous villages, with their grey wooden houses peeping out from among the trees.

The village before them contained several neat houses; the gable-ends of all, formed of wood, and often tastefully decorated with carved work, being turned towards the road.

On the river below them, gangs of bargemen, or boorlaks, were towing against the sluggish stream vast barges deeply laden with corn; the voices of the men, modulated by distance, rising in a pleasing chorus. Others, again, were dragging along immense rafts of timber, cut from far distant forests, destined to construct navies in widely scattered lands; while craft of all sorts were steering their course up the stream, laden with produce for the extensive market then taking place. No sooner had the carriages stopped than a troop of villagers were seen approaching along the street, some with garlands, others with banners, those leading bearing in their hands large dishes. In one dish was a large black loaf, in another a pile of salt, on a third a jug of water. The men had flowing beards of patriarchal length and thickness, and were habited in long sheepskin garments, which gave them a comfortable, substantial look. They all bowed low as they approached the Count, but he entreated them in a kind voice to rise and stand upright before him.

“We come, most noble Goshod, to offer you the congratulations of our village on your coming among us for the first time, and we beg to present you such poor food as we can supply, according to the ancient custom of our country,” said the chief man of the party.

The Count having thanked them in a few kind words, cut some of the brown bread, which he dipped in the salt, and then drank a draught of the water, which was of delicious coolness. It was drawn, they told him, from a well celebrated for its purity, and which, even in the height of summer, had always ice on the shaft. This ceremony over, the Count and his friends drove on to his mansion, about a verst farther within the estate. A long avenue of lime-trees conducted them up to the house, which was of considerable size, and surrounded by all descriptions of out-houses, in anything but a flourishing condition. The mansion was built partly of brick and partly of wood, with verandahs and galleries, and steps running round outside it, and odd little projections, and bits of roofs apparently covering nothing, and for no other object than to serve as ornaments. The land-steward came down the steps, making many low bows, and followed by a troop of servants in faded blue liveries, all of them endeavouring to imitate his movements with very ridiculous ill success. The Count could scarcely restrain his laughter.

“I shall have plenty of work here to get things shipshape,” said he, turning to Cousin Giles. “My uncle, from whom I inherited this property, was a noble of the old school. State with him was of the greatest importance. He loved to make a show—not that he really cared about it himself, or had any large amount of vanity, but that he considered it necessary to maintain the dignity of his order. Thus he kept up this useless troop of lazy varlets in faded liveries, when a good house-steward and two active footmen would have served him much better. I shall turn some of those fellows to the right-about very soon, and try to employ them in productive labour.”

While the Count was talking they entered the house. Everything within betokened the old-fashioned taste of the former owner. Large sofas, numberless card-tables, high-backed chairs, huge, badly gilt picture-frames, enclosing daubs of most incomprehensible subjects, mirrors of all shapes and sizes, not one condescending to give a correct reflection of the human face. There was a large hall with a table down the centre, on which an ample meal was spread. At the upper end was a profusion of silver and glass, and two huge salt-cellars. Below the salt-cellars were plates and knives and forks of a far more humble description. The house-steward came forward with many a bow, and inquired when his lord would condescend to dine. “As soon as dinner can be ready,” was the answer; “but come, gentlemen, we will go up to our rooms and shake off the dust of our journey.”

The guests were shown by the house-steward to their bedrooms. They were very humbly furnished. All the grandeur had evidently been reserved for the public apartments. They came down to the dining-hall, when the Count took his seat at the head of the board, and his guests arranged themselves on either side. A number of other persons then came in, retainers of some sort,—persons of an inferior order, at all events: among them was a man in a long green gown, yellow boots, a dark vest, and light hair straggling over his shoulders. He bowed low, as did the others, to the Barin, the lord, and took his seat humbly below the salt.

They all ate with the gravity of judges about to condemn a fellow-mortal to death.

“I am glad that you have had an opportunity of seeing how Russians of the old school lived,” observed the Count, turning to Cousin Giles. “I could not endure this sort of thing long, but it would not be wise to make too sudden changes. I shall in future only dine in state on great occasions, when it is politic to exhibit myself in public. We cannot all of a sudden introduce the freedom of the English. Ah! You should indeed value your institutions, both public and domestic.”

The Count was busy all the next morning in seeing his overseers, and receiving deputations from the inhabitants of the various villages on his estate, who came to welcome him, and bring the accustomed offering of bread and salt. He arranged, however, ample amusement for his guests during the day, by supplying them with horses to ride, and boats on a lake a couple of versts away from the house, where they caught a large supply of fish in a very short time. In the afternoon several visitors, who had been invited to meet them, arrived. They were proprietors, large and small, of estates ten, twenty, and thirty versts away. The Count’s own estate extended thirty versts in one direction, so that he had not many near neighbours. Some of these gentlemen spoke English fluently, and had seen the world. Fred and Harry were delighted with them, and so especially was Mr Evergreen, they were so polite and polished, and so full of information. Mr Evergreen declared that he should be proud to be a Russian, to be like them.

“Ah, my dear sirs, you should see Russia during the winter,” exclaimed Baron Shakertoskey. “It is then we are most full of life and vivacity. Then nature kindly forms us roads, over which we are borne, gliding smoothly, at a rapid pace by quick-footed steeds; bridges are thrown across streams, by means which far surpass the art of man; and fresh fish, and flesh, and fowl are brought to market in the forms which they held when alive. Fish stand up on their tails, as if about to leap out of the baskets where they are placed. Sheep, oxen, and calves, rabbits and hares, look as if they could still run about, and fowls rear up their heads as if still denizens of the poultry-yard. A true Russian winter is only to be found at Moscow or in the interior. At Saint Petersburg, owing to the neighbourhood of the Baltic, the wind which blows over it frequently produces a thaw or a partial thaw, even in the middle of winter. Thus, as the wind shifts, so does the temperature rise and fall. With a west wind comes rain, and with a north-east a bitter cold; other winds bring fogs, and some, cheerful, bright frosty days, so that the inhabitants of that great city are liable to wind and rain in January, and frost and snow in April. Still the thermometer of Fahrenheit often falls to 55 degrees below zero, which it seldom reaches in Moscow. As in summer it often rises to 99 degrees, we may calculate a range of temperature of 150 degrees. This is a difference of temperature which would dreadfully try the constitution, did not people take very great precautions against it by the mode in which they warm their houses and clothe themselves. In Moscow, when the winter begins, it commences to freeze in right earnest, and does not leave off at the beck of any wind which may blow. We consider it to begin in October, and to end in May—a period of six months—long enough to please the greatest admirer of ice and snow. We then, once for all, don our fur cloaks, caps, and boots, without which we never show our noses out of doors till the beginning of spring. We then also light our stoves and paste up our windows. You have seen a Russian stove? It is worth examination. It is a vast mass of stone, which, though it takes a long time to warm, will keep warm for a much longer period without any additional fuel. The interior is like an oven, with a chimney, a long snake-like passage leading to it. As long as the wood continues to blaze the chimney is kept open, but as soon as it is reduced to ashes, the passage to it is closed, and the hot air is allowed to pass by numerous channels into the room. Sometimes the outer air is allowed to pass through pipes over hot plates in the stove, and in this way fresh air, properly charged with oxygen, is supplied to the inhabitants. In large houses the mouth of the stove is in an outer passage or in an ante-room, while the front is a mere mass of china, or concealed altogether by looking-glasses or other furniture. One or more servants in large houses have the entire charge of the stoves. They fill them with wood the last thing at night, and light them some hours before the family rise in the morning. In the sleeping-rooms they are kept in all night. In the houses of the poor, one stove of huge proportions serves for every purpose. It serves not only to heat the hut, but to bake their bread, and for all sorts of cookery, and to dry their clothes, articles of which are generally seen hung up round it. Benches are placed before it, where the inmates sit to warm themselves, while on a platform above it are placed beds, where, wrapped up in sheepskins, they indulge in idleness and heat—the greatest luxuries they are able to enjoy. To all our houses we have double windows: we paste paper over every crevice by which air may enter, and we fill up the lower part of the interval between the two windows with sand, into which we stick artificial flowers, to remind us that summer, with its varied-tinted beauties, will once again return. Two or three doors also must generally be passed before the inside of the house is reached. Thus, you see, in spite of the bitter cold in the outer world, we contrive to construct an inner one where we can make ourselves tolerably comfortable. We never venture out without being well wrapped up in furs, and then we move from house to house as fast as we can, so as to avoid being exposed any length of time to the cold. We have also large fires lighted in front of the places of amusement and the palaces of the Emperor and nobility, where the drivers and servants may warm themselves while waiting for their masters. Generally with great cold there is little wind; and people, as long as they are warmly clad and in motion, have no reason to fear its effects, but unhappy is the wretch who is overtaken by sleep while exposed to it. His death is certain. Death thus produced is said to be accompanied by no disagreeable sensations, at least so say those who have been partially frozen and recovered, but I would rather not try the experiment. When the thermometer falls to 50 or 55 degrees below zero, it is time to be cautious. No one shows his nose out of doors unless compelled by urgent necessity, and when he does, he moves along as fast as he can—keeping a watchful look-out after that prominent and important feature of the human countenance. As no unusual sensation accompanies the first attack of frost on the nose, it is difficult to guard against it. A warning is, however, given by the peculiar white hue which it assumes, and immediately this sign is observed by a passer-by, he gives notice to the person attacked. ‘Oh, father! Father! Thy nose, thy nose!’ he will cry, rushing up to him with a handful of snow, with which he will rub the feature attacked, if, on a nearer inspection, he sees that it is in danger. Of course people generally take the best possible care of their noses, so that the dreaded catastrophe does not often occur. We wrap up warmly, and leave only the eyes and mouth and nose exposed, so that nearly all the heat which escapes from the body has to pass through that channel, and thus effectually keeps it warm.

“We Russians are not so fond of violent exercise as are you English, and therefore we depend on the heat of our stoves and the thickness of our clothing to keep ourselves warm. We sometimes forget that our servants are not so substantially clad as ourselves, and while we are entertaining ourselves in-doors, they, foolish fellows, fall asleep, and get frozen to death outside the palace or theatre, or wherever we may happen to be. Every year, also, people lose their lives by getting drunk and falling asleep out of doors. They may try the experiment several times, but some night the thermometer sinks to zero, and they never wake again. In summer, travelling is all very well, but in winter it is enjoyable; no dust, no dirt, no scorching heat. Well covered up with warm skins, and with fur boots on our feet, away we glide, dragged rapidly on by our prancing steeds over the hard snow, fleet almost as the bird on the wing, and like the bird directly across the country, where in summer no road can be found. Mighty streams also are bridged over, and we journey along the bed of water-courses; which in spring are swept by foaming torrents. The thick mantle of ice and snow which clothes our country forms a superb highway, which the inhabitants of other lands may in vain desire. The snow, which seems so cold and inhospitable to the stranger, is our greatest and most valued friend. It is like a fur cloak; it keeps in the warmth generated in the bosom of the earth, and shelters the bulbs and roots and seeds from the biting cold, which would otherwise destroy them. More than anything else we have to dread a snowless winter; then truly the earth is shut up by an iron grasp, and tall trees, and shrubs, and plants wither and die under its malign influence. The earth, deprived of its usual covering, the ruthless cold deeply penetrates it, and man and beast and creeping things suffer from its effects. Oh, yes, we have reason to pray earnestly to be delivered from a snowless winter?”

Chapter Seventeen.

Sports in Winter—Bear and Wolf Hunting—Story of the Miller and the Wolves—Other Tales about Wolves—Shooting Wolves from Sledges—Narrow Escape from a Wolf—Breaking up of the Ice on the Volga—Dreadful Sight of a Boat’s Crew carried away with the Ice—Loss of an old Man on the Ice—The Russian Bath—Trial of Vocal Powers of Two Musicians.

“But have you no sports in the winter season?” asked Fred. “I thought that the country abounded in bears and wolves, and deer and game of all sorts. They are the sort of animals I should like to look after.”

“We have an abundance of bears and wolves, and of smaller animals too, but we are not very fond of leaving our comfortable homes to shoot them. Sometimes, when a bear becomes troublesome in a neighbourhood by his depredations, the villagers turn out in a body to destroy him; and wolves are the enemies of all. In winter, when hard pressed by hunger, a flock of these are very dangerous, and numberless persons have fallen victims to their voracity. A dreadful circumstance relating to wolves occurred near this a few winters ago.

“A miller, Nicholas Eréméitch by name, was, with his wife and children, returning from the neighbouring town to his own village, a distance of some twenty versts or so. He and his wife sat in the front part of the sledge; their children, well covered with skins, were behind, except one, which was in its mother’s arms, another at their feet. Their road lay partly through a forest, and partly across an open plain, now exhibiting one unbroken sheet of snow. The children were laughing cheerily, for though the frost was excessive, there was no wind, and the cold was scarcely felt. They had accomplished more than half their distance at a good rate.

“Nicholas Eréméitch was well-to-do in the world, and he had a pair of good horses, which knew how to go over the ground. A common peasant would have driven but one, but he required them for his trade. He and his wife were conversing together on what they had seen in the town, when they were startled by a sharp yelp at no great distance off.

“‘Is that a dog who has lost his master?’ asked the miller’s wife.

“‘No, wife, no,’ answered the miller. ‘Heaven protect us!’

“As he spoke there was a rushing sound heard from far off in the forest. At first it was very faint; then it grew louder and louder. Their sagacious steeds knew too well what caused the sound, and, snorting with fear, they started off at full gallop. There was no necessity for Nicholas to urge them on. He, also, too well knew the cause of the sound. Anxiously he looked over his shoulder. Another yelp was heard, louder and sharper than before. They were just entering on the plain. Another and another yelp rang in their ears, and at the same moment a pack of wolves, in a dense mass, were seen emerging from the forest. The affrighted steeds tore on. It was with difficulty the miller could keep them together. His wife clasped her infant closer to her bosom. The children looked from under their fur covering, and then shrunk down again shivering with fear, for they had an instinctive dread of the danger which threatened them. The stout miller, who scarcely before had ever known what fear was, turned pale, as the sharp, eager yelps of the infernal pack sounded nearer and nearer behind him. He had no weapons but his long whip and a thick stick. He clenched his teeth, and his breath came fast and thick, as the danger grew more imminent. With voice, and rein, and whip, he urged on his steeds, yet they wanted, as I said, no inducement to proceed. They felt the danger as well as their master. The miller’s wife sat still, an icy coldness gathering round her heart. All they had to trust to was speed. The nearest isba where they could hope for aid was yet a long way off; yet rapidly as they dashed onward, the hungry pack were fleeter still. A miracle alone could save them—from man they could expect no help.

“‘On!—on! My trusty steeds,’ shouted the miller. ‘Courage, wife!—courage! We may distance them yet. Trust in the good saints; they may preserve us. Oh that I had my gun in my hand, I would give an account of some of these brutes!’

“In vain, in vain the horses stretched their sinews to the utmost. Fast though they flew through the air, the savage brutes were faster still. The miller’s shouts and cries seemed for a short time to keep the animals at bay, but still they were gathering thickly around the sledge, singling out its inmates for their prey.

“The poor children shrieked with terror as they beheld the fiery eyes, the open mouths, and hanging tongues of the fierce brutes close to the sledge. They fancied that they could feel their hot breath on their cheeks—the terrible fangs of the animals seemed every instant about to seize them. Again and again they piteously shrieked out—

“‘Oh, father!—oh, mother, mother! Save us!’

“The miller frantically lashed and lashed, and shouted to his steeds, till his voice almost failed him. They could go no faster. Already, indeed, their strength began to flag. ‘If they fail me at this juncture all will be lost,’ thought the miller; ‘still I’ll not give up hope.’

“Again he lashed his horses, and then he lashed and lashed around him, in the hopes of keeping off the infuriated animals, which now came thronging up on either side. As yet they had not dared to seize the horses; should they do so, all, he knew, would be lost. His wife, pale as death, sat by his side. She could do nothing but cry for mercy. She dared not look round, lest altogether she should lose her senses at the sight she dreaded to see. She longs to draw her elder children to the front of the sledge, but there is no room for them there; so, as before, she sits still, clasping her infant to her bosom. On fly the horses. The wolves pursue, growing bolder and bolder. There is a fearful shriek.

“‘Oh, mother! Mother! Save—’

“The cry is drowned by the sharp yelping of the wolves. On a sudden the pack give up the chase. The miller looks round to learn the cause. His eldest child—his favourite, Titiana, is no longer in her place. The other children point with fearful gaze to the spot where the wolves are circling round, snorting, and gnashing, and tearing, and leaping over each other’s shoulders. To rescue her is hopeless; to attempt it would be the certain destruction of the rest. Flight, rapid and continuous, offers the only prospect of safety. Faint, alas! Is that. On—on he drives; but, oh horror!—once more the wolves are in hot pursuit. The sledge is again soon overtaken. Fiercely the miller defends his remaining children with loud shouts and lashings of his whip; but what can a weapon such as that effect against a whole host of wild beasts? Some of the fiercest leapt on the sledge.

“‘Oh, mercy, mercy!’—Another child—their darling boy, poor little Peoter, is torn away. Can they rescue him? No, no; it is impossible. They must drive on—on—on—for their own lives. Even if they drive fast as the wind, will they preserve the rest? For a few short moments the wolves stop to revel in their dreadful banquet. The miller lashes on his steeds furiously as before. He is maddened with horror. On, on he drives. The poor mother sits like a statue. All faculties are benumbed. She has no power to shriek. Scarcely does she know what has occurred. Again the wolves are in full chase. Two children remain alive, but they are exposed to the cold; their sheepskin mantle has been torn away. They are weeping piteously. With a frantic grasp the miller drags one up between him and his wife; but, alas! The other he cannot save. He tries, but ere he can grasp it by the shoulder, the savage brutes have dragged it down among them. A faint shriek escapes it, and its miseries are at an end. With whetted appetites the wolves again follow the sledge. The miller looks at the savage pack now almost surrounding him, and his courage begins to give way. But his wife is still by his side, and three children are unhurt. He may yet keep the wolves off; but if they once venture on the sledge, if once his arm is seized, he knows that all, all he holds dearest in life, must be lost also. Still, therefore, he drives on, but he almost despairs of escaping. He has too much reason for his worst fears. Impatient for their expected banquet, the wolves begin to leap up round the sledge, just as the waves of a breaking sea rise tumultuously round the labouring bark. In a few minutes all will be over. The miller knows full well that his horses will soon be seized, and then that hope must indeed depart. Ah! The fatal moment has come. Already a wolf, more famished than his companions, has flown at the neck of one of his horses. The animal plunges and rears in a frantic attempt to free himself from his foe. Ah! At that instant the miller shouts louder than before—his courage returns—he lashes furiously at the wolf—The noble horse frees himself and dashes onward.

“‘We are saved—we are saved!’ shouts the miller. ‘Wife, wife, arouse yourself!’

“Far off he sees advancing over the snow a large sledge; it glides nearer and nearer. Those in it see what is occurring. Shot after shot is fired, and the wolves fall thickly around. Dashing up at full speed, a sledge approaches. The miller almost shrieks with joy. For an instant he forgets those he has lost; yet only for an instant. He has the fond heart of a father. The sportsmen load and fire again. They have come in search of this very pack. The miller and the rest of his family were saved; but it was many a long week before he or his poor bereaved wife recovered from the effects of that day’s adventure.”

“A very dreadful story indeed; very dreadful,” observed Mr Evergreen. “Do people generally get attacked by wolves when they travel by sledges in winter.”

“I think we may safely say not generally,” answered one of the Russian guests, laughing. “If such were the case, people would be inclined to stay at home. A story is current still more dreadful than the one you have heard.

“A peasant woman was driving a sledge with several of her children in it from one village to another, when she was pursued by a pack of wolves. As the brutes overtook her, she threw them one of her children, to induce them to stop and eat it up, while she drove on. Child after child was treated in the same way, till she reached a village, when the villagers came out and drove the wolves back. When the mother told her story, one of the villagers, in his rage at her inhumanity, struck her dead on the spot with his axe.”

“A very dreadful story, but I do not believe a word about it,” said their host. “I do not believe that any woman would act so barbarous a part.”

“Nor do I,” observed Cousin Giles. “The slavers on the coast of Africa are wont to play a similar trick when pursued by our cruisers. They will throw a live slave overboard at a time, in the hopes that the cruiser will heave-to or lower a boat to pick the poor black up, and thus allow them more time to escape.”

“We often go out on sledges expressly to shoot the wolves,” observed an old country gentleman of the party. “We use large sledges, capable of containing several persons, and we provide ourselves with plenty of guns and ammunition. In one of the sledges a pig is carried, in charge of a servant, and there is also a rope with a bag of hay, which is dragged after the sledge. When we arrive on the ground where we expect to find the wolves, the bag of hay is thrown out, and the servant gives the pig a twitch of the tail, which makes it squeak lustily. Now, wolves are especially fond of pork, and, hearing the well-known sounds, they hurry out of their fastnesses from all quarters, in expectation of a feast. As the brutes happily hunt by sight and sound, and not by scent, and being, moreover, foolish brutes, as the more savage animals often are, when they see the bag of hay they fancy that the pig must be inside it, and eagerly give chase. Now the sport begins, and as the wolves draw near, one after the other they get knocked over by the guns of the sportsmen. We often kill numbers in that way, and thus get rid of most noxious animals. Although their flesh is of no use, their skins are of considerable value, mantles and cloaks being lined with them. A wolf is a dangerous animal to meddle with when wounded. On one occasion I was out hunting, when we had killed some fifty or more wolves. On our return, we passed a remarkably large wolf, which lay apparently dead on the snow. One of our party took it into his head that he would like to possess himself of the skin, and, leaving the sledge, he approached the brute with the intention of flaying it. He was about to take hold of its muzzle, when the animal, resenting the indignity of having his nose pulled, reared itself up on its forepaws, snarling furiously. Ere my friend could spring back, the brute had seized him by the arm, and was dragging him to the earth. In another instant his fangs would have been at his throat, when the sportsman plunged his knife into its breast. Still the wolf struggled with his antagonist. We were afraid to fire, lest we should kill the man as well as the brute. It was a moment of fearful suspense. The life-blood of the wolf was flowing freely, but before he died he might have destroyed our friend. We drove to the spot as fast as we could, in the hopes of being in time to rescue our companion. As we were leaping from the sledge, the combatants rolled over. Happily the man was uppermost. He drew a deep breath as we released him.

“‘I never wish to have such a fight as that again,’ he exclaimed, shaking himself. ‘It must have lasted a quarter of an hour at least. How was it you did not sooner come to my assistance?’

“In reality, not two minutes had elapsed from the time he reached the wolf till he finally killed it. His arm was somewhat lacerated, but his thick coat had saved him. It was a lesson to me ever after, not to go near a wild beast till I am certain he is put hors de combat.”

“The breaking up of the ice on the various rivers of Russia is a time of great excitement,” observed the Count. “In an instant the natural bridges which the winter has formed are destroyed, often with little or no warning, and people are hurried down the stream on the floating masses of ice, frequently unable to reach the shore, till, one mass driven under the other by the fierce rush of waters, they are engulfed beneath them. I was one year at Jaroslaf, on the Volga, at that period. You, my friends, who were there at the time, will not have forgotten the circumstance. I was on horseback, riding along the banks of the river, to watch the huge masses of ice which came floating down the stream. Sometimes they would glide calmly by, in almost unbroken sheets; then they would meet with some obstruction—either a narrow part of the stream, or a promontory, or a rock—and then they would leap and rush over each other, as if imbued with life, and eager to escape from the pursuit of an enemy. The rushing and crushing and grinding of the ice, and roar of the waters was almost deafening. The masses would assume, too, all sorts of fantastic shapes, which one, with a slight exertion of fancy, might imagine bears, and lions, and castles, and ships under sail—indeed all sorts of things, animate and inanimate. As I looked up the stream, my attention was drawn to a large black object, which I soon made out to be a vessel of the largest size which navigates those waters. She came gliding rapidly down—now stem, now stern foremost; now whirling round and round, and evidently beyond all control. To my horror, I perceived as she drew near there were several men on board. The current brought her close to the bank where I was. By the gaunt looks and gestures of the crew, I perceived that they were suffering from hunger. This notion was confirmed when the vessel drew still nearer.

“‘Oh, give us bread!—oh, give us bread!’ they shouted, in piteous tones. ‘We have had no food for these three days. We have been seven days thus driving on, and unable to reach the shore.’

“On hearing this, I galloped along the bank, so as to get before the vessel, and succeeded in finding some bread at some cottages a little way on. The peasants willingly brought it out, and by my directions endeavoured to heave it on board the vessel. Oh, it was sad to see the eager way in which the starving wretches held out their hands for the food, but in vain. Loaf after loaf was thrown by the strongest men present; but the bread, which would have preserved their lives, fell into the water, or on to the masses of ice which surrounded the vessel, some few yards only short of her. I and others galloped on, in the hopes that she might be driven still nearer; but, as we thought she was approaching, the current swept her away again into the middle of the stream. It was a melancholy exemplification of the story of Tantalus. There were those poor famished men floating down a river in the midst truly of plenty—for where can be found more fertile regions!—and yet they were unable to procure a mouthful of food to appease the pangs of hunger.

“I endeavoured to devise some plan to send them help; but all the plans I could think of seemed hopeless. No boat could approach them, could one have been procured, or people to man her. A stone might have carried a thin line on board, but no thin line could be found. I asked for one at every cottage I passed, but in vain. At length, with a sad heart, I saw the vessel with her hapless crew drive by me. On she was whirled by the rapid current till I lost sight of her. I had but faint hopes of the people being saved. If, before starvation deprived them of all strength to move, the vessel struck on one of the banks, they might be saved. If not, they would be carried onward, down the stream, till she reached the Caspian Sea, where, perhaps, leaky from the crushing she had received from the masses of ice, she might go to the bottom; or, after knocking about for a long time, she might be picked up, the bones of her crew telling plainly their melancholy fate.

“That very day, as I rode back, I witnessed another scene, which I shall never forget. High up the stream I descried an object on a large slab of ice which came floating down towards me. As it came nearer, I perceived a telega, a country cart, with a horse harnessed to it. Near it I saw a human figure kneeling. By his side was a dog, which, from its attitude, even at that distance, I guessed was looking up into his master’s face. So still were all the figures, that I might have fancied them a group chiselled out of marble. Nearer drew the sheet of ice. I then saw that the figure was that of an old man; his cap had fallen off, and his long white locks were streaming in the wind. His hands were lifted up in prayer, and his lips moved, as if imploring aid from above. His faithful dog looked up wistfully and inquiringly, as if to say, ‘Master dear, what is the matter?—how can I help you?’ The old man seemed resigned fully to his fate, and not inclined to make an effort to save himself. He turned his head, and then saw farther down the stream a number of people, who were beckoning to him, and showing their anxiety to save him. At first when he saw them, he shook his head, and once more addressed himself to prayer. He had evidently given up all hope of being saved. But when the cheering voices of his fellow-creatures reached his ears, and he saw their friendly gestures, the desire to live returned, and he rose from his knees. In his cart were a number of long poles. He seized one of them, and stood balancing it in his hand, while he looked eagerly towards the shore. He called to his dog, ‘Now, my faithful one, you and I have a dangerous work to perform. Life or death depends on the course we take.’ He approached the edge of the floe, which was now driven close to another large mass, and then whirled round again, a wide gulf being left between them. The poor dog whined, and drew back with dismay as he watched the eddying waters close before him.

“‘Courage, courage, friend!’ shouted the people on the shore, as the floe on which the old man stood approached another sheet of ice at that moment attached to the shore. ‘Leap, leap, friend!’ His tall sinewy figure showed me that he might justly in his youth have trusted to his athletic powers to save him from a similar predicament, but age, alas! Had unstrung his nerves and weakened his muscles. He hesitated. Again the people shouted, ‘Courage, courage!—leap, leap!’ He looked up to Heaven for a moment, and then sprang forward. His dog followed. There was a shriek of horror; the treacherous ice, worn at the edges by the constant abrasion of the other pieces, was rotten and unable to bear the weight suddenly placed on it. It gave way ere he could take a second leap, and sank beneath him. One cry escaped him, and the wild foaming waters closed over his head. His dog, lighter of foot, reached the shore in safety, and was till his death in my possession.”

The guests gave a shudder at the recital.

“We have had enough of tales of horror for one day,” said the Count. “Have you ever tried our Russian bath, Fairman?”

“No; I must confess to having neglected that duty of a traveller, who ought to taste every dish, go through every operation, and see every ceremony characteristic of the country,” answered Cousin Giles, laughing. “I cannot fancy a roll in the snow after a hot bath.”

“Whether it is injurious or not depends on the effect which the hot bath produces on the frame,” answered the Count. “Every country mansion has a bath, placed near a stream, if possible. It is a very simple affair. The bath-house is divided into two portions. In the inner half is a large oven, and high up round the walls are rows of seats. In the oven are placed large stones which are completely heated through. In the room stand ready some buckets of water. The people who are to bathe then come in and take their seats on the benches, having left their clothes in the outer room; the door is closed, and the water is thrown over the hot stones. This fills the whole room with hot vapour, which thoroughly penetrates the pores of the skin. The bathers are then rubbed over with towels and brushes, and a profuse perspiration ensues, which continues till all superfluous moisture has exuded from the body. There is then, it must be understood, no lassitude, no weakness, such as is produced by physical exertion, while also perspiration has in reality ceased. The frame, therefore, is not liable to receive a chill, but is, on the contrary, strengthened to resist it. Consequently, a person may either rush out into the freezing air and roll in the snow, or may plunge into a bath of pure cold water with impunity. For this purpose the bath-houses are, as I said, built near a stream or pond; and most refreshing and invigorating it is, after taking the steam-bath, to leap into the bright, sparkling stream. One comes out again like a new being, feeling capable of any exertion.”

Cousin Giles and his companions declared, after the description they had heard, that they should be anxious to take a true Russian bath before they left the country.

The conversation was interrupted by the arrival of some musicians and singers, who came expressly to amuse the company. The instrumental music was very good, and received, as it merited, an abundance of applause; but the great amusement of the evening was a contest between two rival singers. On their introduction they bowed to the company, which was composed evidently of persons much superior to them in rank.

“Come, friend Nedopeouski, do you begin,” said the Count, addressing a tall man with a very quiet, almost sheepish expression of countenance. Thus summoned, the singer, who had been standing for some time alone without uttering a word, began an air, which it was evident could only be accomplished by a person capable of reaching the highest notes. He soon showed that he was equal to what he had undertaken. It was wonderful the mode in which he played with his voice: it rose and fell, and swelled again, now seeming to come through the roof from the clouds, now scarcely audible; sweet and strong notes succeeded each other with rapid transition. Then others present joined in chorus, and this seeming to encourage him to still further exertions, he quickly surpassed all his first efforts, till, utterly overcome, he could sing no longer, and would have sunk on the ground had not some of the guests, enraptured by the music, sprung up and caught him in their arms. Loud acclamations of delight broke from every one present, and it appeared as if there was no use in his rival attempting to compete with him. On the speedy recovery of the first singer, the Count, however, beckoned to him to begin. He rose and stood forward. At first his voice was weak, but his notes seemed to rivet the attention of his audience. As he proceeded, it became more and more animated, firmer, and fuller, exhibiting a wonderful combination of freshness, sweetness, and power; so exquisitely plaintive, so overflowing with poignant grief—for it was of a melancholy character—that tears, sobs, and groans broke from the breasts of most of his audience. It was truly the triumph of song over human feelings, and the palm of victory was unanimously awarded to the last singer.

“I am glad you heard these singers,” observed the Count, as his guests were retiring for the night. “We Russians are celebrated, I believe, for our musical talents, and I think you have heard a fair specimen of them this evening.”

Chapter Eighteen.

Preparations for a Hunt—Ride to Cover—Account of an Insurrection of Peasants—Game breaks Cover—Fred and Harry lose their Way—Chase a Stag—Desperate Encounter with a She-wolf—Harry’s Bravery—Saved by Saveleff the Molokani—The Count promises to assist Saveleff—Return to Moscow.

A fine bright morning, which ushered in the day appointed for the hunt, gave promise of much amusement. Breakfast being over at an early hour, the Count and his guests mounted the horses, which were led forth in front of the house by high-booted, long pink-shirted, wide-trousered peasants, looking as unlike English grooms as a polar bear does to an opera-dancer. Cousin Giles was not a bad horseman for a sailor, and the lads were delighted with the steeds provided for them; but Mr Evergreen had great doubts whether he should risk his neck on the back of an animal with which he was unacquainted. The Count, however, assured him that the horse selected for him bore a very good character for quietness, so at last he persuaded himself to mount. People of all ranks came from far and near to join the hunt. They were dressed in all sorts of costumes, partaking much of a military character, and the steeds which they rode were as varied in character as their masters. Some were more like chargers and cart-horses than hunters of the English stamp; the greater number were little Cossack horses not bigger than ponies, with long tails and shaggy coats.

“Don’t laugh, my friend,” said the Count to Cousin Giles, as five or six tall picqueurs, in splendid green-and-gold liveries, rode forth on the above-described style of little steeds, driving before them a number of dogs of a most mongrel appearance, at whom a pack of aristocratic English hounds would most certainly have turned up their noses. “You see, my predecessor was of the old school, and I do not wish to make any sudden changes in matters of small importance, lest I should be considered to hold his memory in slight esteem. By degrees I hope to make improvements, but sudden changes do not suit this country.”

A large number of persons, very picturesque in appearance, had now collected in front of the mansion. The huntsmen blew their horns and cracked their whips, the dogs barked and yelped and gave tongue in a variety of ways, the horses pranced and kicked, the peasants shouted, and the whole party set off towards the spot appointed for the meet. A ride of three or four versts brought them in front of a dilapidated building on the borders of a wood.

“That house was erected as a hunting-box by one of my predecessors many years ago,” observed the Count. Many hundreds of people used to assemble here in the olden days, to hunt in a style of magnificence which has now become obsolete. Open house was kept, and all comers were welcome. Intimates of the family, or those of rank, were accommodated inside, some in beds and some on the floor, while others bivouacked outside as best they could under arbours of boughs or beneath the vault of heaven. They used to hunt all day and feast all night for a whole week or longer, without intermission. From the secluded position of the place, it was for many months of the year totally unvisited. There existed at that time three or four landlords, owners of large numbers of serfs, whom they treated with great harshness, if I may not, indeed, say with much barbarity. For long the unhappy people groaned helplessly under their tyranny, which was made yet more severe by the cruel and grasping dispositions of their overseers. The laws existing for the protection of the serfs were in every way evaded, and every kopeck which could be wrung from them was exacted without mercy. A worm will turn on the foot which treads on it. The man who had charge of this house was educated above his fellows. He had read in history of peasants, poor and simple men, revolting against their rulers when tyrannised over to excess, and thought and meditated on what he had read. At length he persuaded himself that he could emancipate his fellow-serfs from tharldom, and enable them to avenge themselves on their tyrants. He opened his plans at first to a few, and by degrees to others. They used to assemble at this house, where there was no fear of their being disturbed. Often they met, and much they planned, till they believed, their plans were ripe for execution. At first they drew up a remonstrance, which in the humblest manner they presented to their masters. It was treated with the bitterest scorn. They resolved on wreaking a dreadful vengeance on their oppressors; they supplied themselves with fire-arms—how procured the authorities could not discover—others armed themselves with scythes, reaping-hooks, hatchets, pikes, and weapons of every description. With these in their hands they rushed through the district, calling their fellow-serfs to arms. The call was answered by many; others hung back, dreading the consequences should the outbreak prove unsuccessful, as the more sagacious knew it must be. Still many hundreds, I might say thousands, rose to wreak a fearful vengeance on the heads of their lords; but they had no one capable of commanding them. They murdered all the inmates of the first house they attacked, and burned it to the ground. They rushed from house to house, burning, murdering, and destroying all that came in their way. For many days they set all authority at defiance, and there appeared no power capable of stemming the torrent of their fury.

“In the meantime, Government, having notice of what was taking place, was sending down troops at once to crush the insurrection. The largest body of the insurgents were met by the troops, and quickly breaking, were driven before them like a flock of sheep, the greater number being slaughtered without mercy; the remainder threw themselves into this house, resolving to defend themselves to the last. It is said they made a brave resistance, but the building was stormed, and not one of its defenders was left alive to tell the tale. The house has ever since remained in ruins, and shunned by all the peasants in the neighbourhood. Several similar outbreaks have occurred at different times among the serfs, with similar consequences. The people of Russia are not fit to govern themselves. They may at some time become so, but at present, were they to attempt it, they would bring certain destruction on themselves and the country at large. I speak to you as a friend, and perhaps in an unpatriotic way tell you of occurrences which ought to be kept secret; but I trust that you have seen many things in Russia to admire, and will not judge us over harshly when you hear of some of our weak points. But, tally ho! The huntsmen’s horns give notice that the pack have found some game. It will soon break cover, and then away after it!”

Besides the gaily-coated picqueurs on horseback, a number of peasants habited in the usual pink shirt, wide green breeches, and willow-woven sandals, were engaged with long sticks in beating the bushes and underwood which grew in thick clumps in the forest. The green-and-gold coated huntsmen galloped about outside, sounding their horns, shouting to the peasants, and watching eagerly the movements of the dogs. On a sudden the huntsmen sounded their horns more gaily than before, the people shouted, and a large fox broke from the cover, and darted away along the skirts of the wood. Away went the hounds, and away went the horsemen after him, the Count and his English friends shouting “Tally ho! Tally ho!” in right honest British fashion, while the peasants gave utterance to the wildest cries, which sounded wonderfully strange in the travellers’ ears.

It was not very hard riding, although Mr Evergreen seemed to think it so; but as he was mounted on a fast horse, he, in spite of himself, kept well ahead of most of the field. Cousin Giles and the Count rode alongside each other, and the two Markhams kept together.

They had not gone far when another fox showed his nose out of the wood, apparently to learn what was going forward, and a few of the dogs instantly made chase after him, while the huntsmen followed the main body.

“Tally ho!” shouted Fred Markham. “Harry, let us have a hunt of our own. It will be fine fun to bring home a brush which we have got all by ourselves.”

“Capital fun,” answered Harry; and boy-like, thought less of the consequences, away they galloped after the four or five dogs which had separated themselves from the chase. No one followed. The fox led them directly into the wood. He was a knowing old fellow, and was aware that they would thus have the greatest difficulty in overtaking him. Deeper and deeper they got into the forest, but the dogs had still the scent of the old fox.

“I wish that we could kill a deer now,” exclaimed Harry. “That would be something to boast of.”

“Or a wolf, rather,” cried Fred. “That is nobler game, for he shows more fight.”

“Yes, I should like to fall in with a wolf,” responded his brother. “But I say, Fred, how are we to kill him if we find him?”

“Knock him on the head with the butt end of our whip! That is what he deserves, at all events.”

“Easier said than done,” observed Harry. “However, I’ll stick by you, don’t fear, if we should find one of the rascals. I shall ever hate a wolf after the story we heard the other night.”

Thus talking, the lads galloped on. Suddenly a deer started up from an open glade which lay before them. They looked round for the old fox—he was nowhere to be seen, and the dogs appeared to have lost the scent. However, as soon as the deer began to run they followed, evidently not at all particular as to what they had to pursue.

“Rare fun this is,” shouted Fred and Harry, as they galloped after the deer. But the dogs, already tired, had not the slightest chance of overtaking the nimble-footed animal, though, had the young hunters been provided with rifles, they could quickly have brought her to the ground.

“Hallo! Where is she?” exclaimed Fred, as the deer darted among a thick clump of trees.

“I am sure I saw her but a moment ago,” answered Harry. “Let us get round to the other side of the clump, she will have gone through it.”

If she had gone through the clump, she had gone a long way beyond it, for she was nowhere to be seen on the other side. The dogs also were equally at fault, and began to stray about, as if each one was resolved to have a hunt by himself. Where our friends had got to by this time, they could not tell. They proposed returning to the ruined house where the hunt had met, but in what direction to find it was the puzzle.

“This is worse than losing ourselves in the streets of Saint Petersburg,” cried Harry, who was in no ways daunted. “The fox and the deer have brought us all this way—I wish we could find a wolf or a bear to show us the road home again.”

“Not much chance of that,” answered Fred, as they rode on in the direction they fancied would lead them whence they had come. “But, I say, hallo, what is that shaggy-looking brute showing his head out of the hollow stump of that old tree there?” As he spoke, a loud snarling growl saluted their ears.

“A big she-wolf and her cubs,” shouted Harry. “Let’s knock her over, the brute.”

“For mercy’s sake, don’t attempt anything so rash,” cried Fred. “She will prove an ugly customer to deal with, depend on it.”

The white, grinning teeth and ferocious aspect of the wolf fully corroborated Fred’s assertion. Still the lads did not like to decline the combat, but without fire-arms or spears they were hard pressed to know what to do. They rode round and round the tree at a respectful distance, the wolf following them with her eyes, though she would not leave her cubs either to escape or to attack them. Still the lads, thoughtless of the risk they ran, could not bring themselves to leave the beast alone.

“Hang it, I must give her a lick over the chops, just to remind her that she must not eat up little children in future,” cried Harry, riding up towards the beast. The wolf looked at Harry, as much as to say, “You had better not, master, for if you do, I’ll give you a taste of my fangs.” Harry rode on. The wolf stood up, and advanced a step or two beyond her lair, grinning horribly.

“Stay, stay, Harry!” shouted Fred, dashing on before him. “The wolf will fly at you.”

The wolf took the movement as the signal of attack, and with a terrible snarl, which sounded far more ferocious than the bark or growl of a dog, flew at Fred’s horse, evidently intending to pull the rider to the ground. Never had Fred been in peril so terrific. A cry of horror escaped him; he could not restrain it, but, speedily recovering his presence of mind, he began to belabour the head of the wolf. Harry, true to his promise, nothing daunted, came to his assistance, but their blows, though given with a hearty good-will, had not the slightest effect on the head of the wolf. On the contrary, they only seemed to increase her fury. She let go, but it was only to spring again with surer aim. The poor horse, torn by her fangs, reared with pain and fright, as the savage brute again sprang towards him. In another moment its fangs would have been fixed in Fred’s thigh. Alas! Poor fellow! His life was in dreadful jeopardy.

“Oh! What can I do? What can I do?” cried poor Harry.

The wolf and her cubs seemed to say, “Gallop away while you can, or we will eat you up as well as your brother.”

At that critical moment a rifle-shot was heard, and the wolf, with a yelp of pain and rage, let go her hold. Directly afterwards a man was seen, with a rifle in his hand, running through the forest towards them.

“Oh, you are saved!—you are saved, my brother,” cried Harry, giving way to his feelings of affection.

“In mercy I am,” answered Fred, looking down at the wounded wolf, whom he seemed inclined to strike with his whip.

The stranger shouted to them as he advanced. They could not understand what he said, but they thought it was probably telling them not to meddle with the wolf. As soon as he came up to the spot he drew a long knife from a sheath at his side, and in the most deliberate way, evidently the result of long practice, approaching the brute from behind, plunged it into her neck.

“Bravo! Bravo!” shouted Fred and Harry. “Thanks—thanks! Oh, how we wish we could thank you in your own language.”

The stranger looked up with a smile on his countenance, and the lads then recognised him as their new attendant, the Molokani, Steffanoff Saveleff. They put out their hands to shake his. He smiled again, and pointed westward through the forest.

“Oh, but we want the skin of the beast,” said Fred; “I’ll keep it as a memorial of what you have done for me.”

“And we may as well kill the cubs, or they will be growing up, and will soon become as unamiable as their mother,” added Harry, pointing to the tree.

Steffanoff understood the action which accompanied the remark, and very soon put an end to the young wolves. Thus, in hunter guise, they took their way through the forest. The lads chatted freely to their guide, and though he could not understand a word they said, he looked up every now and then with one of those pleasant smiles which showed that he would gladly have talked to them if he could. His step was so elastic and rapid, that he kept their horses at a short trot the whole way.

The Count and his friends got home soon after they arrived, and Cousin Giles expressed no small satisfaction at seeing them. This was very much increased when he heard the risk they had run; and Steffanoff came in most deservedly for his share of praise for the way in which he had rescued the lads.

“Tell him,” said Cousin Giles to Mr Allwick, “that I was inclined to serve him before, but that now I am doubly anxious to be of use to him. Had any accident happened to the two lads, I should never have forgiven myself.”

Cousin Giles being certain that he could depend on the Count, gave him a sketch of Saveleff’s life, for the purpose of gaining his advice and assistance.

The Count shook his head. “I am afraid that he has very little chance of success,” said he; “still I will gladly assist and protect him to the utmost of my power.”

When Saveleff heard, through Mr Allwick, the promise which had been made him, he also shook his head. “I am deeply grateful to the Count,” said he; “but I have no faith in what my countrymen can do for me.”

A few days after this occurrence the whole party set off for Moscow, to be present at the coronation of the Emperor.

Chapter Nineteen.

Letter from Fred Markham to his Mother—Entrance of the Czar into Moscow—Saveleff presents his Petition—Grand Review of Troops—Coronation of the Emperor—Fête at the Opera—State Balls—The Illumination—The People’s Feast—The People’s Ball—Fireworks—Character of Russians—Thieving Propensities—Russian’s Aptitude for Commerce—Cucumber-water—Aqueduct of Moscow—Cursing Heretics—Blessing the Waters—Blessing Fruits—Christening Ceremony—Story of a Post-office for the Saints—High Mass in a Greek Church—Preparations for Leaving Moscow—Last News of Saveleff.

“Moscow, 30th September, 1856.

“Dearest Mother,—We are delighted that we came back to Moscow, for we have seen some magnificent sights, such as we are not likely to see again; and, thanks to the Count’s kindness, we saw everything to the best advantage, which I will now try and describe to you as briefly as I can. The very day we came here the Emperor arrived at his boiled-crab-like palace of Petrofsky, in front of which his camp of sixty thousand men is pitched. The 29th of August was fixed for his entrance into the city. A long, somewhat winding street, with houses of all heights and sizes, leads from the city gate to the Kremlin. Rows above rows of benches were placed at every interval between the houses, as also on their roofs, and in front of them, every bench being covered with people in their best attire, while the sides of the street were densely crowded with mujicks, both men and women, in their holiday suits, the centre part being kept clear by lines of cavalry; gay carpets, cloths, flags, and banners of every description hung out of all the windows, adding to the brilliancy of the scene. We got first-rate seats near the entrance to the Kremlin. The morning was rainy, but in the forenoon the weather cleared, and ringing of bells and firing of big guns, and talking and laughing, and hurrying of people to and fro to their posts, and marching of infantry and cavalry, occupied the time till four o’clock, when the Emperor entered the city gate; troops of many Asiatic tribes, in various gorgeous costumes, and imperial guards, and nobles of the realm, in magnificent uniforms, preceding him, while he was followed by the members of his family and their wives in five carriages—fine enough to make the Lord Mayor of London and all the Sheriffs jealous.

“All the great people were accompanied by running footmen, lacqueys, and others, and the whole procession was wound up with some fine squadrons of cuirassiers. Priests in their robes, with their crosses and pictures of saints, stood at all the churches, and at the doors of some the Emperor dismounted and kissed them—not the priests, but the crosses and pictures—as he and his Empress did also the relics and pictures of saints of peculiar sanctity in the various cathedrals. And lastly, in the cathedral of Saint Michael, they prostrated themselves before the tombs of those of their ancestors who are there buried. Cousin Giles said it struck him as setting somewhat of an example of idolatry to his subjects; but I do not suppose that he troubled himself about any such consideration. The universal custom of presenting bread and salt was performed by the Archbishop of Moscow to the Emperor as he entered the palace of the Kremlin, and here the ceremony of the day concluded. We eagerly watched to see if our friend Saveleff could find an opportunity of presenting his petition to the Emperor. Whenever the Czar stopped, the crowd pressed forward, and, amid shouts and cries, took his hand, and pressed it to their lips.

“‘I see him! I see him!’ cried Harry, as nodding plumes, and glittering helmets, and rich turbans, and tall spears, and shining swords, and gay banners were defiling through the gate of the Kremlin.

“We looked eagerly among the crowd, and then we saw a mujick working his way to the front rank, with a paper held out in one hand above his head. We could not hear, of course, what he said, but whatever was his appeal, his brethren made way for him. We were certain he could be no other than Saveleff. He had just reached the position he sought, when the Emperor himself approached. The Emperor bowed and smiled, and held out his hand to a number of mujicks, who were pressing forward to kiss it. At that moment, Saveleff, with a few hurried words, thrust his paper between the Emperor’s fingers. We understand that he exclaimed, ‘Oh, your Majesty, look at my document—life and death depends on it. Grant my petition!’ The Czar cast a look of surprise at the audacious mujick, and, without saying a word, handed the paper to an officer near him. But the result of all his toils, his sufferings, his anxieties—ah, you will ask, what is that?—we cannot tell. The Count has done his utmost to forward his object. His parents are still on their way to Siberia, if they have survived the hardships they have endured. His betrothed is still among the gipsies, and may any day be dragged back to slavery. The poor fellow remains with us, and is unmolested, but he is in low spirits, and hopeless of success. Still, he says that he would gladly go through far greater hardships and troubles than he has endured for the sake of the faith to which he holds. Cousin Giles would have taken him with us to England, but he will not quit the country which holds his betrothed, nor give up all prospects of rescuing his parents.

“I must, however, try to give you an idea of what took place during the coronation festival. The next thing which took place was a grand parade of all the troops in the camp, now increased to one hundred and twenty thousand men. Some of the cavalry had a fine appearance, dressed in Oriental costume. There were Circassians, or rather Lesghians, and other tribes bordering on the Caucasus—some in chain armour, others in white robes. There were Greeks and Albanians in their national costume, ferocious Koords, and terrier-looking Cossacks, with long lances, on shaggy little ponies, looking as if they would bite any one who came in their way. All the great people were there. The finest thing was a charge of twelve thousand dragoons, who literally made the ground tremble under them. They afterwards galloped up to the Emperor, and, drawing their swords simultaneously, with loud shouts, exclaimed—‘We wish your health, Czar!’ and then, wheeling round, dashed off at full speed.

“I must next tell you about the coronation itself. It took place in the Church of the Assumption, before which a large court had been formed by railing in several other churches, and covering them with galleries. These were filled with all the great people of the nation and their visitors. The arched roof of the church is supported by four massive pillars, covered with gold; under them sat the Emperor and Empress, surrounded by their Court. The Emperor took the crown, an immense one, blazing with jewels, from the Metropolitan who held it, and with his own hands placed it on his head. This he did to intimate that from no earthly power, clerical or lay, did he receive his sovereignty. The Empress then advanced, and kneeling before him, he touched her forehead with the crown, and then replaced it on his own head. The Empress-mother, who was the first to advance to congratulate her son, burst into tears, it is said, while her children, forgetful of all rules of etiquette, clung affectionately round him. The whole congregation wept, overcome at the sight.

“That same night all Moscow was illuminated, and a truly fairy-like spectacle it was. Every tower, minaret, cupola, dome, the front of its vast palace, and all the walls of the Kremlin were a blaze of light; so was the vast square with the arches which temporarily surround it, and the superb opera-house at one end, all the palaces of the great people, and the public buildings. You remember our description of the Cathedral of Saint Basil, with its wondrous towers and domes, and its various ins-and-outs? Every part of that bizarre building was clearly traced with bright lamps, and the effect was curiously beautiful. We walked about, and gazed and gazed with wonder and delight, till our eyes were so dazzled that we could scarcely see our way home.

“After this there were grand galas at the opera, and balls at the palace, and one at the English Ambassador’s, where McAllister, Lord Stafford’s piper, figured as a very important personage. The people also had their feast, the preparations for which we had seen; but they rushed up to the tables, and made away with the food, either down their throats or into their pockets, before the arrival of the Emperor and the greater part of the intended spectators. They, however, behaved much better at a ball which the Emperor gave them at the palace in the Kremlin. Dance they could not, but the mujicks and their wives and daughters walked about the vast halls, admiring the wonders they beheld, and eating and drinking as much of the delicate viands prepared for them as they could procure.

“Last night there was a grand display of fireworks, but somehow or other they did not go off at the right time and place; however, I daresay that the crowd were equally astonished and delighted as if each squib and cracker had played its part properly. One thing I must say for the Russians, that they are a very orderly, well-behaved people; and in all the vast crowds we saw, the people appeared kind and good-natured to each other in the extreme. There was no unnecessary pushing and shoving, and none of that abusive language which is so disgusting in an English crowd; on the contrary, every one appeared good-tempered and happy.

“I really like the Russians in many respects. Their faults are rather the consequence of bad government and a faulty religion, than such as are inherent in their race. If a pure religion were introduced among them generally, and their government were to become more and more liberal, till they are capable of governing themselves, another century would see a very great change in them for the better. At present a large number of them are semi-barbarians, with the ignorance and vices of barbarism; and although they may be easily governed under the present despotic system, they are equally liable to be led into revolt by any designing man who is bold enough to risk his life on the chance of success. I give you Cousin Giles’ opinion on the subject, which is of more value than mine.

“I am sorry to say that in the capitals a number of people are found not a little addicted to picking and stealing. Not that housebreakers or footpads are to be found, but it is not safe to leave things about in one’s room. One day, while we were at dinner, I found that I had left my pocket-handkerchief up-stairs, so I ran to get it. What was my surprise to find the door open, which I felt certain I had locked, and on looking in to observe a gentleman very composedly stowing away in a towel some shirts and other clothes which had just come home from the laundress.

“‘Hollo, old fellow, what are you about?’

“‘Si chasse—si chasse,’ (presently—presently), he answered, with the greatest coolness, as if he was employed in something he had been ordered to do. They were some of the very few words of Russian I knew.

“‘I’ll not trouble you, my man. Just put those things down, and get out of this as fast as you can,’ I exclaimed, walking up to him. He tried to grasp the things, and to make a bolt with them, but I was too quick for him; and while I sung out at the top of my voice, he let the things fall, and made a dart out of the room. I followed him as fast as I could run, and had I not unfortunately slipped, I should have caught him, and held him fast till my shouts brought the people from the dining-room to my assistance. As it was, the fellow escaped, to my great disappointment, though he took nothing with him. The Russian thieves are also very expert at picking pockets, and at the time of the coronation they had plenty of opportunities in exercising their vocation. Harry and I lost our pocket-handkerchiefs one day, but after that we followed Cousin Giles’ advice, and fastened them into our pockets. The Russians are great traders; they begin their mercantile pursuits at a very early age. Little fellows, who would be playing at marbles or hoop in England, if they were not at school, here manage shops or stalls in the streets. They are as sharp, too, as any grown-up men, and if they do not cheat others, they take very good care that they are not cheated themselves. We have seen small urchins not more than seven or eight years old with a store of wax-tapers or picture-books, or quass, of which they pressed all passers-by with the greatest pertinacity to become purchasers. We stopped several times with Mr Allwick to talk to them, and we found that they knew not only all about their own trade, but had already a good knowledge about trade in general. Many of the richest shopkeepers in Moscow and Saint Petersburg have sprung from this humble class of dealers.

“Many of the shopkeepers have a very Jewish look, and employ the very mode which the Jews in London, in some of the back streets, do to induce passers-by to purchase their wares. They stand in front of their shops, and as soon as they see any one approaching, they step forward, uttering praises of their goods, and, with hands stretched out, look as if they would forcibly detain the stranger, and as if they would consider themselves very ill-used should he not become a purchaser.

“The Russians are great eaters of raw vegetables, especially of onions and cucumbers. They eat them pickled in salt, and most thoroughly unwholesome they appeared. They drink also the juice of the cucumber, mixed with water, which is called cucumber-water. It is said to form a very cooling beverage in summer! But I suspect the water forms the best part of the potation. They are very fond of all sorts of sour vegetables. They have a species of apple, which they allow to freeze in winter, in which state it is preserved, and though it has a very withered appearance, it is really full of juice.

“Moscow is supplied with water by an aqueduct which reaches to about three versts from the city. It is there forced by a steam-engine into a basin at the top of a lofty tower in Garden Street, where pipes carry it to the various reservoirs in different directions for the supply of the houses. Over every spring in Russia, preserved for the use of man, is placed the picture of a saint, who is supposed to have the special charge of the water. Over this reservoir there is one of particular sanctity, but I am not acquainted with his name. This tower, which is called the Sukhareva Bashnia, is the most lofty in the city, and a view is to be obtained from it still more interesting than that from Ivan Veleki, because one sees, not only the surrounding city, but the wonderful Kremlin itself. At the top of the tower the Russian eagle, made of silver, expands its wings over a silver basin, and from this silver basin radiate fifty pipes, each an inch in diameter, which carry fifty streams for the supply of the inhabitants.

“One of the most curious ceremonies of which we heard in the Greek Church is that of cursing the heretics. First, there is a grand mass, and much singing and lighting of tapers, and then the chief priest, who has always a powerful, deep voice, pronounces an awful curse on the false Demetrius, Mazeppa, and several other noted worthies, long departed from all terrestrial influence. Many people, and heretics of all descriptions, are also cursed, and then the choir chants forth in melodious tones the words anàfema, anàfema, repeated sometimes by all the congregation with most startling effect. The Russians are, however, more given to blessing than to cursing. The priests, at the same time, consider themselves entitled to payment for their blessings. No true believer is content unless all his possessions are especially blessed: his house, his cattle, his horses, flocks; the fruits growing in his garden; his corn-fields, his children; the well which supplies him with water; indeed, all he possesses. He believes that nothing he undertakes will prosper unless the priest has first blessed the implements he uses, and his religious instructor takes no pains to undeceive him. One of the most curious ceremonies is that of blessing the waters. It is performed three times in the year; once in spring, once in midsummer, and once on the ice in winter. The latter is the most curious. The nearest large piece of water is selected—either a river, a lake, or a pond. On the ice a large arbour, composed of birch trees, is formed to represent a church, with a gallery in the form of an amphitheatre. In the centre a square hole is broken, so that the water can be reached. From the neighbouring church a procession of priests approaches with pictures, and crosses, and flags, and tapers, and with loud chanting enters the arbour. Here a service is performed, and as soon as it is over they march forth again with very picturesque effect, and the cross is dipped several times in the water. By this ceremony it is believed the water is especially blessed, and made wholesome for man, beast, bird, and fish. No sooner has it been performed than the multitude who have been surrounding the spot rush eagerly forward with bottles, jugs, pots, and pans, and fill their vessels, and also drink as much as they can. Not only is the water itself blessed, but all the streams, and wells, and fountains in the neighbourhood are equally benefited. It is curious to see the way in which the people dabble in the water, throw it over their persons, though it freezes as it falls, and drink of it till they can drink no more; all this being done in the belief that the water is holy, and that they will be especially benefited thereby. The ceremony in summer is very similar, only the arbours are formed on the banks of the river or lake, and people manage to drink still more abundantly, with fewer ill effects. A still more interesting festival is that of blessing the fruit, which takes place on the 6th of August. It is held in the country, in front of one of the principal churches or convents. People of all classes, rich and poor, high and low, assemble from all quarters, far and near, in vehicles of every description. In front of the church are long rows of fruit-sellers’ booths to supply those who have brought no fruit with them. High Mass is then performed in the church, and as soon as it is concluded the priests come forth with bowls of holy water, with which they march up and down among the lines of people, drawn up in all directions, with fruits in their hands, sprinkling the consecrated liquid on either side as they go. As soon as this has been done, the people set to work and eat greedily of the various fruits which have been sprinkled, which they have not before ventured to touch, under the belief that till then they are unwholesome. In the more northern districts the fruit is very often far from ripe, but yet they eat away, under the belief that it can do them no harm. They will even give small infants in arms large green apples to suck, fancying that they cannot hurt them, poor little things. As, however, I have seen nursemaids in England equally foolish, I will not blame the ignorant Russian peasant. Cousin Giles says that the same sort of ceremonies are performed in Roman Catholic countries, where horses and cattle are blessed in due form by a plentiful sprinkling of holy water. It would all appear very ridiculous to us, were it not sadly blasphemous. To a stranger, one of the most curious ceremonies in the Greek Church is that of baptism. The infant, soon after it is born, is brought by its godfathers and godmothers to the church—neither of its parents being present. The priest first asks if it will renounce the devil and all his works; the sponsors answer for it, that it will. The priest thereon commands the devil, who is supposed to have hitherto had possession of it, to take his departure. The order is believed to be instantly obeyed, and the priest consequently spits over his shoulder at the devil, who is beating a hasty retreat. His example is followed by all present, who spit with unfeigned satisfaction at the discomfited Evil One. The whole party then walk in procession three times round the font. At its conclusion the priest consecrates the water by putting it into a metal cross, and then immerses in it the infant three times, pronouncing at the end its baptismal name. As a visible sign that the child is now a Christian, the priest suspends round its neck, by a black string, a small metal cross, which it ever afterwards wears as an amulet. I remember well hearing of such crosses being found on the slain at the Alma and other battle-fields in the Crimea, but did not at the time know their signification. Next the child is dressed, and carried once more round the font with a procession of burning tapers, which, symbolising the Holy Spirit, signify that the child has now received that Spirit within it, of which it was before destitute. Lastly, the infant’s eyes, ears, mouth, hands, and feet are anointed with holy oil, and pieces of hair are cut from its head, and rolled up with wax into a ball, and thrown into the font. No Russian has more than one Christian name. This custom arises from the belief that every name has its representative among the angels in heaven, who have the especial charge of all persons bearing that name; in return, it is expected that the prayers of mortals should especially be addressed to their guardian angels. Only one name is given, because it is said that a person can have only one guardian angel; if he had two, it might be doubtful which was to watch over him, and to which he should address his prayers. Cousin Giles observes that, when once people depart from the simple truths of Christianity, it is impossible to say what absurdities they may believe, or of what follies they may be guilty. As the people become enlightened, the priests of a false faith are compelled to refine their system; at present, in Russia, nothing is too gross for the credulity of the people to swallow.

“We attended mass the other day at the Uspensky Sabor (the Cathedral of the Resurrection). It was a very gorgeous ceremony, although, as it lasted three hours, it was very fatiguing; but we determined to stand it out, and afterwards never to go to another. I can only attempt to give an outline of the ceremonies. The church being crowded with people, a priest came through one of the side doors of the screen, and in a stentorian voice, with hand uplifted, announced that service was beginning. Some ceremony then took place behind the screen. Soon afterwards another priest entered, with two attendants, bearing over his head a huge Bible with a richly ornamented cover. It was allowed just to touch his forehead. Being placed on a desk in front of the chief door in the screen, another priest in a very irreverential and hurried manner read some chapters from it, the choir constantly repeating the words, ‘Gospodi poluomini,’ (the Lord have mercy on us). The effect of these words, in a rich chant, soft, full, and swelling, is very beautiful. They continually occur throughout the service. We could see the high priest all the time through the open work of the chief door moving about before the altar. At length a fine psalm was sung, the chief door was thrown open, the high altar and its splendid decorations were displayed, and from the side doors issued forth the whole troop of officiating priests bearing the bread and wine for the sacrament, preceded by one man with a lighted taper, and the high priest coming in the rear with a silver chalice; the procession is closed by a priest with a salver on his head. Again they all entered the sanctuary, the bread and wine were placed on the altar, and the priest kneeling, what is called transubstantiation is supposed to take place. While this act is performing, all Turks, heretics, and infidels are commanded to leave the church. Numerous prayers are then offered up for the Emperor, the Imperial family, and for a variety of objects. The most impressive part is when the high priest prays for a blessing on the bread and wine, and shakes the bread into the chalice. Afterwards those who intend to partake of the sacrament are invited to come forward, and the bread and wine together are administered in a small silver spoon, the communicants holding their hands on their breasts, and kneeling three times. We were very much struck with the little the congregation had to do with the service. They had no book, they did not join in the singing, and they could scarcely have understood what the priest said who read from the Bible. Their only business seemed to be to cross themselves and to bow, touching the ground with their foreheads, during the whole three hours the affair lasted. Still the churches fill, and the people fancy, I suppose, that they derive some benefit from what takes place. The music is certainly very fine; it is all vocal; there are no instruments, and no organ; and as women are not allowed to sing in churches, boys are trained to perform their parts.

“‘Altogether,’ Cousin Giles says, ‘there is very little difference in the main features between the ceremonies of the Greek and Romish Churches. Both are intended to attract the senses, to please the vulgar, and to deceive the credulous, and neither can have any effect in changing the heart.’

“But it is time that I should bring my long letter to a conclusion. Much of the above information was given me by a German gentleman speaking English whom we met at Chollet’s table-d’hôte. I have before said that we like the Russians; I mean the peasantry. When I spoke of the existence of thieves in Saint Petersburg or Moscow, I do not suppose that there are more thieves in Saint Petersburg or Moscow than in any other of the capitals of Europe. Many of the peasants are fine-looking men, though generally, from bad feeding, they have not the stamina of Englishmen. Of one thing I am certain, that if one Spaniard can lick two Portuguese, and one Englishman can lick all three, one Englishman can lick three Russians with a big boy to help them. Still I hope that we shall not have to go to war with them again. Poor fellows! The Russian soldiers had not a grain of spite or ill-feeling against us. They were driven on to the attack, and worked up by all sorts of falsehoods, and a plentiful administration of vodka, to commit the atrocities of which some of them were guilty.

“We are preparing to leave Moscow. Cousin Giles and Harry have gone to get the tiresome passport business arranged with Mr Allwick, and as I have sprained my ankle, I remained to write to you. We shall be very sorry to part with our interpreter; he has contributed very much to the pleasure of our visit to this city. Through his means we have seen and understood much more than we could otherwise possibly have done about the place and the people. We have no satisfactory news about poor Saveleffs affairs. The Count has promised to allow him to remain among his people as long as he wishes, and to protect him to the utmost of his power; but he owns that that power is likely to extend a very little way. He says that he will spare no expense, if bribery is likely to effect the object. He thinks, however, that if the true state of the case could be laid before the Emperor, the poor fellow’s cause might be gained, but the difficulty is to let the Emperor know the truth. We cannot help fancying that we saw poor Saveleffs old father and mother among the exiles starting for Siberia. Poor fellow! It is very sad. He does not despair, and yet he has very little hope of happiness in this world. Even now, if the police find him out, he will not be allowed to remain very long in quiet.

“To-morrow we are off by the railway for Saint Petersburg.

“Your affectionate son—

“Fred Markham.”

Chapter Twenty.

Last Letter from Fred Markham to his Mother—Return to Saint Petersburg—Ceremony at the Kazan Church—Picnic into Finland—Visit to Peteroff—The Palace of the Czar—Villas of Peter the Great and Catherine—Beautiful Fountain—Leave Saint Petersburg—Cronstadt—Voyage down the Baltic—Copenhagen—Journey from Copenhagen to Hamburg—Conclusion.

“Hamburg, 20th October, 1856.

“My own dear mother,—Here we are within two days’ paddling of England, and we hope within a week to be with you. In the meantime I will give you an idea of what we have done since I last wrote from Moscow. We journeyed back from that wondrous city with hundreds of other mortals returning from the coronation fêtes, and took up our old quarters at the Gostiniza Benson. We looked in the next morning at the Kazan church, which we had not before seen. The columns which support the roof are of grey and red granite, and their bases and capitals are gilt; there are long rows of them in each cross. Banners, tattered, blackened, and pierced by many a bullet, taken from the enemies of Russia, hang from the walls. Some ceremony was going forward. A fat, cunning Shylock, in spectacles, sat at a counter just inside the entrance, and sold wax-tapers to men and women, old and young, bearded officers and thin striplings. The votaries then advanced and bowed and crossed themselves. Some were so devout as to kneel down and kiss the horribly dirty floor, on which beggars were spitting. Harry and I felt much inclined to kick over one young fellow so employed close to us, and who looked as if he ought to have known better. Having genuflected to their heart’s content, they advanced to the altar, and stuck their tapers into a frame on a huge candlestick placed before some saint or other. One saintship, who appeared to be a great favourite, had got his candlestick inconveniently full, but an old soldier—evidently in charge of the altar, and to whom some votaries presented their tapers—while pretending to stick in one took the opportunity to slip out four or five others, so that there was always room for more. I suspect the old soldier and Shylock were in league with each other, and that the same tapers did duty many times. I am grateful that I was not brought up in the Greek Church. Cousin Giles says we ought to be thankful that we are Englishmen and Protestants.

“The Monday before we left, some friends invited us to a picnic in Finland, the borders of which are distant only a fair drive from Saint Petersburg. We started early and drove in a northerly direction past a number of wooden villas of every conceivable Swiss-cottage style, very picturesque and very damp, of trees and canals and ponds, to the village of Mourina, fifteen versts off, where our friends have a villa. The property belongs to Prince Woronzoff, who was brought up in England; but instead of following the example of our good landlords, he imitates the bad ones, and allows his cottages to get into a very tumble-down condition. They are built of wood, so the lower part becomes rotten, and the rest sinks. Were they placed on foundations of stone, they would last far longer. They now offer no unfit epitome of the state of Russia. Our friend’s villa was very pretty, with all sorts of Chinese-looking ins-and-outs, verandahs, and passages. There was a gauze covering to the verandah, which effectually kept out the flies and moths, and other teasing things. A stream of water ran at the foot of the garden, and close to it was built a vapour-bath, and a dressing-house for a plunge-bath. After breakfast, a carriage and several little country carts—telegas they are called—came to the door to take us to our destination. The carts were drawn by one horse in the shafts and another in the left side, with traces secured partly to the wheels and partly to a rough bar of birchwood fastened across the cart. They are in shape like boats with stem and stern cut off, and the ribs outside instead of in. Each holds two persons seated on horse-cloths and sheepskins, with their feet in straw. Cousin Giles called the bar to which the traces were fastened, a sprit-sail yard. The drivers were boys, who sat in front of the carts. Off we rattled down a steep hill, and through a bog, and were quickly in Finland. The boys tried to keep ahead of each other, and galloped down hills and up hills, and along the road at a tremendous pace;—it was rare fun. The road was sometimes sandy, sometimes gravelly, and always undulating. After a little time we had some pretty views, with a chain of lakes on either side of us. Then we reached the village of Toxova, with its Lutheran church and parsonage, situated on a wooded hill above the lakes. We stopped at the village, and went to a cottage with a large room with a table and benches, and a verandah looking down on the lakes. Here we hired a samovar, and spread our eatables. The chief dish was a salmon-pie, and a capital dish it is. A whole salmon (or another fish may be used) is rolled up in a coat of chopped eggs, and rice or other grain, first well boiled, and then covered with a coating of bread-dough, which is next baked like a loaf of bread. It is eaten cold. After dinner we walked through woods of birch and elder to a hill with a cross on it, above a lake, whence we got a view of Saint Petersburg.

“We altogether had one of the pleasantest days we passed in Russia, for though cities and fine sights are very interesting, there is nothing like the country after all, in my opinion. Another day we received an invitation from some friends to visit them at Peteroff, a village formed by a collection of villas and palaces on the south side of the Gulf of Finland. It can be reached by land, but we preferred going there by water. Steamers run between it and Saint Petersburg several times in the day. Crossing the bridge, we embarked in a boat, built in the far-off Clyde, and now called by a Russian name. The passage between the shallows all the way is very narrow, and the bar at the mouth of the Neva has often not more than ten feet of water on it. I have already in our journal described Peteroff, with its golden domes and spires peeping out among the trees just overlooking Cronstadt, so I will say no more about it. At the end of a good landing-pier we found our friend’s carriage waiting, and in it, over a good road, among groves of birch and lime-trees, we were driven to his very picturesque summer residence. It was built of logs, and weather-boarded, with a verandah running all round it, and at each angle is a wide space roofed over, so that shade and air can at all times of the day be procured. After an early dinner, we drove to the chateau of the Emperor, built by Peter the Great. It is a curious, long, half Oriental, half Italian-looking edifice, with a gilt roof, and white and yellow walls. On one side are gardens, laid out with long gravel walks, grass-plats, and trees; on the other the high road. Between the road and the sea are the smaller and still more ancient royal villas of Marly and Montplaisir, in the midst of gardens full of the strangest collection of gilt statues and urns, and flowerpots and marble fountains, and water-spouts and tanks, and seats and rows of trees, and flower-beds all of one colour, the whole having a very glittering, dazzling effect. From one of the fountains the water comes down an inclined plane, and we were told that the Emperor Nicholas used to amuse himself by making a party of the cadets of the military schools defend the top of the waterfall, while others had to storm it, climbing up the inclined plane, over which the water was rushing down. It might be very good fun on a hot day, with the thermometer at 90 degrees, but very disagreeable when a sharp north-easter was blowing.

“The villa of Marly was built by Peter, and here he used to go to watch the manoeuvres of his newly-formed fleet in the gulf below him. Here, also, he died; his bed and his night-cap are shown. Indeed, nothing has been altered in the cottage since he passed away from the scene where his wonderfully active mind had done so much. The cottage of Montplaisir was built by the Empress Catherine, and in it was a kitchen-range, where she used to amuse herself by cooking dinners for herself and any of her more honoured guests. In the dining-room was a table, the centre of which could be lowered and raised, so as to remove and replace the dishes without the presence of waiters. In the gardens is also a large bathing-house, of truly imperial dimensions. These cottages are interesting for their historical recollections; but by far the most beautiful object in the gardens is a fountain, which throws up water exactly in the shape of a Gothic cathedral. As the sun shone on the sparkling jets, the effect was excellent.

“We spent a most pleasant evening at our friend’s house, and returned the next day to Saint Petersburg. We saw many other things in Saint Petersburg which I will tell you about when we meet. We went down to Cronstadt, to get on board the steamer which was to take us to Copenhagen. The town consists of several very broad streets and places, but not many houses within the fortifications, and quays, and a harbour full of shipping.

“We were not sorry to get out of Russia. Cousin Giles says that he felt as if there was something in the air which prevented him breathing freely. We liked the Russians very well. They do not live exclusively on train-oil, ill-smelling fish, and black bread, as we fancied before we went there; but their greatest admirers cannot call them a thoroughly civilised people.

“I wish that I could tell you something about their language. It sounds very soft and musical, but is very difficult to speak, and the characters make all one’s previous knowledge of an alphabet utterly useless. We left Cronstadt on the afternoon of Wednesday, where neither was our baggage nor were we examined; indeed, half-a-dozen people might have smuggled themselves on board, and got away without difficulty. We had fine weather all the way down the Baltic, and came off a neat little village five miles from Copenhagen, on the afternoon of Sunday. Here we landed in a pilot-boat, with some Danish gentlemen, who were very civil to us, and by their aid we engaged a char-à-banc, and drove to Copenhagen the same evening. We spent five very pleasant days there, seeing numerous objects of interest. I will not attempt to describe them now. Cousin Giles says I must write a book about Denmark another year. It is a very interesting country, to Englishmen especially. We left Copenhagen in the afternoon, and the same evening reached by railway the town of Kirsoor, about sixty miles to the south of it. Here we embarked on board a steamer, which carried us to Kiel, where the English fleet were stationed last winter. Here another railway conveyed us, in a little more than three hours, to Hamburg. And now our foreign travels are almost over for this year. We have enjoyed them very much, as we hope you have our letters, and that you will allow us to accept Cousin Giles’ invitation to accompany him next summer to some other country.

“Your affectionate son—

“Frederick Markham.”

The End.

W.H.G. Kingston

"From Powder Monkey to Admiral"

Introduction.

A book for boys by W.H.G. Kingston needs no introduction. Yet a few things may be said about the origin and the purpose of this story.

When the Boys’ Own Paper was first started, Mr Kingston, who showed deep interest in the project, undertook to write a story of the sea, during the wars, under the title of “From Powder-monkey to Admiral.”

Talking the matter over, it was objected that such a story might offend peaceable folk, because it must deal too much with blood and gunpowder. Mr Kingston, although famed as a narrator of sea-fights, was a lover of peace, and he said that his story would not encourage the war spirit. Those who cared chiefly to read about battles might turn to the pages of “British Naval History.” He chose the period of the great war for his story, because it was a time of stirring events and adventures. The main part of the narrative belongs to the early years of life, in which boys would feel most interest and sympathy. And throughout the tale, not “glory” but “duty” is the object set before the youthful reader.

It was further objected that the title of the story set before boys an impossible object of ambition. The French have a saying, that “every soldier carries in his knapsack a marshal’s baton,” meaning that the way is open for rising to the very highest rank in their army. But who ever heard of a sailor lad rising to be an Admiral in the British Navy?

Let us see how history answers this question. There was a great sea captain of other days, whose fame is not eclipsed by the glorious reputations of later wars, Admiral Benbow. In the reign of Queen Anne, before the great Duke of Marlborough had begun his victorious career, Benbow had broken the power of France on the sea. Rank and routine were powerful in those days, as now; but when a time of peril comes, the best man is wanted, and Benbow was promoted out of turn, by royal command, to the rank of Vice-Admiral, and went after the fleet of Admiral Ducasse to the West Indies. In the little church of Saint Andrew’s, Kingston, Jamaica, his body lies, and the memorial stone speaks of him as “a true pattern of English courage, who lost his life in defence of queen and country.”

Like his illustrious French contemporary Jean Bart, John Benbow was of humble origin. He entered the merchant service when a boy. He was unknown till he had reached the age of thirty, when he had risen to the command of a merchant vessel. Attacked by a powerful Salee rover, he gallantly repulsed these Moorish pirates, and took his ship safe into Cadiz. The heads of thirteen of the pirates he preserved, and delivered them to the magistrates of the town, in presence of the custom-house officers. The tidings of this strange incident reached Madrid, and the King of Spain, Charles the Second, sent for the English captain, received him with great honour, and wrote a letter on his behalf to our King James the Second, who on his return to England gave him a ship. This was his introduction to the British Navy, in which he served with distinction in the reigns of William the Third and Queen Anne. But his obscure origin is the point here under notice, and the following traditional anecdote is preserved in Shropshire:—When a boy he was left in charge of the house by his mother, who went out marketing. The desire to go to sea, long cherished, was irresistible. He stole forth, locking the cottage door after him, and hung the key on a hook in a tree in the garden. Many years passed before he returned to the old place. Though now out of his reach, for the tree had grown faster than he, the key still hung on the hook. He left it there; and there it remained when he came back as Rear-Admiral of the White. He then pointed it out to his friends, and told the story. Once more his country required his services, but his fame and the echo of his victories alone came over the wave. The good town of Shrewsbury is proud to claim him as a son, and remembers the key, hung by the banks of the Severn, near Benbow House. Whatever basis of truth the story may have, its being told and believed attests the fact of the humble birth and origin of Admiral Benbow.

Another sailor boy, Hopson, in the early part of last century, rose to be Admiral in the British Navy. Born at Bonchurch in the Isle of Wight, of humblest parentage, he was left an orphan, and apprenticed by the parish to a tailor. While sitting one day alone on the shop-board, he was struck by the sight of the squadron coming round Dunnose. Instantly quitting his work, he ran to the shore, jumped into a boat, and rowed for the Admiral’s ship. Taken on board, he entered as a volunteer.

Next morning the English fleet fell in with a French squadron, and a warm action ensued. Young Hopson obeyed every order with the utmost alacrity; but after two or three hours’ fighting he became impatient, and asked what they were fighting for. The sailors explained to him that they must fire away, and the fight go on, till the white rag at the enemy’s mast-head was struck. Getting this information, his resolution was formed, and he exclaimed, “Oh, if that’s all, I’ll see what I can do.”

The two ships, with the flags of the commanders on each side, were now engaged at close quarters, yard-arm and yard-arm, and completely enveloped in smoke. This proved favourable to the purpose of the brave youth, who mounted the shrouds through the smoke unobserved, gained the French Admiral’s main-yard, ascended with agility to the main-topgallant mast-head, and carried off the French flag. It was soon seen that the enemy’s colours had disappeared, and the British sailors, thinking they had been hauled down, raised a shout of “Victory, victory!” The French were thrown into confusion by this, and first slackened fire, and then ran from their guns. At this juncture the ship was boarded by the English and taken. Hopson had by this time descended the shrouds with the French flag wrapped round his arm, which he triumphantly displayed.

The sailors received the prize with astonishment and cheers of approval. The Admiral being told of the exploit, sent for Hopson and thus addressed him, “My lad, I believe you to be a brave youth. From this day I order you to walk the quarter-deck, and if your future conduct is equally meritorious, you shall have my patronage and protection.” Hopson made every effort to maintain the good opinion of his patron, and by his conduct and attention to duty gained the respect of the officers of the ship. He afterwards went rapidly through the different ranks of the service, till at length he attained that of Admiral.

We might give not a few instances of more recent date, but the families and friends of those “who have risen” do not always feel the same honest pride as the great men themselves in the story of their life. While it is true that no sailor boy may now hope to become “Admiral of the Fleet,” yet there is room for advancement, in peace as in war, to what is better than mere rank or title or wealth,—a position of honour and usefulness. Good character and good conduct, pluck and patience, steadiness and application, will win their way, whether on sea or land, and in every calling.

The inventions of modern science and art are producing a great change in all that pertains to life at sea. The revolution is more apparent in war than in peace. There is, and always will be, a large proportion of merchant ships under sail, even in nations like our own where steam is in most general use. In war, a wooden ship without steam and without armour would be a mere floating coffin. The fighting Temeraire, and the saucy Arethusa, and Nelson’s Victory itself, would be nothing but targets for deadly fire from active and irresistible foes. The odds would be about the same as the odds of javelins and crossbows against modern fire-arms. Steam alone had made a revolution in naval warfare; but when we add to this the armour-plating of vessels, and the terrible artillery of modern times, “the wooden walls of old England” are only fit to be used as store-ships or hospitals for a few years, and then sent to the ship-yards to be broken up for firewood. But though material conditions have changed, the moral forces are the same as ever, and courage, daring, skill, and endurance are the same in ships of oak or of iron:—

“Yes, the days of our wooden walls are ended,

And the days of our iron ones begun;

But who cares by what our land’s defended,

While the hearts that fought and fight are one?

’Twas not the oak that fought each battle,

’Twas not the wood that victory won;

’Twas the hands that made our broadsides rattle,

’Twas the hearts of oak that served each gun.”

These are words from one of the “Songs for Sailors,” by W.C. Bennett, who has written better naval poems for popular use than any one since the days of Dibdin. The same idea concludes a rattling ballad on old Admiral Benbow:—

“Well, our walls of oak have become just a joke

And in tea-kettles we’re to fight;

It seems a queer dream, all this iron and steam,

But I daresay, my lads, it’s right.

But whether we float in ship or in boat,

In iron or oak, we know

For old England’s right we’ve hearts that will fight,

As of old did the brave Benbow.”

But, after all, even in war, fighting is only a small part of the sum of any sailor’s life, and the British flag floats over ships on every sea, whether under sail or steam, in the peaceful pursuits of commerce. The same qualities of heart and mind will have their play, which Mr Kingston has described in his stirring story,—a story which will be read with profit by the young, and with pleasure by both young and old.

Dr Macaulay, Founder of “Boy’s Own Paper.”

Chapter One.

Preparing to start.

No steamboats ploughed the ocean, nor were railroads thought of, when our young friends Jack, Tom, and Bill lived. They first met each other on board the Foxhound frigate, on the deck of which ship a score of other lads and some fifty or sixty men were mustered, who had just come up the side from the Viper tender; she having been on a cruise to collect such stray hands as could be found; and a curious lot they were to look at.

Among them were long-shore fellows in swallow-tails and round hats, fishermen in jerseys and fur-skin caps, smugglers in big boots and flushing coats; and not a few whose whitey-brown faces, and close-cropped hair, made it no difficult matter to guess that their last residence was within the walls of a gaol. There were seamen also, pressed most of them, just come in from a long voyage, many months or perhaps years having passed since they left their native land; that they did not look especially amiable was not to be wondered at, since they had been prevented from going, as they had intended, to visit their friends, or maybe, in the case of the careless ones, from enjoying a long-expected spree on shore. They were all now waiting to be inspected by the first lieutenant, before their names were entered on the ship’s books.

The rest of the crew were going about their various duties. Most of them were old hands, who had served a year or more on board the gallant frigate. During that time she had fought two fierce actions, which, though she had come off victorious, had greatly thinned her ship’s company, and the captain was therefore anxious to make up the complement as fast as possible by every means in his power.

The seamen took but little notice of the new hands, though some of them had been much of the same description themselves, but were not very fond of acknowledging this, or of talking of their previous histories; they had, however, got worked into shape by degrees: and the newcomers, even those with the “long togs,” by the time they had gone through the same process would not be distinguished from the older hands, except, maybe, when they came to splice an eye, or turn in a grummet, when their clumsy work would show what they were; few of them either were likely ever to be the outermost on the yard-arms when sail had suddenly to be shortened on a dark night, while it was blowing great guns and small arms.

The frigate lay at Spithead. She had been waiting for these hands to put to sea. Lighters were alongside, and whips were never-ceasingly hoisting in casks of rum, with bales and cases of all sorts, which it seemed impossible could ever be stowed away. From the first lieutenant to the youngest midshipman, all were bawling at the top of their voices, issuing and repeating orders; but there were two persons who out-roared all the rest, the boatswain and the boatswain’s mate. They were proud of those voices of theirs. Let the hardest gale be blowing, with the wind howling and whistling through the rigging, the canvas flapping like claps of thunder, and the seas roaring and dashing against the bows, they could make themselves heard above the loudest sounds of the storm.

At present the boatswain bawled, or rather roared, because he was so accustomed to roar that he could speak in no gentler voice while carrying on duty on deck; and the boatswain’s mate imitated him.

The first lieutenant had a good voice of his own, though it was not so rough as that of his inferiors. He made it come out with a quick, sharp sound, which could be heard from the poop to the forecastle, even with the wind ahead.

Jack, Tom, and Bill looked at each other, wondering what was next going to happen. They were all three of about the same age, and much of a height, and somehow, as I have said, they found themselves standing close together.

They were too much astonished, not to say frightened, to talk just then, though they all three had tongues in their heads, so they listened to the conversation going on around them.

“Why, mate, where do you come from?” asked a long-shore chap of one of the whitey-brown-faced gentlemen.

“Oh, I’ve jist dropped from the clouds; don’t know where else I’ve come from,” was the answer.

“I suppose you got your hair cropped off as you came down?” was the next query.

“Yes! it was the wind did it as I came scuttling down,” answered the other, who was evidently never at a loss what to say. “And now, mate, just tell me how did you get on board this craft?” he inquired.

“I swam off, of course, seized with a fit of patriotism, and determined to fight for the honour and glory of old England,” was the answer.

It cannot, however, be said that this is a fair specimen of the conversation; indeed, it would benefit no one were what was said to be repeated.

Jack, Tom, and Bill felt very much as a person might be supposed to do who had dropped from the moon. Everything around them was so strange and bewildering, for not one of them had ever before been on board a ship, and Bill had never even seen one. Having not been much accustomed to the appearance of trees, he had some idea that the masts grew out of the deck, that the yards were branches, and the blocks curious leaves; not that amid the fearful uproar, and what seemed to him the wildest confusion, he could think of anything clearly.

Bill Rayner had certainly not been born with a silver spoon in his mouth. His father he had never known. His mother lived in a garret and died in a garret, although not before, happily for him, he was able to do something for himself, and, still more happily, not before she had impressed right principles on his mind. As the poor woman lay on her deathbed, taking her boy’s hands and looking earnestly into his eyes, she said, “Be honest, Bill, in the sight of God. Never forget that He sees you, and do your best to please Him. No fear about the rest. I am not much of a scholar, but I know that’s right. If others try to persuade you to do what’s wrong, don’t listen to them. Promise me, Bill, that you will do as I tell you.”

“I promise, mother, that I will,” answered Bill; and, small lad as he was, meant what he said.

Poor as she was, being a woman of some education, his mother had taught him to read and write and cipher—not that he was a great adept at any of those arts, but he possessed the groundwork, which was an important matter; and he did his best to keep up his knowledge by reading sign-boards, looking into book-sellers’ windows, and studying any stray leaves he could obtain.

Bill’s mother was buried in a rough shell by the parish, and Bill went out into the world to seek his fortune. He took to curious ways,—hunting in dust-heaps for anything worth having; running errands when he could get any one to send him; holding horses for gentlemen, but that was not often; doing duty as a link-boy at houses when grand parties were going forward or during foggy weather; for Bill, though he often went supperless to his nest, either under a market-cart, or in a cask by the river side, or in some other out-of-the-way place, generally managed to have a little capital with which to buy a link; but the said capital did not grow much, for bad times coming swallowed it all up.

Bill, as are many other London boys, was exposed to temptations of all sorts; often when almost starving, without a roof to sleep under, or a friend to whom he could appeal for help, his shoes worn out, his clothing too scanty to keep him warm; but, ever recollecting his mother’s last words, he resisted them all. One day, having wandered farther east than he had ever been before, he found himself in the presence of a press-gang, who were carrying off a party of men and boys to the river’s edge. One of the man-of-war’s men seized upon him, and Bill, thinking that matters could not be much worse with him than they were at present, willingly accompanied the party, though he had very little notion where they were going. Reaching a boat, they were made to tumble in, some resisting and endeavouring to get away; but a gentle prick from the point of a cutlass, or a clout on the head, made them more reasonable, and most of them sat down resigned to their fate. One of them, however, a stout fellow, when the boat had got some distance from the shore, striking out right and left at the men nearest him, sprang overboard, and before the boat could be pulled round had already got back nearly half-way to the landing-place.

One or two of the press-gang, who had muskets, fired, but they were not good shots. The man looking back as he saw them lifting their weapons, by suddenly diving escaped the first volley, and by the time they had again loaded he had gained such a distance that the shot spattered into the water on either side of him. They were afraid of firing again for fear of hitting some of the people on shore, besides which, darkness coming on, the gloom concealed him from view.

They knew, however, that he must have landed in safety from the cheers which came from off the quay, uttered by the crowd who had followed the press-gang, hooting them as they embarked with their captives.

Bill began to think that he could not be going to a very pleasant place, since, in spite of the risk he ran, the man had been so eager to escape; but being himself unable to swim, he could not follow his example, even had he wished it. He judged it wiser, therefore, to stay still, and see what would next happen. The boat pulled down the river for some way, till she got alongside a large cutter, up the side of which Bill and his companions were made to climb.

From what he heard, he found that she was a man-of-war tender, her business being to collect men, by hook or by crook, for the Royal Navy.

As she was now full—indeed, so crowded that no more men could be stowed on board—she got under way with the first of the ebb, and dropped down the stream, bound for Spithead.

As Bill, with most of the pressed men, was kept below during this his first trip to sea, he gained but little nautical experience. He was, however, very sick, while he arrived at the conclusion that the tender’s hold, the dark prison in which he found himself, was a most horrible place.

Several of his more heartless companions jeered at him in his misery; and, indeed, poor Bill, thin and pale, shoeless and hatless, clad in patched garments, looked a truly miserable object.

As the wind was fair, the voyage did not last long, and glad enough he was when the cutter got alongside the big frigate, and he with the rest being ordered on board, he could breathe the fresh air which blew across her decks.

Tom Fletcher, who stood next to Bill, had considerably the advantage of him in outward appearance. Tom was dressed in somewhat nautical fashion, though any sailor would have seen with half an eye that his costume had been got up by a shore-going tailor.

Tom had a good-natured but not very sensible-looking countenance. He was strongly built, was in good health, and had the making of a sailor in him, though this was the first time that he had even been on board a ship.

He had a short time before come off with a party of men returning on the expiration of their leave. Telling them that he wished to go to sea, he had been allowed to enter the boat. From the questions some of them had put to him, and the answers he gave, they suspected that he was a runaway, and such in fact was the case. Tom was the son of a solicitor in a country town, who had several other boys, he being the fourth, in the family.

He had for some time taken to reading the voyages of Drake, Cavendish, and Dampier, and the adventures of celebrated pirates, such as those of Captains Kidd, Lowther, Davis, Teach, as also the lives of some of England’s naval commanders, Sir Cloudesley Shovell, Benbow, and Admirals Hawke, Keppel, Rodney, and others, whose gallant actions he fully intended some day to imitate.

He had made vain endeavours to induce his father to let him go to sea, but Mr Fletcher, knowing that he was utterly ignorant of a sea life, set his wish down as a mere fancy which it would be folly to indulge.

Tom, instead of trying to show that he really was in earnest, took French leave one fine morning, and found his way to Portsmouth, without being traced. Had he waited, he would probably have been sent to sea as a midshipman, and placed on the quarter-deck. He now entered as a ship-boy before the mast.

Tom, as he had made his bed, had to lie on it, as is the case with many other persons. Even now, had he written home, he might have had his position changed, but he thought himself very clever, and had no intention of letting his father know where he had gone. The last of the trio was far more accustomed to salt water than was either of his companions. Jack Peek was the son of a West country fisherman. He had come to sea because he saw that there was little chance of getting bread to put into his mouth if he remained on shore.

Jack’s father had lost his boats and nets the previous winter, and had shortly afterwards been pressed on board a man-of-war.

Jack had done his best to support himself without being a burden to his mother, who sold fish in the neighbouring town and country round, and could do very well for herself; so when he proposed going on board a man-of-war, she, having mended his shirts, bought him a new pair of shoes, and gave him her blessing. Accordingly, doing up his spare clothes in a bundle, which he carried at the end of a stick, he trudged off with a stout heart, resolved to serve His Majesty and fight the battles of Old England.

Jack went on board the first man-of-war tender picking up hands he could find, and had been transferred that day to the Foxhound.

He told Tom and Bill thus much of his history. The former, however, was not very ready to be communicative as to his; while Bill’s patched garments said as much about him as he was just then willing to narrate. A boy who had spent all his life in the streets of London was not likely to say more to strangers than was necessary.

In the meantime the fresh hands had been called up before the first lieutenant, Mr Saltwell, and their names entered by the purser in the ship’s books, after the ordinary questions had been put to them to ascertain for what rating they were qualified.

Some few, including the smugglers, were entered as able seamen; others as ordinary seamen; and the larger number, who were unfit to go aloft, or indeed not likely to be of much use in any way for a long time to come, were rated as landsmen, and would have to do all the dirty work about the ship.

The boys were next called up, and each of them gave an account of himself.

Tom dreaded lest he should be asked any questions which he would be puzzled to answer.

The first lieutenant glanced at all three, and in spite of his old dress, entered Bill first, Jack next, and Tom, greatly to his surprise, the last. In those days no questions were asked where men or boys came from. At the present time, a boy who should thus appear on board a man-of-war would find himself in the wrong box, and be quickly sent on shore again, and home to his friends. None are allowed to enter the Navy until they have gone through a regular course of instruction in a training ship, and none are received on board her unless they can read and write well, and have a formally signed certificate that they have obtained permission from their parents or guardians.

Chapter Two.

Heaving up the anchor.

As soon as the boys’ names were entered, they were sent forward, under charge of the ship’s corporal, to obtain suits of sailor’s clothing from the purser’s steward, which clothing was charged to their respective accounts.

The ship’s corporal made them wash themselves before putting on their fresh gear; and when they appeared in it, with their hair nicely combed out, it was soon seen which of the three was likely to prove the smartest sea boy.

Bill, who had never had such neat clothing on before, felt himself a different being. Tom strutted about and tried to look big. Jack was not much changed, except that he had a round hat instead of a cap, clean clothes, and lighter shoes than the thick ones in which he had come on board.

As neither Tom nor Bill knew the stem from the stern of the ship, and even Jack felt very strange, they were handed over to the charge of Dick Brice, the biggest ship’s boy, with orders to him to instruct them in their respective duties.

Dick had great faith in a rope’s-end, having found it efficacious in his own case. He was fond of using it pretty frequently to enforce his instructions. Jack and Bill supposed that it was part of the regular discipline of the ship; but Tom had not bargained for such treatment, and informing Dick that he would not stand it, in consequence got a double allowance.

He dared not venture to complain to his superiors, for he saw the boatswain and the boatswain’s mate using their colts with similar freedom, and so he had just to grin and bear it.

At night, when the hammocks were piped down, the three went to theirs in the forepart of the ship. Bill thought he had never slept in a more comfortable bed in his life. Jack did not think much about the matter; but Tom, who had always been accustomed to a well-made bed at home, grumbled dreadfully when he tried to get into his, and tumbled out three or four times on the opposite side before he succeeded.

Had it not been for Dick Brice, who slung their hammocks for them, they would have had to sleep on the bare deck.

The next morning the gruff voice of the boatswain’s mate summoned all hands to turn out, and on going on deck they saw “Blue Peter” flying at the fore, while shortly afterwards the Jews and all other visitors were made to go down the side into the boats waiting for them. The captain came on board, the sails were loosed, and while the fife was setting up a merry tune, the seamen tramped round at the capstan bars, and the anchor was hove up.

The wind being from the eastward, in the course of a few minutes the gallant frigate, under all sail, was gliding down through the smooth waters of the Solent Sea towards the Needles.

Tom and Bill had something fresh to wonder at every minute. It dawned upon them by degrees that the forepart of the ship went first, and that the wheel, at which two hands were always stationed, had something to do with guiding her, and that the sails played an important part in driving her on.

Jack had a great advantage over them, as he knew all this, and many other things besides, and being a good-natured fellow, was always ready to impart his knowledge to them.

By the time they had been three or four weeks at sea, they had learned a great deal more, and were able to go aloft.

Bill had caught up to Jack, and had left Tom far behind. The same talent which had induced him to mend his ragged clothes, made him do, with rapidity and neatness, everything else he undertook, while he showed a peculiar knack of being quick at understanding and executing the orders he received.

Tom felt rather jealous that he should be surpassed by one he had at first looked down on as little better than a beggar boy.

It never entered into Jack’s head to trouble himself about the matter, and if Bill was his superior, that was no business of his.

There were a good many other people on board, who looked down on all three of them, considering that they were the youngest boys, and were at everybody’s beck and call.

As soon as the frigate got to sea the crew were exercised at their guns, and Jack, Tom, and Bill had to perform the duty of powder-monkeys. This consisted in bringing up the powder from the magazine in small tubs, on which they had to sit in a row on deck, to prevent the sparks getting in while the men were working the guns, and to hand out the powder as it was required.

“I don’t see any fun in firing away when there is no enemy in sight,” observed Tom, as he sat on his tub at a little distance from Bill.

“There may not be much fun in it, but it’s very necessary,” answered Bill. “If the men were not to practise at the guns, how could they fire away properly when we get alongside an enemy? See! some of the fresh hands don’t seem to know much what they are about, or the lieutenant would not be growling at them in the way he is doing. I am keeping my eye on the old hands to learn how they manage, and before long, I think, if I was big enough, I could stand to my gun as well as they do.”

Tom, who had not before thought of observing the crews of the guns, took the hint, and watched how each man was engaged.

By being constantly exercised, the crew in a few weeks were well able to work their guns; but hitherto they had fallen in with no enemy against whom to exhibit their prowess.

A bright look-out was kept from the mast-head from sunrise to sunset for a strange sail, and it was not probable that they would have to go long without falling in with one, for England had at that time pretty nearly all the world in arms against her. She had managed to quarrel with the Dutch, and was at war with the French and Spaniards, while she had lately been engaged in a vain attempt to overcome the American colonies, which had thrown off their allegiance to the British Crown.

Happily for the country, her navy was staunch, and many of the most gallant admirals whose names have been handed down to fame commanded her fleets; the captains, officers, and crews, down to the youngest ship-boys, tried to imitate their example, and enabled her in the unequal struggle to come off victorious.

The Foxhound had for some days been cruising in the Bay of Biscay, and was one morning about the latitude of Ferrol. The watch was employed in washing down decks, the men and boys paddling about with their trousers tucked up to their knees, some with buckets of water, which they were heaving about in every direction, now and then giving a shipmate, when the first lieutenant’s eye was off them, the benefit of a shower-bath: others were wielding huge swabs, slashing them down right and left, with loud thuds, and ill would it have fared with any incautious landsman who might have got within their reach. The men were laughing and joking with each other, and the occupation seemed to afford amusement to all employed.

Suddenly there came a shout from the look-out at the masthead of “Five sail in sight.”

“Where away?” asked Lieutenant Saltwell, who was on deck superintending the operations going forward.

“Dead to leeward, sir,” was the answer.

The wind was at the time blowing from the north-west, and the frigate was standing close hauled, on the starboard tack, to the westward.

The mate of the watch instantly went aloft, with his spy-glass hung at his back, to take a look at the strangers, while a midshipman was sent to inform Captain Waring, who, before many minutes had elapsed, made his appearance, having hurriedly slipped into his clothes.

On receiving the report of the young officer, who had returned on deck, he immediately ordered the helm to be put up, and the ship to be kept away in the direction of the strangers.

In a short time it was seen that most of them were large ships; one of them very considerably larger than the Foxhound.

The business of washing down the decks had been quickly concluded, and the crew were sent to their breakfasts.

Many remarks of various sorts were made by the men. Some thought that the captain would never dream of engaging so superior a force; while others, who knew him well, declared that whatever the odds, he would fight.

As yet no order had been received to beat to quarters, and many were of opinion that the captain would only stand on near enough to ascertain the character of the strangers, and then, should they prove enemies, make all sail away from them.

Still the frigate stood on, and Bill, who was near one of the officers who had a glass in his hand, heard him observe that one was a line-of-battle ship, two at least were frigates, while another was a corvette, and the fifth a large brig-of-war.

These were formidable odds, but still their plucky captain showed no inclination to escape from them, but, on the contrary, seemed as if he had made up his mind to bring them to action.

The question was ere long decided. The drum beat to quarters, the men went to their guns, powder and shot were handed up from below, giving ample occupation to the powder-monkeys, and the ship was headed towards the nearest of the strangers. She was still some distance off when the crew were summoned aft to hear what the captain had to say to them.

“My lads!” he said, “some of you have fought under me before now, and though the odds were against us, we licked the enemy. We have got somewhat greater odds, perhaps, at present, but I want to take two or three of those ships; they are not quite as powerful as they look, and if you will work your guns as I know you can work them, we’ll do it before many hours have passed. We have a fine breeze to help us, and will tackle one after the other. You’ll support me, I know.”

Three loud cheers were given as a response to this appeal, and the men went back to their guns, where they stood stripped to their waists, with handkerchiefs bound round their heads.

Notwithstanding the formidable array of the enemy, the frigate kept bearing down under plain sail towards them.

Our heroes, sitting on their tubs, could see but very little of what was going forward, though now and then they got a glimpse of the enemy through the ports; but they heard the remarks made by the men in their neighbourhood, who were allowed to talk till the time for action had arrived.

“Our skipper knows what he’s about, but that chap ahead of the rest is a monster, and looks big enough to tackle us without the help of the others,” observed one of the crew of the gun nearest to which Tom was seated.

“What’s the odds if she carries twice as many teeth as we have! we’ll work ours twice as fast, and beat her before the frigates can come up to grin at us,” answered Ned Green, the captain of the gun.

Tom did not quite like the remarks he heard. There was going to be a sharp fight, of that there could be no doubt, and round shot would soon be coming in through the sides, and taking off men’s heads and legs and arms. It struck him that he would have been safer at school. He thought of his father and mother, and brothers and sisters, who, if he was killed, would never know what had become of him; not that Tom was a coward, but it was somewhat trying to the courage even of older hands, thus standing on slowly towards the enemy. When the fighting had once begun, Tom was likely to prove as brave as anybody else; at all events, he would have no time for thinking, and it is that which tries most people.

The captain and most of the officers were on the quarter-deck, keeping their glasses on the enemy.

“The leading ship under French colours appears to me to carry sixty-four guns,” observed the first lieutenant to the captain; “and the next, also a Frenchmen, looks like a thirty-six gun frigate. The brig is American, and so is one of the sloops. The sternmost is French, and is a biggish ship.”

“Whatever they are, we’ll fight them, and, I hope, take one or two at least,” answered the captain.

He looked at his watch. It was just ten o’clock. The next moment the headmost ship opened her fire, and the shot came whizzing between the ship’s masts.

Captain Waring watched them as they flew through the air.

“I thought so,” he observed. “There were not more than fifteen; she’s a store-ship, and will be our prize before the day is over. Fire, my lads!” he shouted; and the eager crew poured a broadside into the enemy, rapidly running in their guns, and reloading them to be ready for the next opponent.

The Foxhound was standing along the enemy’s line to windward, and as she came abreast of each ship she fired with well-directed aim; and though all the enemy’s ships in succession discharged their guns at her, not a shot struck her hull, though their object evidently was to cripple her, so that they might surround her and have her at their mercy.

Tom, who had read about sea-fights, and had expected to have the shot come rushing across the deck, felt much more comfortable on discovering this, and began to look upon the Frenchmen as very bad gunners.

The Foxhound’s guns were all this time thundering away as fast as the crews could run them in and load them, the men warming to their work as they saw the damage they were inflicting on the enemy.

Having passed the enemy’s line to windward, Captain Waring ordered the ship to be put about, and bore down on the sternmost French ship, which, with one of smaller size carrying the American pennant, was in a short time so severely treated that they both bore up out of the line. The Foxhound, however, followed, and the other French ships and the American brig coming to the assistance of their consorts, the Foxhound had them on both sides of her.

This was just what her now thoroughly excited crew desired most, as they could discharge their two broadsides at the same time; and right gallantly did she fight her way through her numerous foes till she got up with the American ship, which had been endeavouring to escape before the wind, and now, to avoid the broadside which the English ship was about to pour into her, she hauled down her colours.

On seeing this, the frigate’s crew gave three hearty cheers; and as soon as they had ceased, the captain’s voice was heard ordering two boats away under the command of the third lieutenant, who was directed to take charge of the prize, and to send her crew on board the ship.

Not a moment was to be lost, as the rest of the enemy, under all sail, were endeavouring to make their escape.

The boats of the prize, which proved to be the Alexander, carrying twenty-four guns and upwards of a hundred men, were then lowered, and employed in conveying her crew to the ship.

The American captain and officers were inclined to grumble at first.

“Very sorry, gentlemen, to incommode you,” said the English lieutenant, as he hurried them down the side; “but necessity has no law; my orders are to send you all on board the frigate, as the captain is in a hurry to go in chase of your friends, of which we hope to have one or two more in our possession before long.”

The lieutenant altered his tone when the Americans began to grumble. “You must go at once, or take the consequences,” he exclaimed; and the prisoners saw that it would be wise to obey.

They were received very politely on board the ship, Captain Waring offering to accept their parole if they were ready to give it, and promise not to attempt to interfere with the discipline and regulations of the ship.

As soon as the prisoners were transferred to the Foxhound, she made all sail in chase of the large ship, which Captain Waring now heard was the sixty-four gun ship Mènager, laden with gunpowder, but now mounting on her maindeck twenty-six long twelve-pounders, and on her quarter-deck four long six-pounders, with a crew of two hundred and twenty men.

Her force was considerably greater than that of the English frigate, but Captain Waring did not for a moment hesitate to continue in pursuit of her. A stern chase, however, is a long chase. The day wore on, and still the French ship kept ahead of the Foxhound.

The crew were piped to dinner to obtain fresh strength for renewing the fight.

“Well, lads,” said Green, who was a bit of a wag in his way, as he looked at the powder-boys still seated on their tubs, “as you have still got your heads on your shoulders, you may put some food into your mouths. Maybe you won’t have another opportunity after we get up with the big ’un we are chasing. I told you, mates,” he added, turning to the crew of his gun, “the captain knew what he was about, and would make the Frenchmen haul down their flags before we hauled down ours. I should not be surprised if we got the whole lot of them.”

The boys, having returned their powder to the magazine till it was again wanted, were glad enough to stretch their legs, and still more to follow Green’s advice by swallowing the food which was served out to them.

The rest of the enemy’s squadron were still in sight, scattered here and there, and considerably ahead of the Mènager; the frigate was, however, gaining on the latter, and if the wind held, would certainly be up with her some time in the afternoon.

Every stitch of canvas she could carry was set on board the Foxhound.

It was already five o’clock. The crew had returned to their quarters, and the powder-monkeys were seated on their tubs. Both the pursuer and pursued were on the larboard tack, going free.

“We have her now within range of our guns,” cried Captain Waring. “Luff up, master, and we’ll give her a broadside.”

Just as he uttered the words a squall struck the frigate. Over she heeled, the water rushing in through her lower deck ports, which were unusually low, and washing over the deck.

The crews of the lee guns, as they stood up to their knees in water, fully believed that she was going over. In vain they endeavoured to run in their guns. More and more she heeled over, till the water was nearly up to their waists. None flinched, however. The guns must be got in, and the ports shut, or the ship would be lost.

“What’s going to happen?” cried Tom Fletcher. “We are going down! we are going down!”

Chapter Three.

Bill does good service.

The Foxhound appeared indeed to be in a perilous position. The water washed higher and higher over the deck. “We are going down! we are going down!” again cried Tom, wringing his hands.

“Not if we can help it,” said Jack. “We must get the ports closed, and stop the water from coming in.”

“It’s no use crying out till we are hurt. We can die but once,” said Bill. “Cheer up, Tom; if we do go to the bottom, it’s where many have gone before;” though Bill did not really think that the ship was sinking. Perhaps, had he done so, he would not have been so cool as he now appeared.

“That’s a very poor consolation,” answered Tom to his last remark. “Oh, dear! oh, dear! I wish that I had stayed on shore.”

Though there was some confusion among the landsmen, a few of whom began to look very white, if they did not actually wring their hands and cry out, the crews of the guns remained at their stations, and hauled away lustily at the tackles to run them in. The captain, though on the quarter-deck, was fully aware of the danger. There was no time to shorten sail.

“Port the helm!” he shouted; “hard a-port, square away the yards;” and in a few seconds the ship, put before the wind, rose to an even keel, the water, in a wave, rushing across the deck, some escaping through the opposite ports, though a considerable portion made its way below.

The starboard ports were now speedily closed, when once more the ship hauled up in chase.

The Foxhound, sailing well, soon got up again with the Mènager, and once more opened her fire, receiving that of the enemy in return.

The port of Ferrol could now be distinguished about six miles off, and it was thought probable that some Spanish men-of-war lying there might come out to the assistance of their friends. It was important to make the chase a prize before that should happen.

For some minutes Captain Waring reserved his fire, having set all the sail the Foxhound could carry.

“Don’t fire a shot till I tell you,” he shouted to his men.

The crews of the starboard guns stood ready for the order to discharge the whole broadside into the enemy. Captain Waring was on the point of issuing it, the word “Fire” was on his lips, when down came the Frenchman’s flag, and instead of the thunder of their guns the British seamen uttered three joyful cheers.

The Foxhound was hove-to to windward of the prize, while three of the boats were lowered and pulled towards her. The third lieutenant of the Foxhound was sent in command, and the Mènager’s boats being also lowered, her officers and crew were transferred as fast as possible on board their captor.

As the Mènager was a large ship, she required a good many people to man her, thus leaving the Foxhound with a greatly diminished crew.

It took upwards of an hour before the prisoners with their bags and other personal property were removed to the Foxhound. Captain Waring and Lieutenant Saltwell turned their eyes pretty often towards the harbour. No ships were seen coming out of it. The English frigate and her two prizes consequently steered in the direction the other vessels had gone, the captain hoping to pick up one or more of them during the following morning. Her diminished crew had enough to do in attending to their proper duties, and in looking after the prisoners.

The commanders of the two ships were received by the captain in his cabin, while the gun-room officers invited those of similar rank to mess with them, the men taking care of the French and American crews. The British seamen treated them rather as guests than prisoners, being ready to attend to their wants and to do them any service in their power. Their manner towards the Frenchmen showed the compassion they felt, mixed perhaps with a certain amount of contempt. They seemed to consider them indeed somewhat like big babes, and several might have been seen feeding the wounded and nursing them with tender care.

During the night neither the watch below nor any of the officers turned in, the greater number remaining on deck in the hopes that they might catch sight of one of the ships which had hitherto escaped them.

Note: This action and the subsequent events are described exactly as they occurred.

The American commander, Captain Gregory, sat in the cabin, looking somewhat sulky, presenting a great contrast to the behaviour of the Frenchman, Monsieur Saint Julien, who, being able to speak a little English, allowed his tongue to wag without cessation, laughing and joking, and trying to raise a smile on the countenance of his brother captive, the American skipper.

“Why! my friend, it is de fortune of war. Why you so sad?” exclaimed the volatile Frenchman. “Another day we take two English ship, and then make all right. Have you never been in England? Fine country, but not equal to ‘la belle France;’ too much fog and rain dere.”

“I don’t care for the rain, or the fog, Monsieur; but I don’t fancy losing my ship, when we five ought to have taken the Englishman,” replied the American.

“Ah! it was bad fortune, to be sure,” observed Monsieur Saint Julien. “Better luck next time, as you say; but what we cannot cure, dat we must endure; is not dat your proverb? Cheer up! cheer up! my friend.”

Nothing, however, the light-hearted Frenchman could say had the effect of raising the American’s spirits.

A handsome supper was placed on the table, to which Monsieur Saint Julien did ample justice, but Captain Gregory touched scarcely anything. At an early hour he excused himself, and retired to a berth which Captain Waring had courteously appropriated to his use.

During the night the wind shifted more to the westward, and then round to the south-west, blowing pretty strong. When morning broke, the look-outs discovered two sail to the south-east, which it was evident were some of the squadron that had escaped on the previous evening. They were, however, standing in towards the land.

Captain Waring, after consultation with his first lieutenant and master, determined to let them escape. He had already three hundred and forty prisoners on board, while his own crew amounted to only one hundred and ninety. Should he take another prize, he would have still further to diminish the number of the ship’s company, while that of the prisoners would be greatly increased. The French and American captains had come on deck, and were standing apart, watching the distant vessels.

“I hope these Englishmen will take one of those fellows,” observed Captain Gregory to Monsieur Saint Julien.

“Why so, my friend?” asked the latter.

“They deserve it, in the first place, and then it would be a question who gets command of this ship. We are pretty strong already, and if your people would prove staunch, we might turn the tables on our captors,” said the American.

“Comment!” exclaimed Captain Saint Julien, starting back. “You forget dat we did pledge our honour to behave peaceably, and not to interfere with the discipline of the ship. French officers are not accustomed to break their parole. You insult me by making the proposal, and I hope dat you are not in earnest.”

“Oh, no, my friend, I was only joking,” answered the American skipper, perceiving that he had gone too far.

Officers of the U.S. Navy, we may here remark, have as high a sense of honour as any English or French officer, but this ship was only a privateer, with a scratch crew, some of them renegade Englishmen, and the Captain was on a level with the lot.

The Frenchman looked at him sternly. “I will be no party to such a proceeding,” he observed.

“Oh, of course not, of course not, my friend,” said Captain Gregory, walking aside.

It being finally decided to allow the other French vessels to escape, the Foxhound’s yards were squared away, and a course shaped for Plymouth, with the two prizes in company.

Soon after noon the wind fell, and the ships made but little progress. The British crew had but a short time to sleep or rest, it being necessary to keep a number of men under arms to watch the prisoners.

The Frenchmen were placed on the lower deck, where they sat down by themselves; but the Americans mixed more freely with the English. As evening approached, however, they also drew off and congregated together. Two or three of their officers came among them.

Just before dusk Captain Gregory made his appearance, and was seen talking in low whispers to several of the men.

Among those who observed him was Bill Rayner. Bill’s wits were always sharp, and they had been still more sharpened since he came to sea by the new life he was leading. He had his eyes always about him to take in what he saw, and his ears open whenever there was anything worth hearing. It had struck him as a strange thing that so many prisoners should submit quietly to be kept in subjection by a mere handful of Englishmen. On seeing the American skipper talking to his men, he crept in unobserved among them. His ears being wide open, he overheard several words which dropped from their lips.

“Oh, oh!” he thought. “Is that the trick you’re after? You intend to take our ship, do you? You’ll not succeed if I have the power to prevent you.”

But how young Bill was to do that was the question. He had never even spoken to the boatswain or the boatswain’s mate. It seemed scarcely possible for him to venture to tell the first lieutenant or the captain; still, if the prisoners’ plot was to be defeated, he must inform them of what he had heard, and that without delay.

His first difficulty was how to get away from among the prisoners. Should they suspect him they would probably knock him on the head or strangle him, and trust to the chance of shoving him through one of the ports unobserved. This was possible in the crowded state of the ship, desperate as the act might seem.

Bill therefore had to wait till he could make his way on deck without being remarked. Pretending to drop asleep, he lay perfectly quiet for some time; then sitting up and rubbing his eyes, he staggered away forward, as if still drowsy, to make it be supposed that he was about to turn into his hammock. Finding that he was unobserved, he crept up by the fore-hatchway, where he found Dick, who was in the watch off deck.

At first he thought of consulting Dick, in whom he knew he could trust; but second thoughts, which are generally the best, made him resolve not to say anything to him, but to go at once to either the first lieutenant or the captain.

“If I go to Mr Saltwell, perhaps he will think I was dreaming, and tell me to ‘turn into my hammock and finish my dreams,’” he thought to himself. “No! I’ll go to the captain at once; perhaps the sentry will let me pass, or if not, I’ll get him to ask the captain to see me. He cannot eat me, that’s one comfort; if he thinks that I am bringing him a cock-and-bull story, he won’t punish me; and I shall at all events have done my duty.”

Bill thought this, and a good deal besides, as he made his way aft till he arrived at the door of the captain’s cabin, where the sentry was posted.

“Where are you going, boy?” asked the sentry, as Bill in his eagerness was trying to pass him.

“I want to see the captain,” said Bill.

“But does the captain want to see you?” asked the sentry.

“He has not sent for me; but he will when he hears what I have got to tell him,” replied Bill.

“You must speak to one of the lieutenants, or get the midshipman of the watch to take in your message, if he will do it,” said the sentry.

“But they may laugh at me, and not believe what I have got to say,” urged Bill. “Do let me pass,—the captain won’t blame you, I am sure of that.”

The sentry declared that it was his duty not to allow any one to pass.

While Bill was still pleading with him, the door of the inner cabin was opened, and the captain himself came out, prepared to go on deck.

“What do you want, boy?” he asked, seeing Bill.

“Please, sir, I have got something to tell you which you ought to know,” said Bill, pulling off his hat.

“Let me hear it then,” said the captain.

“Please, sir, it will take some time. You may have some questions to ask,” answered Bill.

On this the captain stepped back a few paces, out of earshot of the sentry.

“What is it, boy?” he asked; “you seem to have some matter of importance to communicate.”

Bill then told him how he came to be among the prisoners, and had heard the American captain and his men talking together, and proposing to get the Frenchmen to rise with them to overpower the British crew.

Captain Waring’s countenance showed that he felt very much disposed to disbelieve what Bill had told him, or rather, to fancy that Bill was mistaken.

“Stay there;” he said, and he went to the door of the cabin which he had allowed the American skipper to occupy.

The berth was empty! He came back and cross-questioned Bill further. Re-entering the inner cabin, he found the French captain seated at the table.

“Monsieur Saint Julien,” he said; “are you cognisant of the intention of the American captain to try and overpower my crew?”

“The proposal was made to me, I confess, but I refused to accede to it with indignation; and I did not suppose that Captain Gregory would make the attempt, or I should have informed you at once,” answered Saint Julien.

“He does intend to make it, though,” said Captain Waring, “and I depend on you and your officers to prevent your men from joining him.”

“I fear that we shall have lost our influence over our men, but we will stand by you should there be any outbreak,” said the French captain.

“I will trust you,” observed Captain Waring. “Go and speak to your officers while I take the steps necessary for our preservation.”

Captain Waring on this left the cabin, and going on deck, spoke to the first lieutenant and the midshipmen of the watch, who very speedily communicated the orders they had received to the other officers.

The lieutenant of marines quickly turned out his men, while the boatswain roused up the most trustworthy of the seamen. So quickly and silently all was done, that a strong body of officers and men well armed were collected on the quarter-deck before any of the prisoners were aware of what was going forward. They were awaiting the captain’s orders, when a loud report was heard. A thick volume of smoke ascended from below, and the next instant, with loud cries and shouts, a number of the prisoners were seen springing up the hatchway ladders.

Chapter Four.

The frigate blown up.

The Americans had been joined by a number of the Frenchmen, and some few of the worst characters of the English crew—the jail-birds chiefly, who had been won over with the idea that they would sail away to some beautiful island, of which they might take possession; and live in independence, or else rove over the ocean with freedom from all discipline.

They had armed themselves with billets of wood and handspikes; and some had got hold of knives and axes, which they had secreted. They rushed on deck expecting quickly to overpower the watch.

Great was their dismay to find themselves encountered by a strong body of armed men, who seized them, or knocked them down directly they appeared.

So quickly were the first overpowered that they had no time to give the alarm to their confederates below, and thus, as fresh numbers came up, they were treated like the first. In a couple of minutes the whole of the mutineers were overpowered.

The Frenchmen who had not actually joined them cried out for mercy, declaring that they had no intention of doing so.

What might have been the case had the Americans been successful was another matter.

All those who had taken part in the outbreak having been secured, Captain Waring sent a party of marines to search for the American captain. He was quickly found, and brought on the quarter-deck.

“You have broken your word of honour; you have instigated the crew to mutiny, and I should be justified were I to run you up to the yard-arm!” said Captain Waring, sternly.

“You would have done the same,” answered the American captain, boldly. “Such acts when successful have always been applauded.”

“Not, sir, if I had given my word of honour, as you did, not to interfere with the discipline of the ship,” said Captain Waring. “You are now under arrest, and, with those who supported you, will remain in irons till we reach England.”

Captain Gregory had not a word to say for himself. The French captain, far from pleading for him, expressed his satisfaction that he had been so treated.

He and the officers who had joined him were marched off under a guard to have their irons fixed on by the armourer.

After this it became necessary to keep a strict watch on all the prisoners, and especially on the Americans, a large proportion of whom were found to be English seamen, and some of the Foxhound’s crew recognised old shipmates among them.

Captain Waring, believing that he could trust to the French captain and his officers, allowed them to remain on their parole, a circumstance which greatly aggravated the feelings of Captain Gregory.

The captain had not forgotten Bill, who, by the timely information he had given, had materially contributed to preserve the ship from capture. Bill himself did not think that he had done anything wonderful; his chief anxiety was lest the fact of his having given the information should become known. The sentinel might guess at it, but otherwise the captain alone could know anything about it. Bill, as soon as he had told his story to the captain, and found that it was credited, stole away forward among the rest of the crew on deck, where he took very good care not to say a word of what had happened; so that not till the trustworthy men received orders to be prepared for an outbreak were they aware of what was likely to occur.

He therefore fancied that his secret had been kept, and that it would never be known; he was, consequently, surprised when the following morning the ship’s corporal, touching his shoulder, told him that the captain wanted to speak to him.

Bill went aft, feeling somewhat alarmed at the thoughts of being spoken to by the captain.

On the previous evening he had been excited by being impressed with the importance of the matter he was about to communicate, but now he had time to wonder what the captain would say to him.

He met Tom and Jack by the way.

“Where are you going?” asked Tom.

Bill told him.

“I shouldn’t wish to be in your shoes,” remarked Tom. “What have you been about?”

Bill could not stop to answer, but followed his conductor to the cabin door.

The sentry, without inquiry, admitted him.

The captain, who was seated at a table in the cabin, near which the first lieutenant was standing, received him with a kind look.

“What is your name, boy?” he asked.

“William Rayner, sir,” said Bill.

“Can you read and write pretty well?”

“No great hand at either, sir,” answered Bill. “Mother taught me when I was a little chap, but I have not had much chance of learning since then.”

“Should you like to improve yourself?” asked the captain.

“Yes, sir; but I have not books, or paper, or pens.”

“We’ll see about that,” said the captain. “The information you gave me last night was of the greatest importance, and I wish to find some means of rewarding you. When we reach England, I will make known your conduct to the proper authorities, and I should like to communicate with your parents.”

“Please, sir, I have no parents; they are both dead, and I have no relations that I know of; but I am much obliged to you, sir,” answered Bill, who kept wondering what the captain was driving at.

“Well, my boy, I will keep an eye on you,” said the captain. “Mr Saltwell, you will see what is best to be done with William Rayner,” he added, turning to the first lieutenant. “If you wish to learn to read and write, you can come and get instruction every day from my clerk, Mr Finch. I will give him directions to teach you; but remember you are not forced to do it.”

“Thank you, sir,” said Bill. “I should like to learn very much.”

After a few more words, the captain dismissed Bill, who felt greatly relieved when the formidable interview was over.

As he wisely kept secret the fact of his having given information of the mutiny, his messmates wondered what could have induced the captain so suddenly to take an interest in him.

Every day he went aft for his lesson, and Mr Finch, who was a good-natured young man, was very kind. Bill, who was remarkably quick, made great progress, and his instructor was much pleased with him.

He could soon read easily, and Mr Finch, by the captain’s orders, lent him several books.

The master’s assistant, calling him one day, told him that he had received orders from the captain to teach him navigation, and, greatly to his surprise, put a quadrant into his hands, and showed him how to use it.

Bill all this time had not an inkling of what the captain intended for him. It never occurred to him that the captain could have perceived any merits or qualifications sufficient to raise him out of his present position, but he was content to do his duty where he was.

Tom felt somewhat jealous of the favour Bill was receiving, though he pretended to pity him for having to go and learn lessons every day. Tom, indeed, knew a good deal more than Bill, as he had been at school, and could read very well, though he could not boast much of his writing.

Jack could neither read nor write, and had no great ambition to learn; but he was glad, as Bill seemed to like it, that he had the chance of picking up knowledge.

“Perhaps the captain intends to make you his clerk, or maybe some day you will become his coxswain,” observed Jack, whose ambition soared no higher. “I should like to be that, but I suppose that it is not necessary to be able to read, or write, or sum. I never could make any hand at those things, but you seem up to them, and so it’s all right that you should learn.”

Notwithstanding the mark of distinction Bill was receiving, the three young messmates remained very good friends.

Bill, however, found himself much better off than he had before been. That the captain patronised him was soon known to all, and few ventured to lay a rope’s-end on his back, as formerly, while he was well treated in other respects.

Bill kept his eyes open and his wits awake on all occasions, and thus rapidly picked up a good knowledge of seamanship, such as few boys of his age who had been so short a time at sea possessed.

The Foxhound and her prizes were slowly making their way to England. No enemy appeared to rob her of them, though they were detained by contrary winds for some time in the chops of the Channel.

At length the wind shifted a point or two, and they were able to get some way up it. The weather, however, became cloudy and dark, and no observation could be taken.

It was a trying time, for the provisions and water, in consequence of the number of souls on board, had run short.

The captain was doubly anxious to get into port; still, do all he could, but little progress was made, till one night the wind again shifted and the sky cleared. The master was aware that the ship was farther over to the French coast than was desirable, but her exact position it was difficult to determine.

The first streaks of sunlight had appeared in the eastern sky, when the look-out shouted—

“A ship to the southward, under all sail.”

As the sun rose, his rays fell on the white canvas of the stranger, which was now seen clearly, standing towards the Foxhound.

Captain Waring made a signal to the two prizes, which were somewhat to the northward, to make all sail for Plymouth, while the Foxhound, under more moderate canvas, stood off shore.

Should the stranger prove an enemy, of which there was little doubt, Captain Waring determined to try and draw her away from the French coast, which could be dimly seen in the distance. He, at the same time, did not wish to make an enemy suppose that he was flying. Though ready enough to fight, he would rather first have got rid of his prisoners, but that could not now be done.

It was necessary, therefore, to double the sentries over them, and to make them clearly understand that, should any of them attempt in any way to interfere, they would immediately be shot.

Jack, Tom, and Bill had seen the stranger in the distance, and they guessed that they should before long be engaged in a fierce fight with her. There was no doubt that she was French. She was coming up rapidly.

The captain now ordered the ship to be cleared for action. The men went readily to their guns. They did not ask whether a big or small ship was to be their opponent, but stood prepared to fight as long as the captain and officers ordered them, hoping, at all events, to beat the enemy.

The powder-monkeys, as before, having been sent down to bring up the ammunition, took their places on their tubs. Of course they could see but little of what was going forward, but through one of the ports they at last caught sight of the enemy, which appeared to be considerably larger than the Foxhound.

“We have been and caught a Tartar,” Bill heard one of the seamen observe.

“Maybe. But whether Turk or Tartar, we’ll beat him,” answered another.

An order was passed along the decks that not a gun should be fired till the captain gave the word. The boys had not forgotten their fight a few weeks before, and had an idea that this was to turn out something like that. Then the shot of the enemy had passed between the masts and the rigging; but scarcely one had struck the hull, nor had a man been hurt, so they had begun to fancy that fighting was a very bloodless affair.

“What shall we do with the prisoners, if we take her, I wonder?” asked Tom. “We’ve got Monsieurs enough on board already.”

“I daresay the captain will know what to do with them,” responded Bill.

“We must not count our chickens before they’re hatched,” said Jack. “Howsumdever, we’ll do our best.” Jack’s remark, which was heard by some of the crew of the gun near which he was seated, caused a laugh.

“What do you call your best, Jack?” asked Ned Green.

“Sitting on my tub, and handing out the powder as you want it,” answered Jack. “What more would you have me do, I should like to know?”

“Well said, Jack,” observed Green. “We’ll work our guns as fast as we can, and you’ll hand out the powder as we want it.”

The talking was cut short by the voices of the officers ordering the men to be ready for action.

The crews of the guns laid hold of the tackles, while the captains stood with the lanyards in their hands, waiting for the word of command, and ready at a moment’s notice to fire.

The big ship got nearer and nearer. She could now be seen through the ports on the starboard side.

“Well, but she’s a whopper!” exclaimed Ned Green, “though I hope we’ll whop her, notwithstanding. Now, boys, we’ll show the Monsieurs what we can do.”

Just then came the word along the decks—

“Fire!”

And the guns on the starboard side, with a loud roar, sent forth their missiles of death.

While the crew were running them in to re-load, the enemy fired in return; their shot came crashing against the sides, some sweeping the upper deck, others making their way through the ports.

The smoke from the guns curled round in thick eddies, through which objects could be but dimly seen.

The boys looked at each other. All of them were seated on their tubs, but they could see several forms stretched on the deck, some convulsively moving their limbs, others stilled in death.

This was likely to be a very different affair from the former action.

Having handed out the powder, Jack, Tom, and Bill returned to their places once more.

The Foxhound’s guns again thundered forth, and directly after there came the crashing sound of shot, rending the stout sides of the ship.

For several minutes the roar was incessant. Presently a cheer was heard from the deck.

One of the Frenchman’s masts had gone over the side; but before many minutes had elapsed, a crashing sound overhead showed that the Foxhound had been equally unfortunate.

Her foremast had been shot away by the board, carrying with it the bowsprit and maintopmast.

She was thus rendered almost unmanageable, but still her brave captain maintained the unequal contest.

The guns, as they could be brought to bear, were fired at the enemy with such effect that she was compelled to sheer off to repair damages.

On seeing this, the crew of the Foxhound gave another hearty cheer; but ere the sound had died away, down came the mainmast, followed by the mizenmast, and the frigate lay an almost helpless hulk on the water.

Captain Waring at once gave the order to clear the wreck, intending to get up jury-masts, so as to be in a condition to renew the combat should the French ship again attack them.

All hands were thus busily employed. The powder in the meantime was returned to the magazine, and the guns run in and secured.

The ship was in a critical condition.

The carpenters, before anything else could be done, had to stop the shot-holes between wind and water, through which the sea was pouring in several places.

It was possible that the prisoners might not resist the temptation, while the crew were engaged, to attempt retaking the ship.

The captain and officers redoubled their watchfulness. The crew went steadily about their work, as men who knew that their lives depended on their exertions. Even the stoutest-hearted, however, looked grave.

The weather was changing for the worse, and should the wind come from the northward, they would have a hard matter to escape being wrecked, even could they keep the ship afloat.

The enemy, too, was near at hand, and might at any moment bear down upon them, and recommence the action.

The first lieutenant, as he was coming along the deck, met Bill, who was trying to make himself useful in helping where he was wanted.

“Rayner,” said Mr Saltwell, “I want you to keep an eye on the prisoners, and report to the captain or me, should you see anything suspicious in their conduct—if they are talking together, or look as if they were waiting for a signal. I know I can trust you, my boy.”

Bill touched his hat.

“I will do my best, sir,” he answered; and he slipped down to where the prisoners were congregated.

They did not suspect that he had before informed the captain of their intended outbreak, or it would have fared but ill with him.

Whatever might have been their intentions, they seemed aware that they were carefully watched, and showed no inclination to create a disturbance.

The greatest efforts were now made to set up the jury-masts. The wind was increasing, and the sea rising every minute. The day also was drawing on, and matters were getting worse and worse; still Captain Waring and his staunch crew worked away undaunted. If they could once get up the jury-masts, a course might be steered either for the Isle of Wight or Plymouth. Sails had been got up from below; the masts were ready to raise, when there came a cry of, “The enemy is standing towards us!”

“We must beat her off, and then go to work again,” cried the captain.

A cheer was the response. The powder-magazine was again opened. The men flew to their guns, and prepared for the expected conflict.

The French ship soon began to fire, the English returning their salute with interest. The round shot, as before, whistled across the deck, killing and wounding several of the crew.

The sky became still more overcast; the lightning darted from the clouds; the thunder rattled, mocked by the roaring of the guns.

Bill saw his shipmates knocked over on every side; but, as soon as one of the crew of a gun was killed, another took his place, or the remainder worked the gun with as much rapidity as before.

The cockpit was soon full of wounded men. Though things were as bad as they could be, the captain had resolved not to yield.

The officers went about the decks encouraging the crew, assuring them that they would speedily beat off the enemy.

Every man, even the idlest, was doing his duty.

Jack, Tom, and Bill were doing theirs.

Suddenly a cry arose from below of “Fire! fire!” and the next moment thick wreaths of smoke ascended through the hatchways, increasing every instant in density.

The firemen were called away. Even at that awful moment the captain and officers maintained their calmness.

Now was the time to try what the men were made of. The greater number obeyed the orders they received. Buckets were handed up and filled with water to dash over the seat of the fire. Blankets were saturated and sent down below.

The enemy ceased firing, and endeavoured to haul off from the neighbourhood of the ill-fated ship. In spite of all the efforts made, the smoke increased, and flames came rushing up from below. Still, the crew laboured on; hope had not entirely abandoned them, when suddenly a loud roar was heard, the decks were torn up, and hundreds of men in one moment were launched into eternity.

Jack, Tom, and Bill had before this made their escape to the upper deck. They had been talking together, wondering what was next to happen, when Bill lost all consciousness; but in a few moments recovering his senses, found himself in the sea, clinging to a piece of wreck.

He heard voices, but could see no one. He called to Tom and Jack, fancying that they must be near him, but no answer came.

He must have been thrown, he knew, to some distance from the ship, for he could see the burning wreck, and the wind appeared to be driving him farther and farther away from it.

The guns as they became heated went off, and he could hear the shot splashing in the water around him.

“And Jack and Tom have been lost, poor fellows!” he thought to himself. “I wish they had been sent here. There’s room enough for them on this piece of wreck.

“We might have held out till to-morrow morning, when some vessel might have seen us and picked us up.”

Curiously enough, he did not think much about himself. Though he was thankful to have been saved, he guessed truly that the greater number of his shipmates, and the unfortunate prisoners on board, must have been lost; yet he regretted Jack and Tom more than all the rest.

The flames from the burning ship cast a bright glare far and wide over the ocean, tinging the foam-topped seas.

Bill kept gazing towards the ship. He could make out the Frenchman at some distance off, and fancied that he saw boats pulling across the tossing waters.

On the other side he could distinguish another vessel, which was also, he hoped, sending her boats to the relief of the sufferers.

The whole ship, however, appeared so completely enveloped in fire, the flames bursting out from all the ports and rising through every hatchway, that he could not suppose it possible any had escaped.

He found it a hard matter to cling on to the piece of wreck, for the seas were constantly washing over him. Happily it was weighted below, so that it remained tolerably steady. Had it rolled over and over he must inevitably have lost his hold and been drowned.

Though he had had very little of what is called enjoyment in life, and his prospects, as far as he could see, were none of the brightest, he still had no wish to die, and the instinct of self-preservation made him cling to the wreck with might and main.

The tide, which was setting towards the shore, had got hold of his raft, which was also driven by the wind in the same direction, and he found himself drifting gradually away from the burning ship, and his chance of being picked up by one of the boats diminishing.

He remembered that land had been in sight some time before the action, but how far the ship had been from it when she caught fire he could not tell, and when he turned his eyes to the southward he could see nothing of it.

Some hours had passed away, so it seemed to him, when, as he turned his eyes towards the ship, the flames appeared to rise up higher than ever. Her stout hull was a mass of fire fore and aft—she was burning down to the water’s edge. Then came the end—the wild waves washed over her, and all was dark.

“There goes the old ship,” thought Bill. “I wonder how many on board her a few hours ago are now alive. Shall I reach the shore to-morrow morning? I don’t see much chance of it, and if I don’t, how shall I ever live through another day?”

Chapter Five.

Picked up by a fishing-vessel.

After a time, Bill began to feel very hungry, and then he recollected that at dinner he had clapped a biscuit into his pocket. He felt for it. It was soaked through and through, and nearly turned into paste, but it served to stay his appetite, and to keep up his strength. At length he became somewhat drowsy, but he did his best to keep awake. Feeling about, he got hold of a piece of rope, with which he managed to secure himself to the raft. Had he found it before, it would have saved him much exertion.

The feeling that there was now less risk of being washed away, made him not so anxious as at first to withstand the strong desire which had attacked him, and yielding to it, his eyes closed, and he dropped off to sleep.

How long he had been in that state he could not tell, when he was aroused by the sound of human voices. Opening his eyes, he found that the sun was shining down upon him, and looking round, he saw a small vessel approaching. He soon made her out to be a fishing craft with five people on board.

They hailed him, but he was too weak to answer. He managed, however, to wave one of his hands to show that he was alive.

The fishing-vessel came on, and hove-to close to him. The sea had considerably gone down. A boat was launched from her deck, and pulled up to the raft, with two men in her.

They said something, but Bill could not understand them. One of them, as they got up alongside, sprang on to the raft, and casting off the lashings which held Bill to it, the next instant was safe in the boat with him in his arms.

The man having placed him in the stern-sheets, the boat quickly returned to the cutter.

Bill was lifted on board, and the boat was then hauled up again on the cutter’s deck. His preservers, though rough-looking men, uttered exclamations in kind tones which assured Bill that he had fallen into good hands. One of them then carried him down into the little cabin, and stripping off his wet clothes, placed him between the blankets in a berth on one side.

In a few minutes the same man, who appeared to be the captain of the fishing-vessel, returned with a cup of hot coffee and some white bread. Stirring the coffee and blowing to cool it, he made signs to Bill that he must drink some of it.

This Bill very gladly did, and he then felt able to eat some of the bread, which seemed very sweet and nice. This greatly restored his strength.

He wished, however, that he could answer the questions which the men put to him. He guessed that they were Frenchmen, but not a word of French did he know.

At last another man came into the cabin.

“You English boy?” asked the man.

“Yes,” said Bill.

“Ship burn; blow up?” was the next question put to Bill, the speaker showing what he meant by suitable action.

“Yes,” said Bill, “and I am afraid all my shipmates are lost. Though you are French, you won’t send me to prison, I hope?”

“Have no fear,” answered the man, smiling; and turning round to his companions, he explained what Bill had said. They smiled, and Bill heard them say, “Pauvre garçon.”

“No! no! no! You sleep now, we take care of you,” said the interpreter, whose knowledge of English was, however, somewhat limited.

Bill felt a strong inclination to follow the advice given him. One of the men, bundling up his wet clothes, carried them to dry at the little galley fire forward. The rest went on deck, and Bill in another minute fell fast asleep. Where the cutter was going Bill could not tell. He had known her to be a fishing-vessel by seeing the nets on deck, and he had guessed that she was French by the way in which the people on board had spoken. They had given evidence also that they intended to treat him kindly.

Some hours must have passed away when Bill again awoke, feeling very hungry. It was daylight, and he saw that his clothes were laid at the foot of his berth.

Finding that his strength had returned, he got up, and began dressing himself. He had just finished when he saw that there was some one in the opposite berth. “Perhaps the skipper was up all night, and has turned in,” thought Bill; but as he looked again, he saw that the head was certainly not that of a man, but the face was turned away from him.

His intention was to go on deck, to try and thank the French fishermen, as far as he was able, for saving his life, but before he did so curiosity prompted him to look again into the berth.

What was his surprise and joy to recognise the features of his shipmate, Jack Peek! His face was very pale, but he was breathing, which showed that he was alive. At all events, Bill thought that he would not awake him, eager as he was to know how he had been saved.

He went up on deck, hoping that the man who had spoken a few words of English might be able to tell him how Jack had been picked up. On reaching the deck he found that the vessel was close in with the land. She was towing a shattered gig, which Bill recognised as one of those belonging to the Foxhound. He at once conjectured that Jack had managed somehow or other to get into her.

As soon as he appeared, the Frenchmen began talking to him, forgetting that he was unable to understand them. As he made no reply, they recollected themselves, and began laughing at their own stupidity.

One of them shouted down the fore-hatchway, and presently the interpreter, as Bill called him, made his appearance.

“Glad see you. All right now?” he said, in a tone of interrogation.

“All right,” said Bill, “but I want you to tell me how you happened to find my shipmate Jack Peek;” and Bill pointed down into the cabin.

“He, friend! not broder! no! We find him in boat, but he not say how he got dere. Two oder men, but dey dead, so we heave dem overboard, and take boat in tow,” answered the man.

Jack himself was probably not likely to be able to give any more information than the Frenchman had done. Suddenly it struck his new friends that Bill might be hungry, and the interpreter said to him, “You want manger,” pointing to Bill’s mouth.

Bill understood him. “Yes, indeed I do; I am ready for anything you can give me,” he said.

The fire was lighted, while a pot was put to boil on it, and, greatly to Bill’s satisfaction, in a few minutes one of the men, who acted as cook, poured the contents into a huge basin which was placed on the deck, and smaller basins and wooden spoons were handed up from below.

One man remaining at the helm, the remainder sat down and ladled the soup into the smaller basins.

Bill eagerly held out his.

The mess, which consisted of fowl and pork and a variety of vegetables, smelt very tempting, and as soon as it was cool enough, Bill devoured it with a good appetite.

His friends asked him by signs if he would have any more.

“Thank you,” he answered, holding out his basin. “A spoonful or two; but we must not forget Jack Peek. When he awakes, he will be glad of some;” and he pointed into the cabin.

The Frenchmen understood him, and made signs that they would keep some for his friend, one of them patting him on the back and calling him “Bon garçon.”

Bill, after remaining some time on deck, again felt sleepy, and his head began to nod.

The Frenchmen, seeing this, told him to go below. He gladly followed their advice, and descending into the cabin, lay down, and was once more fast asleep.

The next time he awoke he found that the vessel was at anchor. He got up, and looked into Jack’s berth. Jack at that moment turned round, and opening his eyes, saw his shipmate.

“Why, Bill, is it you!” he exclaimed. “I am main glad to see you; but where are we?—how did I come here? I thought that I was in the captain’s gig with Tom Nokes and Dick Harbour. What has become of them? They were terribly hurt, poor fellows! though they managed to crawl on board the gig.”

Bill told him what he had learned from the Frenchman.

“They seem kind sort of fellows, and we have fallen into good hands,” he added; “but what they’re going to do with us is more than I can tell.”

Just then the captain of the fishing-vessel came below, and seeing that Jack was awake, he called out to one of the men to bring a basin of the soup which had been kept for him.

While he was swallowing it, a man brought him his clothes, which had been sent forward to dry. The captain then made signs to him to dress, as he intended taking them both on shore with him.

Bill helped Jack, who was somewhat weak, to get on his clothes. They then went on deck.

The vessel lay in a small harbour, protected by a reef of rocks from the sea. Near the shore were a number of cottages, and on one side of the harbour a line of cliffs running away to the eastward.

Several other small vessels and open boats lay at anchor around.

The captain, with the interpreter, whose name they found was Pierre, got into the boat, the latter telling the lads to come with them.

They did as they were directed, sitting down in the stern-sheets, while the captain and Pierre took the oars and pulled towards the shore.

It was now evening, and almost dark. They saw the lights shining in the windows of several of the cottages.

Pierre was a young man about nineteen or twenty, and, they fancied, must be the captain’s son. They were right, they found, in their conjectures.

Pierre made them understand, in his broken language, that he had some short time before been a prisoner in England, where he had been treated very kindly; but before he had time to learn much English, he had been exchanged.

This had made him anxious to show kindness to the young English lads.

“Come along,” said Pierre, as they reached the shore. “I show you my house, my mère, and my soeur. They take care of you; but mind! you not go out till dey tell you, or de gendarmes take you to prison perhaps. Do not speak now till we get into de house.”

Bill and Jack followed their guide while the old man rowed back to the vessel.

Pierre led them to a cottage a little distance from the shore, which appeared to be somewhat larger than those they had passed. He opened the door, telling them to come in with him, when he immediately again closed it.

A middle-aged woman and a young girl, in high white caps with flaps over the shoulders, were seated spinning. They started up on seeing the two young strangers, and began inquiring of Pierre who they were. His explanation soon satisfied them, and jumping up, Madame Turgot and Jeannette took their hands, and began pouring out in voluble language their welcomes.

“You say ‘Merci! merci!’” said Pierre, “which means ‘Thank you! thank you!’”

“Merci! merci!” said Jack and Bill.

It was the first word of French they learned, and, as Jack observed, came in very convenient.

What the mother and her daughter said they could not make out, but they understood well enough that the French women intended to be kind.

“You hungry?” asked Pierre.

“Very,” answered Jack.

Pierre said something to his mother and sister, who at once set about spreading a cloth and placing eatables on the table—bread and cheese, and pickled fish, and some salad.

“Merci! merci!” said Jack and Bill, as their hostess made signs to them to fall to. Pierre joined them, and in a short time Captain Turgot himself came in. He was as hospitably inclined as his wife and daughter, and kept pressing the food upon the boys.

“Merci! merci!” was their answer.

At last Jeannette began to laugh, as if she thought it a good joke.

Jack and Bill tried hard to understand what was said. Pierre observed them listening, and did his best to explain.

From him they learned that they must remain quiet in the house, or they might be carried away as prisoners of war. He and his father wished to save them from this, and intended, if they had the opportunity, enabling them to get back to England.

“But how will you manage that?” asked Bill.

Pierre looked very knowing, and gave them to understand that smuggling vessels occasionally came into the harbour, and that they might easily get on board one of them, and reach the English coast.

“But we do not wish to get rid of you,” said Pierre. “If you like to remain with us, you shall learn French, and become French boys; and you can then go out and help us fish, and gain your livelihood.”

Pierre did not say this in as many words, but Jack and Bill agreed that such was his meaning.

“He’s very kind,” observed Bill; “but for my part, I should not wish to become a French boy; though I would not mind remaining for a while with the French dame and her daughter, for they’re both very kind, and we shall have a happy time of it.”

This was said a day or two after their arrival.

Captain Turgot had fitted them up a couple of bunks in a small room in which Pierre slept, and they were both far more comfortable than they had ever been in their lives.

Captain Turgot’s cottage was far superior to that of Jack’s father; and as for Bill, he had never before slept in so soft a bed. They had to remain in the house, however, all day; but Captain Turgot or Pierre took them out in the evening, when they could not be observed, to stretch their legs and get a little fresh air.

They tried to make themselves useful by helping Madame Turgot, and they rapidly picked up from her and her daughter a good amount of French, so that in a short time they were able to converse, though in a curious fashion, it must be owned.

They soon got over their bashfulness, and asked the name of everything they saw, which Jeannette was always ready to tell them. Their attempts at talking French afforded her vast amusement.

Though kindly treated, they at length got tired of being shut up in the house, and were very well pleased when one day Captain Turgot brought them each a suit of clothes, and told them that he was going away to fish, and would take them with him.

Next morning they went on board the cutter, and sail being soon afterwards made, she stood out of the harbour.

Chapter Six.

Taken prisoners.

Jack and Bill made themselves very useful in hauling the nets, and cleaning the fish when caught. Jack was well up to the work, and showed Bill how to do it. Captain Turgot was highly pleased, and called them “bons garçons,” and said he hoped that they would remain with him till the war was over, and as much longer as they liked. When the cutter returned into the harbour to land her fish, Jack and Bill were sent below, so that the authorities might not see them and carry them off. Captain Turgot was much afraid of losing them. They were getting on famously with their French, and Bill could chatter away already at a great rate, though not in very good French, to be sure, for he made a number of blunders, which afforded constant amusement to his companions, but Pierre was always ready to set him right.

Jack made much slower progress. He could not, he said, twist his tongue about sufficiently to get out the words, even when he remembered them. Some, he found, were wonderfully like English, and those he recollected the best, though, to be sure, they had different meanings. One day the cutter had stood out farther from the shore than usual, her nets being down, when, at daybreak, a strange sail was seen in the offing. The captain, after taking one look at her, was convinced that she was an enemy.

“Quick! quick! my sons,” he shouted: “we must haul the nets and make sail, or we shall be caught by the English. They are brave people, but I have no wish to see the inside of one of their prisons.”

All hands worked away as if their lives depended on their exertions. Jack and Bill lent a hand as usual. They scarcely knew what to wish. Should the stranger prove to be an English ship, and come up with them, they would be restored to liberty; but, at the same time, they would feel very sorry that their kind friends should lose their vessel and be made prisoners; still, Jack wanted to let his mother know that he was alive, and Bill wished to be on board a man-of-war again, fighting for Old England, and getting a foot or two up the ratlines.

His ambition had been aroused by what the captain had said to him, and the assistant master had observed, though he had spoken in joke, that he might, some day or other, become an admiral.

Bill had thought the subject over and over, till he began to fancy that, could he get another chance, the road to fame might be open to him. The loss of the ship with the captain and officers seemed, to be sure, to have overthrown all his hopes; but what had happened once might happen again, and by attending to his duty, and keeping his eyes open, and his wits awake, he might have another opportunity of distinguishing himself.

No one could possibly have suspected what was passing in Bill’s mind, as he worked away as energetically as the rest in stowing the nets and making sail.

The stranger was now made out to a certainty to be an English frigate, and a fast one, too, by the way she slipped through the water.

The wind was from the south-east, and being thus partially off shore, would enable the frigate to stand in closer to the land than she otherwise might have ventured to do. This greatly diminished the chances of the cutter’s escape.

Captain Turgot, however, like a brave man, did not tear his hair, or stamp, or swear, as Frenchmen are sometimes supposed to do, but, taking the helm, set every sail his craft could carry, and did his best, by careful steering, to keep to windward of the enemy.

Could he once get into harbour he would be safe, unless the frigate should send her boats in to cut his vessel out. The cutter possessed a couple of long sweeps. Should it fall calm, they would be of use; but at present the breeze was too strong to render them necessary.

The crew kept looking astern to watch the progress made by their pursuer, which was evidently coming up with them. What chance, indeed, had a little fishing craft with a dashing frigate?

An idea occurred to Jack which had not struck Bill.

“Suppose we are taken—and it looks to me as if we shall be before long—what will they say on board the frigate when they find us rigged out in fisherman’s clothes? They will be thinking we are deserters, and will be hanging us up at the yard-arm.”

“I hope it won’t go so hard as that with us,” answered Bill. “We can tell them that the Frenchmen took away our clothes, and rigged us out in these, and we could not help ourselves.”

“But will they believe us?” asked Jack.

On that point Bill acknowledged that there was some doubt; either way, he would be very sorry for Captain Turgot. One thing could be said, that neither their fears nor wishes would prevent the frigate from capturing the cutter. They looked upon that as a settled matter. As long, however, as there was a possibility of escaping, Captain Turgot resolved to persevere.

Matters began to look serious, when a flash and wreath of smoke was seen to issue from one of the bow guns of the frigate, and a shot came jumping over the water towards them. It did not reach them, however.

“You must get nearer, monsieur, before you hurt us,” said the captain, as he watched the shot fall into the water.

Shortly afterwards another followed. It came close up to the cutter; but a miss is as good as a mile, and the little vessel was none the worse for it.

Another shot, however, might produce a very different result.

“I say, Bill, I don’t quite like the look of things,” observed Jack. “Our skipper had better give in, or one of those shot will be coming aboard us, and carrying somebody’s head off.”

“He doesn’t look as if he had any thoughts of the sort,” said Bill; “and as long as there is any chance of keeping ahead, he’ll stand on.”

Soon after Bill had made this remark, another shot was fired from the frigate, and passed alongside the cutter, falling some way ahead.

Had it been better aimed, the effect might have been somewhat disastrous. Still Captain Turgot kept at the helm.

Some of the crew, however, began to cry out, and begged him to heave to. He pointed to the shore.

“Do you want to see your wives and families again?” he asked. “Look there! How smooth the water is ahead. The wind is falling, and the frigate will soon be becalmed. She’ll not think it worth while to send her boats after us. Come! out with the sweeps, and we shall soon draw out of shot of her. Look there! now her topsails are already flapping against the masts. Be of good courage, my sons!”

Thus incited, the crew got out the sweeps.

Jack and Bill helped them with as much apparent good-will as if they had had no wish to be on board the frigate.

The little vessel felt the effects of the powerful sweeps, and, in spite of the calm, continued to move ahead.

Again and again the frigate fired at her, but she was a small object, and each shot missed.

This encouraged the French crew, whose spirits rose as they saw their chance of escaping increase.

Farther and farther they got from the frigate, which, with the uncertainty from what quarter the wind would next blow, was afraid of standing closer in shore.

By nightfall the cutter, by dint of hard rowing, had got safe into harbour.

When Dame Turgot and Jeannette heard what had occurred, they expressed their delight at seeing their young friends back.

“We must not let you go to sea again, for it would be a sad thing to hear that you had been captured and shot for being deserters,” said Jeannette.

She had the same idea which had occurred to Jack.

The English frigates were at this time so frequently seen off the coast, that Captain Turgot, who had several boats as well as the cutter, thought it prudent to confine his operations to inshore fishing, so as not to run the risk of being captured.

Jack and Bill sometimes went out with him, but, for some reason or other, he more generally left them at home.

Pierre, who was a good swimmer, induced them to come down and bathe with him in the morning, and gave them instruction in the art.

Jack could already swim a little. Bill took to it at once, and beat him hollow; in a short time being able to perform all sorts of evolutions. He was soon so perfectly at home in the water, that he declared he felt able to swim across the Channel, if he could carry some food with him to support himself on the way.

Jack laughed at the idea, observing that “nobody ever had swum across the Channel, and he did not believe that anybody ever would do so.”

Pierre advised Bill not to make the attempt.

“No fear,” said Jack. “He’ll not go without me, and I am not going to drown myself if I can help it.”

Bill, however, often thought over the matter, and tried to devise some plan by which he and Jack might manage to get across. His plans came to nothing; and, indeed, the Channel where they were was much too wide to be crossed except in a small vessel or in a large boat. Jack was beginning to speak French pretty well, and Bill was able to gabble away with considerable fluency, greatly to the delight of Jeannette, who was his usual instructress. He tried to teach her a little English in return, but she laughed at her own attempts, and declared that she should never be able to pronounce so break-jaw a language.

Bill thought that she got on very well, but she seemed more anxious to teach him French than to learn English herself.

Several weeks more passed by. Well treated as they were, still the boys had a longing to return to England, though the opportunity of doing so appeared as far off as ever.

They were in the house one afternoon, laughing and joking merrily with Jeannette, while Dame Turgot was away at the neighbouring town to market, when the door opened, and she entered, with a look of alarm on her countenance.

“Quick, quick, come here!” she said; and seizing them both by the arms, she dragged them into the little inner room.

“Pull off your clothes and jump into bed!” she exclaimed. “Whatever you hear, don’t move or speak, but pretend to be fast asleep.”

They obeyed her; and snatching up their jackets and trousers, she hurried from the room, locking the door behind her.

She had just time to tumble their clothes into a chest, when a loud knocking was heard at the door. She opened it, and several soldiers, under the command of a sergeant, entered.

The boys guessed who they were by their voices, and the noise they made when grounding their muskets.

“Well, messieurs,” said Dame Turgot, with perfect composure, “and what do you want here?”

“We come in search of prisoners. It is reported that you have some concealed in your house,” said the sergeant.

“Ma foi! that is a good joke! I conceal prisoners indeed!” exclaimed the dame, laughing. “Pray who are these notable prisoners?”

“That’s for you to say. We only know that you have prisoners,” answered the sergeant.

“Then, if you will have it so, one may possibly be a general, and the other an admiral, and the sooner they are lodged in the Bastille, the better for the safety of France,” answered the dame, laughing. “I am a loyal Frenchwoman, and can cry ‘Vive le Roi!’ ‘Vive la France!’ with all my heart.”

Jack and Bill, who had quaked at the thoughts of being made prisoners by the soldiers, now began to have better hope of escaping.

The sergeant, however, was not to be deceived by Dame Turgot’s manner.

“Come, come, I must search your house, notwithstanding. For that purpose I was sent, and I must perform my duty,” he said; and he hunted round the room.

“Now let us look into your room;” and the soldiers, entering, began poking about with their bayonets, running them under the bed, and through the bedding, in a way likely to kill anybody concealed.

Jeannette’s little room was visited and treated in the same manner.

“And what’s this room?” asked the sergeant, pointing to the boys’ room.

“That? That is a closet,” answered the dame; “or if you like it, the general and admiral are both there fast asleep, but I am unwilling to disturb them.”

She said this in a laughing tone, as if she were joking.

“Well, open the door,” said the sergeant, not expecting to find anybody.

“But I tell you the door is locked. Who has got the key, I wonder?” said the dame.

“Come, come, unlock the door, or we must force it open,” said the sergeant, making as if he was about to prise it open with his bayonet.

On this the dame pulled the key out of her pocket, and opening the door, exclaimed—

“There in one bed you will find the general, and in the other the admiral; or, without joking, they are two poor boys whom my good man picked up at sea, and already they are more French than English.”

The sergeant, looking into the beds, discovered the boys.

“Come, get up, mes garçons,” he said; “you must come with me, whoever you are, and give an account of yourselves.”

Neither of the boys made any reply, deeming it wiser to keep silence.

“Come along,” he said; and he dragged first one, and then the other, out of bed.

“Bring the boys’ clothes,” he added, turning to the dame, who quickly brought their original suits.

They soon dressed themselves, hanging their knives round their necks.

“I told you the truth. You see who and what they are!” exclaimed the dame.

Jeannette, too, pleaded eloquently on their behalf, but the sergeant was unmoved.

“All you say may be right, but I must take them,” he answered. “Come—quick march!”

He allowed them, however, to take an affectionate farewell of the dame and Jeannette, the latter bursting into tears as she saw them dragged off by the soldiers.

Chapter Seven.

Shut up in a tower.

Jack and Bill marched along in the middle of the party of soldiers, endeavouring, as well as they could, to keep up their spirits, and to appear unconcerned. Where they were going they could not tell.

“Jack,” whispered Bill, “don’t let these fellows know that we understand French. We may learn something from what they say to each other; and they are not likely to tell us the truth, if we were to ask them questions.”

“Trust me for that,” answered Jack. “One might suppose, from the way they treat us, that they take us for desperate fellows, who would make nothing of knocking them down right and left, if it were not for their muskets and bayonets.”

“All right,” responded Bill; “we’ll keep our wits awake, and maybe we shall find an opportunity of getting away.”

“I am ready for anything you propose,” said Jack. “We might have found it more easy to make our escape if Madame Turgot had brought us back our French toggery; but still, for my part, I feel more comfortable-like in my own clothes.”

“So do I,” said Bill. “Somehow I fancy that I am more up to work dressed as an English sailor than I should be as a French boy. I only hope our friends will not get into any scrape for having concealed us. They are wonderfully kind people, and I shall always be ready to do a good turn to a Frenchman for their sakes.”

“So shall I after I’ve thrashed him,” said Jack. “If the French will go to war with us, they must take the consequences.”

The soldiers did not interfere with the lads, but allowed them to talk on to each other as much as they liked. The road they followed led them to the eastward, as far as they could judge, at no great distance from the shore.

After marching about a couple of miles, they reached a small town, or village rather, the houses being scattered along the shores of another bay much larger than the one they had left. A river of some size ran into the bay, and on a point of land near the mouth, on a height, stood an old tower, which had been built, apparently, for the purpose of guarding the entrance.

It was in a somewhat dilapidated condition, and seemed now very unfit for its original object, for a few round shot would have speedily knocked it to pieces. It might, however, afford shelter to a small body of infantry, who could fire from the loopholes in its walls down on any boats, attempting to ascend the river.

“I wonder if they are going to shut us up there!” said Jack, as the sergeant led the party in the direction of the tower.

“No doubt about it,” replied Bill; “but it doesn’t seem to be a very terrible place; and, by the look of the walls, I have a notion that I could climb to the top, or make my way down them, without the slightest difficulty.”

They had time to make their observations before they reached the entrance gate.

A small guard of soldiers were stationed in the tower, to whose charge the prisoners were handed over.

The officer commanding the party was a gruff old fellow, who seemed to have no feeling of compassion for his young prisoners.

After putting various questions to the sergeant who had brought them, he made signs to them to accompany him to the top of the building, and led the way, attended by two soldiers who followed close behind, up a flight of exceedingly rickety stairs, which creaked and groaned as they ascended.

On reaching the top the officer opened a door, which led into a small room, the highest apparently in the building; he then signed to the boys to go in, and without saying a word closed the door and locked it. They soon afterwards heard him and his men descending the stairs.

“Here we are,” said Jack. “I wonder what’s going to happen next!”

“Why, if they leave us here long enough, the next thing that will happen will be that we’ll make our way out again,” replied Bill. “Look at those windows! Though they are not very big, they are large enough for us to squeeze through, or it may be more convenient to make our way out by the roof. I can see daylight through one or two places, which shows that the tiles are not very securely fastened on.”

“And if we do get out, where shall we go?” asked Jack.

“It won’t do to return to the Turgots; we might be getting them into trouble. We must make our way down to the sea shore, and then travel on till we can reach some port or other, and when there try to get on board a smuggling lugger, as Captain Turgot at first proposed we should do,” replied Bill.

“It may be a hard job to do that,” said Jack; “and I should say it would be easier to run off with a boat or some small craft which we two could handle, and make our way in her across Channel. I know where to find the polar star. I have often been out at night when father steered by it, and we should be sure, some time or other, to make the English coast.”

“I should not like to run away with a poor man’s vessel. What would he say in the morning when he found his craft gone?” observed Bill. “It would be taking what is not ours to take. I never did and never would do that.”

Jack argued the point.

“The French are enemies of the English,” he said, “and therefore Englishmen have a perfect right to best them either afloat or on shore.”

Bill said he would consider the subject, and in the meantime they made a further survey of their prison. It could not be called luxuriantly furnished, considering that there was only a bench of no great width running along the side of one of the walls, and the remains of a table. One of the legs had gone, and part of the top, and it was propped up by a couple of empty casks.

There were neither bedsteads nor bedding of any description, but the bench was of sufficient length to allow both the boys to lie down on it.

The sun was on the point of setting when they reached the tower, and darkness soon stole on them.

“I wonder whether they intend to give us any supper,” said Jack, “or do they expect us to live on air?”

“I can hold out till to-morrow morning, but I should be thankful if they would bring us up something to-night; and we should be the better able to make our escape, if we have the opportunity,” observed Bill.

“Then I propose that we make a tremendous row, and that will bring some one up to sea what’s the matter. We can then point to our mouths to show that we are hungry, and perhaps they will take compassion on us,” said Jack.

Bill agreeing to Jack’s proposal, they began jumping and stamping about the room, and singing at the top of their voices, in a way which could scarcely fail to be heard by the men in the guard-room below.

They were in a short time convinced that their proceedings had produced the desired effect; for when they ceased to make the noise, they heard the heavy step of a man ascending the creaking stairs. It had not occurred to them that he might possibly come with a thick stick in his hand, to thrash them for making a row. The idea, however, flashed across Jack’s mind by the time the man was half-way up.

“We may get more kicks than ha’pence for what we’ve been doing,” he observed; “however, it cannot be helped; we must put a good face on the matter, and let him fancy that it is the way English boys have of showing when they are hungry. If he does not make out what we mean, we’ll say, ‘manger, manger,’ and he’ll then know what we want.”

Bill laughed. He was not much afraid of a beating. He reminded Jack that he must not say anything more than he proposed, or the Frenchmen might find out that they understood their language.

The man came slowly up the steps, which creaked and groaned louder and louder.

“I’ll tell you what,” said Bill. “If those steps are as rotten as they appear to be, we might pull some of them up, and so prevent the guard from reaching this room, and finding out that we have made our escape.”

“We should have to get the door open first,” observed Jack, “and that would be no easy matter.”

“More easy than you may suppose,” said Bill. “I’ll try and shove something into the catch of the lock while the Frenchman is in the room.”

Just then the door opened, and a soldier entered, with a lantern in one hand, and, as Jack expected, a stick in the other. It was not, however, a very thick one, and Jack thought, as he eyed it, that its blows, though they might hurt, would not break any bones; however, neither he nor Bill had any intention of being thrashed if they could help it.

The soldier began at once to inquire, in an angry tone, why they had made so much noise.

They pretended not to understand him; but as he lifted his stick to strike at them, they ran round the room, Jack shouting “Manger! manger!” and pointing to his mouth.

He could easily manage to keep out of the Frenchman’s reach, but at last he allowed himself to be caught for a minute at the farther end of the room, thus giving Bill time to reach the door.

Bill made good use of the opportunity, while the Frenchman’s back was turned, to carry out his intention.

“All right,” he cried out; and as soon as Jack heard him, he skipped out of the Frenchman’s way, as he had no wish to receive more blows than he could avoid. The soldier, on seeing Bill, attacked him next, but he easily evaded most of the blows aimed at him, till the soldier grew weary of the chase.

“Manger! manger!” cried both the boys at once, in various tones, sometimes imploring, at others expostulating, and then as if they were excited by anger and indignation that they should be so treated.

The soldier understood them clearly enough, and probably thought to himself that unless he could bring some food to keep the young prisoners quiet, he might have frequent trips to make to the top of the tower.

“Ma foi! I suppose that you have had nothing to eat for some hours,” he observed, in French. “I’ll see what I can get for you; but remember, you must be quiet, or you will be left to starve.”

They were well pleased to hear this; but still pretending not to understand him, they continued crying out, “Manger! manger!”

At last the soldier took his departure, locking the door, as he supposed, behind him.

As soon as they knew, by the sounds he made descending the steps, that he had got some distance down, the boys ran to the door, and, to their satisfaction, found that they could easily open it, though it appeared to be securely locked.

From the remarks the Frenchman had made, they had some hopes that he would bring them food; they therefore lay down on the bench to await his return.

Greatly to their satisfaction, in a short time they again heard a step on the stair, and the soldier who had before paid them a visit entered, carrying a basket with some bread and cheese, dried figs, and some wine in a bottle. He also brought up a piece of candle, and a lump of wood with a spike in it, which served as a candlestick.

He placed these on the table with the contents of the basket.

“There,” he said, “eat away; you may have a long march to-morrow, and if you haven’t strength we may have to carry you.”

The boys pretended not to understand him; but both exclaimed, as they saw the viands, “Merci! merci!” and put out their hands to shake that of the soldier, who seemed, while performing a kind action, to be in much better humour than before.

“Mangez! mes braves garçons,” he remarked. “What is over you can have for breakfast to-morrow morning, as maybe you’ll get nothing else brought you.”

“Merci! merci!” answered Jack and Bill, as they escorted the soldier to the door, letting him suppose that these were the only two words they understood.

As soon as he had turned the key in the door, they hurried to the table, and eagerly devoured some of the bread and cheese.

“It’s fortunate we’ve got so large a stock of food,” said Bill; “there’s enough here, if we are careful of it, for a couple of days.”

There was in the bottle but a small allowance of wine, which was excessively sour; but it served to quench their thirst, though they agreed that they would much rather have had fresh water.

Having finished their supper, they divided the remainder of the food into two portions, which they stowed away in their pockets. They then waited till they had reason to suppose, from hearing no noise ascending the stairs, that the soldiers in the guard-room had gone to sleep.

Having cautiously opened the door, they next examined the steps, and found that they could wrench up those of the upper part of the flight without making much noise. They had to be quick about it, as their candle would soon burn out.

First, having closed the door, they got up seven of the steps, beginning at the uppermost one, till they formed a gap which it would be impossible for a man to spring over. The boards they carried down as they descended, when they found themselves in another storey, the whole of which was occupied by one large room without doors, the reason, of course, why it had not been made their prison.

Their candle had now nearly burned out. Having hung their shoes round their necks, they were able to step softly. Hunting about, they discovered an empty space under the stairs, in which they stowed the pieces of wood.

“Perhaps we might get down by the stairs,” whispered Jack.

“The chances are that we should find a door to stop us at the bottom,” returned Bill. “We must try to get down the outside. The walls are so full of holes that we might manage it, and I am ready to go first and try.”

The question was, on which side should they attempt to make their descent? On looking through the narrow windows, they observed a gleam of light coming out below them on one side; probably that was from the guard-room, and they accordingly fixed on the opposite side, where all was dark. They ran no little chance of breaking their necks, but about that they did not trouble themselves. If a cat could get up, they believed that they could get down, by clinging with toes and fingers, and teeth, if necessary, to the wall.

They, however, made the fullest examination in their power to ascertain the best spot for their descent; they looked out of every window in succession, but at last arrived at the conclusion that the attempt to scramble down a perpendicular wall was too hazardous to be made. They now began to fear that their enterprise must be abandoned, and that they should be compelled to make their way first to a lower storey, which, for what they could tell, might be inhabited; or else that they must descend the creaking stairs, and run a still greater chance of being discovered.

“Here’s another window,” said Bill; “let’s look through that.”

He climbed up to it, and gazed out. Great was his satisfaction to perceive the top of a massive wall a few feet below him. The tower had been a portion of an old castle, and the end of this wall was a mass of ruins, but quite thick enough to enable them to scramble along the top of it, and Bill had no doubt that they thence could easily descend to, the level ground.

Chapter Eight.

The escape—Concealed in a cavern.

Bill drew his head in from the window, and beckoned to Jack, who followed him up; and as there was no time to be lost, he at once dropped down on to the top of the wall. Jack came next, fortunately without dislodging any stones, which might have rattled down and betrayed their proceedings. Bill leading, they made their way on hands and knees along the top of the wall, which, being fringed in most places with bushes, contributed to conceal them from any passers-by. They had to move cautiously for the reason before given, and also to avoid the risk of falling down any gap in the wall which time might have produced.

As Bill had expected, the further end of the wall was broken gradually away, forming an easy descent. Down this they climbed, feeling their way with their feet, and not letting go of one mass of ruin till they had found a foothold on a lower. Thus they at length had the satisfaction of standing on the firm ground outside the walls.

They had now to consider in which direction they should direct their flight.

The river was on one side of them, and though they might swim across they would run the risk of being discovered while so doing. They finally decided to make for the sea shore, to the westward of the bay, and to lie hid among the rocks till the search for them should be given up.

They accordingly stole round the building, keeping on the side away from the guard-room, till they got into a lane which led at the back of the village down towards the shore. If they could once get there they hoped to be safe.

Few lights in the village were burning, as the inhabitants retired early to bed; but two or three still twinkled from some cottages at the farther end. Possibly the owners had gone out fishing, and had only lately returned.

They had got some distance from the tower, and no cottage was near, when Jack stopped.

“I’ve been thinking that we might get on board one of the fishing-boats, which have just come in, and go off in her,” he whispered.

“I could not do it,” said Bill. “I have said before—what would the poor fishermen think in the morning when they found their boat gone, the only means they may have of supporting their wives and families?”

Jack did not agree with Bill in this, but it was not a time to argue the point, so they set off again, and continued running till they reached a gap in the cliff, down which the road led. They then made their way to the left, under the cliffs, in the direction of the village where they had so long resided.

The tide was out, and they wisely kept close down to the water, so that the returning sea might obliterate their footsteps.

Jack proposed returning to Captain Turgot’s, but Bill observed that that would not be fair to their friends, who would, of course, be exposed to great danger by again harbouring them, and who yet would not like to deliver them up.

“No, no, we must not do that,” he said. “The sooner we can find a place to hide in the better. The cliff hereabouts appears to be broken, and full of hollows, and perhaps, if we search for it, we shall discover some spot fit for our purpose.”

While they were talking the moon rose; and, though on the decrease, afforded a good deal of light, and greatly assisted them in their search.

The sea where they were would, they saw, at high tide, completely cover the whole beach, so they must take care to find a place beyond its reach.

They anxiously searched about. The night was drawing on, and they must find concealment before daylight, which would expose them to the view of any boats passing near the beach, or to people looking for them from the cliffs above.

They climbed up at several places without discovering any hollow sufficiently deep to conceal them effectually; still they persevered, and at last they reached a black rock which projected out from the cliff, and ran some way down the beach. From its appearance they saw that it must be covered at high-water. They made their way round it, as the sides were too smooth to climb over, and then once more reached the foot of the cliff.

The tide was now rising rapidly, and they saw that they would be exposed to the danger of being caught by the sea, could they not get some distance up the cliff. They were hurrying on when Bill exclaimed—

“There’s a cave, and it may perhaps run some way back in the cliff. We shall soon find out by the feel of the rock whether the water fills it up, and if not, we couldn’t have a better hiding-place.”

They climbed up the slippery rock, and found themselves in a cavern with a low arched entrance. This looked promising. They groped their way onwards. As they advanced, their ears caught the gentle sound of a tiny streamlet, which issued from the rock, while the ground beneath their feet was perfectly dry, consisting in some places of hard rock, in others of soft, warm sand.

Looking back, they could distinguish the ocean, with the moonlight shining on it.

“We shall be safe here, I think,” said Bill. “When daylight comes, we shall be able to find our way farther in, and perhaps discover some nook in which we may remain hidden, even were people to come to the mouth of the cave to look for us.”

Jack agreed that there was no risk of the tide rising to the place where they then were, so they sat down on the dry sand, and being tired from their exertions, very soon fell fast asleep.

Jack was not much addicted to dreaming. When he went to sleep he did so in right earnest, and might have slept through a general engagement, if he had not been called to take a part in it.

Bill had a more imaginative mind, which was seldom altogether at rest. He fancied sometimes that he was escaping from the top of the tower, and tumbling head over heels to the bottom; at others that he was running along, with the Frenchmen shouting after him to stop. Then he fancied that one with a long pair of legs had overtaken him, and was grasping him tightly by the arm.

He awoke with a start, and found that Jack was trying to arouse him. Daylight was streaming through the mouth of the cavern; beyond could be seen the blue sea shining brightly in the rays of the sun, with a chasse-marée, or some other small vessel, gliding swiftly across it, impelled by a smart breeze off shore.

Jack had taken it into his head that the people on board might see them.

“I don’t think there’s much chance of that,” said Bill. “Even if they happen to turn their glasses this way, depend on it, if we sit quiet, they’ll not discover us.”

The vessel soon disappeared, and they then looked about to examine more carefully the cavern in which they had taken refuge.

The tide was still at its highest, and the water washed up to the ledge in front of the cavern. The ground rose considerably above that point to where they sat, and on looking round they saw that it continued to rise behind them for some distance.

Bill advised that they should at once explore it, observing that though, even at spring-tide, with the wind off shore, the water might not reach to where they sat; yet should a gale blow from the northward, it might drive the waves far up the cavern, and expose them to great danger. “We cannot tell what may happen,” he said, “and it’s as well to be prepared for the worst. Besides, if the soldiers come to look for us, they may find the mouth of the cavern, and make their way some distance in, but if they do not discover us they’ll fancy we are not here, and go away again as wise as they came.”

Jack saw the wisdom of this proposal. They accordingly groped their way on, aided by the light, which, though dim, pervaded the part of the cavern they had reached. Every now and then they stopped, and, on looking back, could still see the entrance, with the bright sea beyond it.

At length they came to a rock, which seemed to stop their further progress; but, feeling about them, found that the cavern made a turn here to the left. They now proceeded with the greatest caution, for fear of coming to some hole down which they might fall.

“If we had a torch we might see what sort of a place we have got to,” observed Jack.

“But we haven’t got a torch, and no chance of getting one; and so we must find out by making good use of our hands,” answered Bill. “We must move slowly on, and feel every inch of the way, putting out one hand before we lift up the other.”

They were groping forward on their hands and knees, and were in total darkness; still, as they looked back, there was a faint glimmer of light, which appeared round the corner of the rock, and this would enable them to find their way back again. Hitherto they had met only with smooth rock, gently inclining upwards; possibly it might lead them, if they went on long enough, to the top of the cliff, though they hoped that there was no opening in that direction.

Here, at all events, they thought that they should be secure, even should their pursuers enter the cavern.

As they were getting hungry, they agreed to go back and eat their breakfast in daylight near the spring, which would afford them a draught of cool water. They returned as they had come, feeling their way along the rock.

Just before they reached the turning in the cavern, they discovered a recess which would hold both of them; and they agreed to make it their hiding-place should the soldiers by any chance come to look for them.

Without much difficulty they got back to the spot where they had slept, which was close to the stream. Here they sat down, and produced the provisions which they had brought from the tower. On examining their stock, they calculated that they had sufficient to last them for a couple of days.

“When that’s gone, what shall we do?” asked Jack.

“We must try to pick up some shell-fish from the rocks,” answered Bill. “The soldiers by that time will have got tired of looking for us, and if any persons from the top of the cliffs see us they won’t know who we are, and will fancy we are fisher-boys getting bait. Perhaps before that time a smuggling lugger may come off here, and we may manage to hail her before we run short of food; at all events, there’s no use being frightened about what may happen.”

Every now and then one or the other went towards the mouth of the cave to look out. As long as the tide remained high there was no danger of their being discovered; but at low water the French soldiers were very likely to come along the sands, and could scarcely fail to see the mouth of the cavern.

The tide was now rapidly going down, black rocks appearing one by one above the surface.

They accordingly determined to retire to the inner part of the cavern, and to wait there till they calculated that the tide would once more have come in.

“We must make up our minds to enjoy six hours of daylight, and to endure six of darkness,” observed Bill.

“I sha’n’t care much about that; we can but go to sleep and amuse ourselves the best way we can think of while the tide is in,” said Jack.

“If we had some hooks and lines we might fish,” said Bill.

“We should only catch rock fish, and they are not fit to eat,” replied Jack.

The boys carried out their plan. It was an easy matter to get through the sleeping-time, but they became somewhat weary from having nothing to do during the period that the tide was in. They could do little more, indeed, than sit looking at the sea, and watching the few vessels which appeared in the offing. Now and then they got up and walked about to stretch their legs. They were afraid of bathing, lest while swimming about they might be seen from any part of the cliff above.

Whether the soldiers had come to look for them they could not tell; one thing was certain, they had not been discovered, and there were no signs of any persons having approached the mouth of the cavern.

They husbanded their food, but it was rapidly diminishing. At night they therefore, when the tide had gone out, crept down on the sands, and managed to cut off some limpets and other shell-fish with their knives from the rocks. These would have sustained them for some days had they been able to cook them, but they had no means of lighting a fire. Though limpets may help to keep body and soul together for a short time, they are not wholesome food, especially when raw. Their bread was all gone, but as long as they had some figs and cheese they got down the limpets very well; but both figs and cheese came to an end, and they both felt that they were getting very weak.

“If we don’t take care we shall starve,” said Bill.

“We must do something or other. I don’t see anything but trying to get on board a lugger, as we talked of; but then in searching for her we should run the chance of being made prisoners again.”

“You must come round to my plan, and run off with a boat of some sort,” said Jack.

“That’s just what I cannot do,” said Bill.

“It’s either that or starving,” said Jack.

“We should have to get food first, even if we did run off with a boat,” observed Bill. “It would never do to put to sea without something to eat. I’ll tell you what I’ll do. I’ll try and make my way back to Captain Turgot’s. It cannot be far from this. I’ll ask them to give us some food. They are sure to do that, though they might not like hiding us; and perhaps they might tell us of some boat in which we could get off without the owner being the worse for the loss. If you’ll stay here, I’ll go this very evening as soon as the tide is out. I calculate that I should have time to get there and back before the flood is up; and I’m not afraid of being refused, at all events.” Jack wanted to go too; but Bill urged that one was less likely to be discovered than two, and that it would be better for him to go alone. Jack at last agreed to this, and directly the sand appeared below the mouth of the cavern, Bill set out.

Chapter Nine.

Visit to Captain Turgot’s cottage.

As it was growing dusk, Bill had no fear of being seen as he made his way from the cavern. He felt rather weak, but he had a brave heart, and pushed on. He had some rough rocks to climb over, and others he managed to get round, walking through the water where it was not too deep. Sooner than he expected he reached the bay near which the Turgots’ cottage was situated. To avoid the other cottages and huts he had to make a wide circuit.

He cautiously crept up towards the back of his friends’ dwelling; then, keeping close to the wall, he looked in through the window of the room in which the family generally sat.

Jeannette was alone, spinning as usual, but looking somewhat pensive.

Bill tapped at the window, and Jeannette looked up.

“May I come in?” he asked in French.

Jeannette came to the window.

“Who are you?” she inquired.

“What! don’t you know me?” said Bill.

“Ah! one of the young Englishmen!” she exclaimed; and she opened the window.

Bill jumped in.

“I am so happy to see you!” she cried. “Where have you come from? And your friend Jack, where is he? Have you both escaped from the soldiers? We thought you were in prison long ago;” and Jeannette put so many questions that Bill had great difficulty in answering them. He, however, soon contrived to let her know all that had happened, and then inquired for her father and mother and brother.

“Mother is in bed, quite ill,” she said; “she was so frightened by the soldiers, expecting to be carried off to prison, that she has not got over it. My father and Pierre are out fishing. I expect them home before midnight, but they said that they should be out later than usual.”

“I should like to stop and see them,” said Bill; “but in the meantime, can you give me something to eat? I am nearly starved.”

“Of course,” cried Jeannette; and she quickly placed some food before Bill, which he as quickly attacked.

“Well, you are hungry!” she observed, “but eat away. I wish I had known before how near you were to us, and I would have brought you provisions.”

“Can you bring them to us now?” asked Bill. “If we do not manage to get off, we shall soon be hungry again.”

“Of course I will,” she answered; “but it would not be safe for me to bring them all the way to the cave. I know, however, a place much nearer this where I could hide them, and you can come and fetch them.”

“But how am I to know the place?” asked Bill.

“I will describe it to you,” answered Jeannette. “You remarked, as you came along, a break in the cliff, with a stream running down the bottom. On the right side of the stream, about ten feet from high-water mark, there is a small hollow just large enough for one person to creep in. I took shelter there once when I was a little girl, having been caught in a storm as I was rambling along the sands so I remember it well.”

Bill thought he could find the place, and would look for it as he went back. Jeannette promised to bring a basket every other day, directly the morning tide went down, so that Bill would know exactly when to go and fetch the food. He thanked her very much, and promised to follow her directions.

He then asked her about a boat, but she could say nothing till her father and Pierre returned. They might know of one, but as there was very small chance of her ever being restored to her owner, while the boys were not likely to have the means of paying for her, she was doubtful.

“As to that,” said Bill, “we shall have plenty of prize-money. I hope to pay for her over and over again; and I will promise most faithfully to do so.”

Jeannette smiled, for she thought that there was very little probability of the two young ship-boys ever getting prize-money sufficient to pay for such a boat as they required, to make a voyage across the Channel.

Bill was anxious to get back to poor Jack, who he remembered was well-nigh starving. Jeannette would have accompanied him part of the way, but she had to remain at home to receive Captain Turgot and Pierre. She had, in the meantime, packed a basket with provisions for Jack and himself, that they might be independent for a couple of days. He therefore jumped up, and, begging her to remember him very kindly to the others, he bade her farewell, and, with the basket on his arm, slipped out of the house as cautiously as he had entered.

He had noted every object as he came along, so that he had no difficulty in making his way back. He also easily discovered the small cave described by Jeannette. It was at a convenient distance from the large cavern, and, as a path led near it, should Jeannette be perceived, it might be supposed that she was making her way to the top of the cliff.

Bill did not stop longer than was necessary to examine the place to be certain of being able to find it again, as he knew that Jack would be anxiously waiting for him. He hurried on, therefore, and in a short time reached the beach below the cavern. Climbing up, he called out, “All right, Jack!” But Jack did not answer. He called again, but still there was no reply, and he began to feel very anxious.

Had the soldiers been there and carried off his companion? or had Jack died of starvation?

Jeannette had thoughtfully put a tinder-box, flint and steel, and a couple of candles into the basket. After feeling his way on for some distance, he stopped and lighted one of the candles.

The faint light gave the cavern a wild, strange appearance, so that he could scarcely have known where he was. He looked round on every side, but could nowhere see Jack; he became more and more alarmed; still he did not give up all hope of finding him.

Again and again he called out “Jack!”

At length a faint voice came from the interior. He hurried on. There lay Jack on the ground.

“Is that you, Bill?” he asked, in a low voice. “I was afraid you were caught. I fancied I heard voices, and crept away, intending to get into our hiding-place, when I fell down, and I suppose I must have gone to sleep, for I remember nothing more till I heard you calling to me. Have you brought any food?”

“Yes,” said Bill; “sit up and eat as much as you can; it will do you good, and you will soon be all to rights.”

Jack did not require a second invitation, but munched away at the bread and cheese, and dried fish and figs, with right good will, showing that he could not have been so very ill after all. He quickly regained his strength and spirits, and listened eagerly to what Bill had to tell him.

“Well, it’s a comfort to think that we are not likely to be starved,” he observed; “and I will bless Miss Jeannette as long as I live. I wish we could do something to show her how much obliged we are. And now, Bill, what about the boat? Is there a chance of our getting one?”

“A very poor chance at present, I am afraid,” answered Bill. “Jeannette, however, will let us know if her father and brother can find one to suit our purpose, or if a smuggling lugger comes into the harbour.”

“We’ll have, after all, to do as I proposed, and take one without asking the owner’s leave,” said Jack. “I tell you it will be perfectly fair. The French are at war with us, and we have a right to take any of their property we can find, whether afloat or on shore.”

“That may be, but I can’t get it out of my head that we shall be robbing some poor fellow who may have to depend on his boat for supporting himself and his family,” answered Bill.

They argued the point as before, till Bill proposed that they should lie down and go to sleep, as he felt tired after his long walk.

They allowed two days to pass, when Bill set off as agreed on to obtain the provisions he hoped Jeannette would have brought.

She had not deceived him; there was an ample supply, and two or three more candles.

Several more days passed by. Jeannette regularly brought them provisions, but she left no note to tell them of any arrangements which her father had made. They were becoming very weary of their life, for they had nothing whatever to do—no books to read, and not even a stick to whittle.

The weather had hitherto been fine, the cavern was warm and comfortable, and the dry sand afforded them soft beds. They might certainly have been very much worse off.

Bill always went to fetch the food from the cave where Jeannette left it. He had hitherto not met her, which he was anxious to do, to learn what chance there was of obtaining a boat. She, however, was always before him, the fact being that the path from her house to the cave was practicable before that from the large cavern was open.

“I don’t quite like the look of the weather,” observed Bill one day to Jack, just before the time Jeannette was due at the little cave, and all their provisions were expended. “If it comes on very bad she may be stopped, and we shall be pressed. I’ll slip down the moment the water is shallow enough, and try to get along the shore; and if she has not reached the cave, I’ll go on and meet her.”

Bill at once put his resolution into practice. He did not mind wetting his feet; but he had here and there a hard job to save himself from being carried off by the sea, which rolled up the beach to the very foot of the cliff. Twice he had to cling to a rock, and frequently to wade for some distance, till he began to regret that he had ventured so soon; but having made up his mind to do a thing, he was not to be defeated by the fear of danger; so waiting till the wave had receded, he rushed on to another rock. The sky had become overcast. The leaden seas, foam-crested, came rolling in with increasing force, and had not the tide been on the ebb his position would have been perilous in the extreme.

He knew, however, that every minute would make his progress less difficult; so with a brave heart he pushed on. At last he reached the little cave by the side of the gorge. It was empty! He knew, therefore, that Jeannette had not been there.

According to his previous determination, he went on to meet her, hoping that before this she might have set out.

The rain now began to fall, and the wind blew with fitful gusts. He did not care for either himself, but he was sorry that Jeannette should be exposed to the storm. He felt nearly sure that she would come, in spite of it. If not, he made up his mind to wait till dark, and then to go on to her cottage. There was no great risk in doing so, as the soldiers would long before this have given up their search for him and Jack.

He had gone some distance, and the fishing village would soon be in sight, when he saw a figure coming towards him, wrapped in a cloak. Hoping that it was Jeannette, he hurried forward to meet her. He was not mistaken.

Bill told her that he had come on that she might be saved from a longer exposure to the rain than was necessary.

“Thank you,” she answered. “I was delayed, or I should have set off earlier, but a party of soldiers came to the village pretending that they wanted to buy fish. I, however, suspected that they came to look for you, and I waited till they had gone away again. We sold them all the fish they asked for, and put on an unconcerned look, as if suspecting nothing, I saw them, however, prying about, and I recognised one of them as the sergeant who came in command of the party which carried you off. I am not at all certain, either, that they will not return, and I should not have ventured out, had I not known that you must be greatly in want of food, and that, perhaps, should the storm which is now beginning increase, many days might pass before I could supply you.”

The information given by Jeannette made Bill very glad that he had come on to meet her. He, of course, thanked her warmly, and then asked what chance there was of obtaining a boat.

“My father wishes you well, but is afraid to interfere in the matter,” she answered. “He does not, perhaps, enter into your feelings about getting back to England, because he thinks France the best country of the two, and sees no reason why you should not become Frenchmen. As the detachment of soldiers quartered in the neighbourhood will soon, probably, be removed, you may then come back without fear, and resume the clothes you before wore, and live with us, and help my father and brother; then who knows what may happen? You will not have to fight your own countrymen, and the war may some day come to an end, or perhaps the French may conquer the English, and then we shall all be very good friends again.”

“Never! Jeannette; that will never happen,” exclaimed Bill. “You are very kind to us, and we are very fond of you, and would do anything to serve you, and show our gratitude, but don’t say that again.”

Jeannette laughed. “Dear me, how fiery you are!” she exclaimed. “However, it’s foolish to stop talking here, and I ought to hurry home, in case the soldiers should pay us another visit and suspect something. Do not be angry, my dear Bill. I did not wish to offend you; only, you know, we each think our own country the best.”

Bill assured Jeannette that he was not angry, and again thanked her very much, though he could not help saying that he was sorry her father would not obtain the boat for them.

“Well, well, you must have patience,” she answered. “Now go back to your cave as fast as you can, or you will be wet to the skin.”

“I am that already,” answered Bill, laughing; “but it’s a trifle to which I am well accustomed.”

Once more they shook hands, and exchanging baskets. Jeannette, drawing her cloak around her, hurried back to the village, while Bill made the best of his way to the cavern.

He was now able, in spite of the wind, to get along where he had before found it difficult to pass. In one or two places only did the waves rolling up wash round his feet, but the water was not of sufficient depth to carry him off, and he gained the mouth of the cavern in safety. Jack was eagerly looking out for him, and both of them being very sharp set, they lost no time in discussing some of the contents of the basket.

As they looked out they saw that the wind had greatly increased. A heavy north-westerly gale was blowing. It rushed into the cavern filled with spray from off the now distant foam-tipped waves. What it would do when the tide was again high was a matter of serious consideration.

“We shall have to go as far back as we can,” observed Bill, “and the sooner we pick out a safe berth the better. I should like, too, to get my wet clothes off, for the wind makes me feel very cold.”

Jack was of the same opinion, and he taking up the basket, they groped their way to the inner cave round the rock, where it turned, as before described, to the left. Here they were completely sheltered from the wind, and had it not been for the loud roar of the waves beating on the shore, and the howling of the gale in the outer cavern, they would not have been aware that a storm was raging outside.

They had, it should have been said, collected a quantity of drift wood, which Jack had thoughtfully employed himself in carrying to the spot where they were now seated. As they could not possibly run any risk of being detected, they agreed to light a fire, which they had hitherto avoided doing.

They soon had a cheerful one blazing up, and it made them feel much more comfortable. Bill was able to dry his wet clothes, and by its light they could now take a better survey of their abode than they had hitherto done.

The cavern was here not more than eight or ten feet in height, but it was nearly thirty broad, and penetrated, so it seemed to them, far away into the interior of the cliff.

“I vote we have a look and see where the cave leads to,” said Bill, taking up a long piece of fir-wood which burnt like a torch.

Jack provided himself with another of a similar character, and, by waving them about, they found that they could keep them alight. They also took one of their candles and their match-box in case their torches should go out.

Having raked their fire together, so that it might serve as a beacon to assist them in their return, they set out.

The ground rose as they had before supposed when they explored it in the dark, but the roof continued of the same height above it.

Suddenly Jack started.

“What is that?” he exclaimed, seizing his companion’s arm. “There’s a man! or is it a ghost? Oh Bill!”

Chapter Ten.

Discovery of the smugglers’ treasure.

Bill waved his torch on one side and peered forward. “It looks like a man, but it doesn’t move. It’s only a figure, Jack,” he answered. “I’m not afraid of it. Come on! we’ll soon see what it is.”

Jack was ashamed of lagging behind, and accompanied him.

The object which had frightened Jack was soon discovered to be merely a stalactite—a mass of hardened water. Similar formations now appeared on both sides of the cavern, some hanging from the roof, others in the form of pillars and arches; indeed, the whole cavern looked like the interior of a Gothic building in ruins.

Other figures still more strange were seen, as if starting out from recesses or doorways on both sides.

“Well! this is a strange place. I never saw or heard of anything like it,” exclaimed Jack, when he found how harmless all the ghosts really were.

In many places the roof and sides shone and glittered as if covered with precious stones. Even Bill began to fancy that they had got into some enchanted cavern. The ground was covered in most places with the same substance, and so rough that they could make but slow progress.

They were about to turn back for fear of their torches going out when they reached a low archway. Curiosity prompted them to enter, which they could do by stooping down. After going a short distance they found themselves in a still larger cavern, almost circular, like a vast hall, the roof and sides ornamented by nature in the same curious fashion, though still more profusely.

“It won’t do to stop here,” said Bill, “but we’ll come back again and have another look at it with fresh torches. Hallo! what’s that?”

Jack started as he had before done, as if he were not altogether comfortable in his mind. He had never heard anything about enchanted caverns, but a strange dread had seized him. He had an idea that the place must be the abode of ghosts or spirits of some sort, and that Bill had seen one.

Bill hurrying forward, the light of his torch fell on a pile composed of bales and chests, and casks, and various other articles.

The place had evidently been used as a store-room by persons who must have considered that it was not likely to be discovered.

As their torches were by this time nearly burnt out, they could not venture to stop and examine the goods, but had to hurry back as fast as they could. They had managed to get through the narrow passage, and had made some progress in their return, when both of them were obliged to let their torches drop, as they could no longer hold them without burning their hands. They might have lighted their candles, had they been in any difficulty, but their fire enabled them to find their way along, though they stumbled frequently over the inequalities of the ground, and once or twice Jack clutched Bill’s arm, exclaiming, “Sure! there’s some one! I saw him move! Can any of the soldiers have come to look for us?”

“Not with such a storm as there is now raging outside,” answered Bill. “It was only one of the marble figures.”

Presently Jack again cried out, “There! I saw another moving. I’m sure of it this time. It’s a ghost if it isn’t a man.”

“Well! if it is a ghost it won’t hurt us,” answered Bill; “but the only ghosts hereabouts are those curious figures, which can’t move from their places. For my part, I don’t believe there are such things as ghosts at all going about to frighten people. The only one I ever heard tell of was ‘The Cock Lane Ghost’, and that was found out to be a sham long ago.”

Jack regained his courage as they approached the fire, and both being pretty well tired, they were glad to sit down and talk about the wonderful store of goods they had discovered. Jack was afraid that the owners might come back to look for their property and discover them, but Bill was of opinion that they had been placed there by a party of smugglers, who had gone away and been lost without telling any one where they had stowed their goods.

From the appearance of the bales and chests he thought that they had been there for some time. Another visit would enable them to ascertain this, and they resolved to make it without delay.

They were becoming very sleepy, for they had been many hours on foot and the night was far advanced. Before lying down, however, Bill said he wished to see how the storm was getting on.

It was making a dreadful uproar in the cavern, and he wanted to ascertain what chance there was of the waves washing in. There was not much risk, to be sure, of their reaching as far as they then were, but it was as well to be on the safe side, and if there was a likelihood of it they would move farther up and carry their provisions and store of fuel with them, the only property they possessed.

They set out together, Jack keeping a little behind Bill for though he was as brave as any lad need be in the daylight, or out at sea, he did not somehow, he confessed, feel like himself in that dark cavern, filled with the roaring, howling, shrieking noises caused by the gale.

They got on very well till they rounded the rock, when they met a blast, driving a sheet of fine spray in their faces, which well-nigh blinded them, and forced them back. They notwithstanding made their way for some distance, till Bill began to think that it would be wise to go no farther.

Every now and then a bright glare filled the cavern, caused by the flashes of lightning darting from the clouds; while, as each sea rolled in, the whole mouth was filled as it were by a sheet of foaming water, part of which, striking the roof, fell back into the ocean, while a portion rushed up the floor, almost to where they were standing.

“It’s bad enough now,” shouted Jack, for they could only make each other hear by speaking at the top of their voices. “What will it be when it’s high tide?”

“Perhaps it won’t be much worse than it is now,” answered Bill. “We shall be safe enough at our hiding-place, and if it gets up much higher it will give us notice of its coming, and allow us to retreat in good time.”

They accordingly got back to their fire, the embers of which enabled them to dry their clothes. They then lay down, and, in spite of the storm and the hubbub it was creating, were soon fast asleep.

Had it not been for feeling very hungry, they might have slept on till past noon of the next day. Awaking, they found their fire completely gone out. What o’clock it was they could not tell. They were in total darkness, while the tempest roared away as loudly as ever.

They, however, lighted a candle, and ate some breakfast. To wash it down they had to get water from the spring, which was so much nearer the entrance of the cavern. They accordingly put out their candle, and groped their way round the rock. On seeing light streaming through the entrance, they knew that at all events it was no longer night.

The sea was rising over the ledge at the mouth, tossing and tumbling with foam-topped billows, and rolling up along the floor of the cavern in a seething mass of froth.

They saw how high it had come, and had no reason to fear that it would rise farther.

They now made their way to the spring, and drank heartily.

“We ought to be thankful that we are in so snug a place,” observed Bill; “but I tell you, we must take care not to eat up all our food in a hurry, or we may find it a hard matter to get more. The wind appears to have driven the sea over on this shore, and I doubt whether we shall be able to make our way along the beach even at low water.”

Jack did not at all like the idea of starving, but he saw that it would be wise to follow Bill’s advice.

They had food enough to last them for three days, as Jeannette had put up a double allowance; but the gale might blow much longer than that, and then what should they do?

“It’s no use troubling ourselves too much about the matter till the time comes,” observed Bill; “only we must be careful not to eat more than is necessary to keep body and soul together.”

As they had found a fire very useful and pleasant, they went down as close as they could venture to the water, and employed themselves in collecting all the driftwood and chips they could find. They agreed that they would do the same every day, so as to have a good stock of fuel. They wanted also to secure some pieces which might serve as torches, so that they could examine the smugglers’ store as they called it, which they had discovered.

They carried their wood and placed it on the soft warm sand, where it would dry more rapidly, for in its present state it would not serve to kindle a fire. They had, however, some dry pieces which would answer that purpose, and they judged rightly that they might place the damp wood on the top of their fire, when it would burn in time.

Most of the day was employed in this manner. Even after the tide went out they found a number of pieces washed up along the sides of the cavern. The seas, however, rolled so far up the beach that they were afraid of descending, or they might have obtained much more.

When it grew dark they returned to their camp, lighted the fire, and made themselves comfortable.

It was difficult to keep to their resolution of eating only a very little food, and Bill had to stop Jack before he thought he had had half enough.

“I don’t want to stint you,” he said, “but recollect you will be crying out when our stock comes to an end, and wishing you had not eaten it.”

As they had had so long a sleep, neither of them was inclined to turn in; and Bill proposed that they should examine the smugglers’ store.

They had several pieces of wood which they thought would burn as the first had done, and each taking three, with a candle to be used in case of emergency, they set out.

They found their way easily enough; but Jack, as before, did not feel quite comfortable as he saw the strange figures, which seemed to be flitting about the sides of the cavern; sometimes, too, he fancied that he detected faces grinning down upon him from the roof, and more than once he declared positively that he had caught sight of a figure robed in white stealing along in front of them.

Bill each time answered with a laugh.

“Never mind. We shall catch it up if it’s a ghost, and we’ll make it carry a torch and go ahead to light us.”

As they moved on more rapidly than before, they were able to reach the inner cavern before either of their torches was much more than half burned through. They thought it wiser to keep both alight at a time, in case one should accidentally go out, and they should be unable to light it again with a match.

With feelings of intense curiosity they approached the smugglers’ store. Both agreed, as they examined it, that the goods must have been there for some time; but the place being very dry (probably it was chosen on that account), they did not appear to be much damaged. The goods, as far as they could judge, were English.

There were many bales of linen and cloth. One of the cases which they forced open contained cutlery, and another was full of pistols; and from the weight of several which they did not attempt to open, they judged that they also contained firearms.

There were two small chests placed on the top of the others. They were strongly secured; but by means of a sharp stone, which served as a chisel, and another as a hammer, they managed to break one of them open. What was their surprise to find the case full of gold pieces! They had little doubt that the other also contained money. They, neither of them, had ever seen so much gold before.

“What shall we do with it?” cried Jack. “There’s enough here to let mother live like a lady till the end of her days, without going to sell fish at the market.”

“It is not ours, it belongs to somebody,” said Bill.

“That somebody will never come to claim it,” answered Jack. “Depend on it, he’s gone to the bottom, or ended his days somehow long ago, or he would have come back before this. These goods have been here for months, or years maybe, by the look of the packages; and depend on it the owners would not have let them stay where they are, if they could have come back to fetch them away.”

“But gold pieces won’t help us to buy food while we are shut up in the cavern. A few Dutch cheeses, with a cask of biscuits, would have been of more value,” observed Bill.

“You are right,” said Jack. “Still, I vote that we fill our pockets, so that if we have to hurry away, and have no time to came back here, we may carry some of the gold with us.”

Bill could not make up his mind to do this. The gold was not theirs, of that he felt sure, and Jack could not persuade him to overcome the principle he had always stuck to, of not taking, under any circumstances, what was not lawfully his own. If the owners were dead, it belonged to their heirs.

Jack did not see this so clearly. The money had been lost, and they had found it, and having found it, they had a right to it.

They must not, however, lose time by arguing the point. Jack put a handful or two of the money into his pocket.

Bill kept his fingers out of the box; he did not want the money, and he had no right to it.

There were several other articles they had not examined, among which were some small casks. Jack, finding that his torch was almost burning his fingers, was obliged to let it drop. Before he lighted another, however, Bill’s torch affording sufficient light for the purpose, he managed to knock in the head of one of the small casks, which he found filled with little black grains. He tasted them.

“Keep away, Bill—keep away!” he shouted, in an agitated tone, “This is gunpowder!”

Had Jack held his torch a few seconds longer in his hand, he and Bill would have been blown to atoms—the very cavern itself would have been shattered, to the great astonishment of the neighbouring population, who would, however, never have discovered the cause of the explosion, although Jeannette Turgot might have guessed at it.

“It’s a mercy we didn’t blow ourselves up,” said Jack. “I was just going to take my torch to look at these casks.”

He hunted about for all of the same description, and rolled them into a place by themselves.

“We must take care what we are about if we come here again with torches,” he said.

Bill agreed with him.

After all, of what use to them was the treasure they had discovered. The cloth and linen were much more serviceable, as they could make bedding of them.

“I don’t see why we should not try to make jackets and trousers for ourselves,” observed Bill. “This cloth will be fine stuff for the purpose, and as the cold weather is coming on we shall be glad of some warm clothing.”

“But how are we going to make them?” asked Jack.

“The linen will serve us for thread, and I must see about making some needles of wood if we can’t get anything better,” answered Bill. “However, we’ll think about that by-and-by; it’s time to return to our camp, we may be left in the dark.”

They accordingly loaded themselves with as much of the linen and cloth as they could carry, cutting off pieces with their knives. They could return, they agreed, for more if this was not enough.

Bill was not quite consistent in taking the cloth when he would not touch the money, but it did not occur to him for a moment that he was wrong in appropriating it, or he would have refused to do so. Had he argued the point, he would have found it very difficult to settle. One thing was certain, that the owners were never likely to make any complaint on the subject.

They got back to their fire without much difficulty, and having raked it together, and put on fresh wood, they made their beds with the cloth they had brought, said their prayers in a thankful spirit, and slept far more comfortably than they had done since they had taken possession of the cavern.

Chapter Eleven.

The wreck.

By the roaring sound they heard when they awoke, the lads knew that the storm was still raging.

They ate sparingly of their store of food for breakfast; and then calculating that it must be once more daylight, they made their way towards the mouth of the cavern. They were not mistaken as to its being day, but how long the sun had risen they could not tell, as the sky was still thickly overcast with clouds.

The sea was washing, as before, heavily into the cavern, throwing up all sorts of articles, among which were a number of oranges, melons, and other fruits of a southern clime.

The melons were mostly broken, but they got hold of two unbroken, and very welcome they were. The oranges were mostly green, though a few had turned sufficiently red to be eaten.

“I would rather have had more substantial food,” observed Jack; “but I am glad enough to get these.”

“What’s that?” asked Bill, pointing to the opposite side of the cavern, where a creature was seen struggling in a hollow half filled with water.

Jack dashed across at the risk of being carried off by the receding sea; and, grasping a large fish, held it up as he rushed away to escape from the following wave, which came rolling in with a loud roar.

“Here’s a prize worth having,” he shouted. “Hurrah! we may spend another week here without fear of starving.”

He carried his prize well out of the reach of the water, and a knock on the head put an end to its struggles.

The lads piled up their various waifs, contemplating them with infinite satisfaction; but it was evident that what was their gain was somebody else’s loss.

“Some unfortunate ship has gone on shore, or else has thrown her cargo overboard,” observed Bill.

He went first to one side of the cavern, and then to the other, so as to obtain as wide a prospect as possible.

“See! there’s a vessel trying to beat off shore,” he exclaimed; and just then a brig with her foretopmast gone came into view, the sail which she was still able to carry heeling her over till her yard-arms seemed almost to touch the foaming summits of the seas.

“She’ll not do it, I fear,” said Jack, after they had been watching her for some time. “It’s a wonder she doesn’t go right over. If the wind doesn’t fall, nothing can save her; and even then, unless she brings up and her anchors hold, she’s sure to be cast on shore.”

They watched the vessel for some time. Though carrying every stitch of canvas she could set, she appeared to be making little headway, and to be drifting bodily to leeward.

The lads uttered a cry of regret, for down came her mainmast, and immediately her head turned towards the shore.

In a few minutes she struck, though no rock was visible, and the sea swept over her deck, carrying her remaining mast, boats, caboose, and round-house overboard, with every person who could be seen. In an instant, several human forms were discernible struggling in the seething waters alongside, but they quickly disappeared.

“They are all gone,” cried Jack; “not one that I can see has escaped.”

“Perhaps some were below,” observed Bill. “If they were, it won’t much matter, for in a few minutes she will go to pieces.”

He was mistaken as to the latter point, for another sea rolling in, lifted the vessel, and driving over the ledge on which she had first struck, carried her between some dark rocks, till she stuck fast on the sandy shore. Had the people been able to cling to her till now, some might possibly have been saved, but they had apparently all been on deck when the vessel struck, and been swept away by the first sea which rolled over her. The seas still continued to sweep along her deck, but their force was partly broken by the rocks, and being evidently a stout vessel, she hung together.

It was at the time nearly high-water, and the lads longed for the tide to go down, that they might examine her nearer.

“Even if anybody is alive on board, we cannot help them,” observed Jack; “so I vote that we take our fish to the camp, and have some dinner. I am very sharp set, seeing that we had no breakfast to speak of.”

Bill, who had no objection to offer, agreed to this; so carrying up their newly-obtained provisions, they soon had a fire lighted, and some of the fish broiling away before it.

The fate of the unfortunate vessel formed the subject of their conversation.

“I have an idea,” cried Bill. “It’s an ill wind that brings no one good luck. If we can manage to get on board that craft which has come on shore, we might build a boat out of her planking, or at all events a raft; and should the wind come from the southward, we might manage to get across the Channel, or be picked up by some vessel or other. We are pretty sure to find provisions on board. Perhaps one of her boats may have escaped being knocked to pieces, and we could repair her. At all events, it will be our own fault if that wreck doesn’t give us the opportunity of escaping.”

Jack listened to all Bill was saying.

“I cannot agree with you as to the chance of getting off,” he observed. “As soon as the wreck is seen, the Frenchmen are sure to be down on the shore, and we shall be caught and carried back to prison instead of getting away. The boats are pretty certain to have been knocked into shreds before this, and as to building a boat, that is what neither you nor I can do, even if we had the tools, and where are they to come from?”

“Perhaps we shall find them on board,” said Bill. “The vessel has held together till now, and I don’t see why she should not hold together till the storm is over. ‘Where there’s a will there’s a way,’ and I don’t see that we have so bad a chance of getting off.”

“Well, I’ll help you. You can show me what we had best do,” said Jack. “I am not going to draw back on account of the risk. All must depend on the weather. If the wind comes off shore, and the sea goes down, I should say that our best chance would be to build a raft. We can do that, if we can only find an axe and a saw, and we might get launched before the Frenchmen find out the wreck. The first thing we have to do is to get on board, and when we are there, we must keep a bright look-out to see that none of the natives are coming along the shore to trap us.”

The lads, having come to this resolution, hurried back to the entrance of the cave.

They forgot all about the smugglers’ stores, and their intention of making clothes for themselves; indeed, they only thought of getting on board the vessel. They watched eagerly for the tide to go down. The day passed by and the night came on, but the clouds clearing away, a bright moon shed her light over the scene. The wind had also sensibly decreased, and the waves rolled in with far less fury than before.

The water, however, seemed to them a long time moving off; still it was evidently going down. Rock after rock appeared, and looking over the ledge they could see the sand below them.

Knowing full well that the water would not again reach the beach it had once left till the return of the tide, they leaped down without hesitation, and began to make their way in the direction of the vessel. They had again to wait, however, for, as they pushed eagerly forward, a sheet of foam from a wave which came rolling up nearly took them off their legs.

They retreated a short distance, and in a few minutes were able to pass the spot over the uncovered sand. On and on they pressed, now advancing, now having to retreat, till they stood abreast of the vessel. The water still surrounded her, and was too deep to wade through.

They looked round on every side, but not a trace of a boat could be discovered, though fragments of spars and the bulwarks of the vessel strewed the beach. Among the spars they found two whole ones, which they secured.

“These will help us to get on board if we find no ropes hanging over the side,” observed Bill; “or they will enable us to withstand the sea should it catch us before we can climb up.” They now advanced more boldly.

The vessel lay over on her bilge, with her deck partly turned towards the shore, the sea, after she struck, having driven her round.

They waded up to her, for their impatience did not permit them to wait till the water had entirely receded. The risk they ran of being carried off was considerable, but, dashing forward, they planted the spars against the side.

Bill swarmed up first, Jack followed, and the deck was gained.

Scarcely were Jack’s feet out of the water, when a huge sea came rolling up, which would inevitably have carried him off.

They knew that they had no time to lose, for the wreck once seen from the shore, crowds of people were certain to visit it to carry off the cargo.

The after-part of the vessel was stove in, and nothing remained in the cabin; but the centre part, though nearly full of water, was unbroken. The water, however, was rushing out like a mill-stream, both at the stern and through some huge holes in the bows. Nothing whatever remained on deck.

The lads plunged down below, and gained the spar-deck, which was already out of the water. Here the first object their eyes alighted on was a chest.

It was the carpenter’s, and contained axes, and saws, and nails, and tools of all sorts.

There were a good many light spars and planks stowed on one side.

“Here we have materials for a raft at hand!” cried Bill. “We must build one; for I agree with you, Jack, that there’s no use in attempting a boat. It would take too much time, even if we could succeed in making her watertight.”

“I said so,” replied Jack. “I wish we had some grub, though; perhaps there’s some for’ard. I’ll go and find it if I can.”

Jack made his way into the forepeak, while Bill was cutting free the lashings, and dragging out the spars. Jack returned in a short time with some cold meat, and biscuit, and cheese.

“See! we can dine like lords,” he exclaimed; “and we shall be better able to work after it.”

They sat down on the chest, and ate the provisions with good appetites.

Bill cast a thought on the fate of the poor fellows to whom the food had belonged; their bodies now washing about in the breakers outside.

Every now and then they alternately jumped up, and looked east and west, and to the top of the cliff, to ascertain if any one was coming. The vessel had been driven on shore out of sight of both the villages, or they would not have been left long alone. It was to be hoped that no one would come along the cliff and look down upon the wreck.

Their meal over, they set to work to plan their raft.

They were obliged to labour on deck, as they could not hoist it up through the hold, or they would have preferred keeping out of sight. It would be a hard job to launch it, but that they hoped to do by fastening tackles at either side leading to the ring bolts on deck.

As there were no bulwarks to stop them, they laid the foundation, or, as they called it, the keel, projecting slightly over the side. They would thus have only to shove it forward and tip it up to launch it.

Their plan was to form an oblong square, then to put on bows at one end; and two pieces crossing each other with a short upright between them, on which to support the steering oar. The interior of the framework they strengthened by two diagonal braces. They lashed and nailed a number of crosspieces close together, and on the top of the whole they nailed down all the planks they could find, which were sufficient to form a good flooring to their raft.

They discovered also a number of small brandy casks, which they immediately emptied of their contents, letting the spirits flow without compunction into the water, and then again tightly bunged them down.

They fastened ropes around the casks, with which, when the raft was launched, they could secure them to either side, to give it greater buoyancy. They also brought up a couple of sea-chests, which they intended to lash down to the centre, so as to afford them some protection from the sea, and at the same time to hold their provisions.

Bill was the chief suggester of all these arrangements, though Jack ably carried them out.

They worked like heroes, with all the energy they could command, for they felt that everything depended on their exertions.

The night being bright, they were able to get on as well then as in the daytime.

Chapter Twelve.

A raft built—Mysterious disappearance of Jack Peek.

Not till their raft was complete did the two boys think of again eating. They had been working, it must be remembered, for several hours since the meal they took soon after they got on board. Having finished the beef and cheese, they lighted a couple of lanterns which they found hung up in the forepeak, and hunted about for more food.

They discovered some casks of salt beef, and another of biscuits, a drum of cheese, and several boxes of dried fruit. They had thus no lack of provisions, but they did not forget the necessity of supplying themselves with a store of water.

Hunting about, they found two small vessels, which they filled from one of the water-casks.

There were several oars below, three of which they took and placed in readiness on deck—one to steer with, and the other two for rowing.

They had, lastly, to rig their raft. A fore-royal already bent was found in the sail-room, and a spar served as a mast. How to step it, and to secure it properly, was the difficulty, until Bill suggested getting a third chest and boring a hole through the lid, and then, by making another hole through the bottom, the mast would be well stepped, and it was easy to set it up by means of a rope led forward and two shrouds aft.

Knowing exactly what they wanted to do, they did it very rapidly, and were perfectly satisfied with their performance.

The tide must come up again, however, before they could launch their raft. It would not be safe to do that unless the wind was off shore and the water smooth. Of this they were thoroughly convinced. Some hours must also elapse before the hitherto tumultuous sea would go down; what should they do in the meantime?

Bill felt very unwilling to go away without wishing their friends the Turgots good-bye. He wanted also to tell Jeannette of the smugglers’ store. The Turgots, at all events, would have as good a right to it as any one else, should the proper owners not be in existence.

Jack did not want him to go.

“You may be caught,” he observed, “or some one may come down and discover the vessel, and if I am alone, even should the tide be high, I could not put off.”

“But there is no chance of the tide coming up for the next three hours, and I can go to the village and be back again long before that,” answered Bill.

At last Jack gave in.

“Well, be quick about it,” he said; “we ought to be away at daylight, if the wind and the sea will let us; and if we don’t, I’m afraid there will be very little chance of our getting off at all.”

Bill promised without fail to return. There was no risk, he was sure, of being discovered, and it would be very ungrateful to the Turgots to go away without trying to see them again. He wished that Jack could have gone also, but he agreed that it was better for him to remain to do a few more things to the raft. Before he started they arranged the tackles for launching it; and they believed that, when once in the water, it would not take them more than ten minutes or a quarter of an hour to haul the empty casks under the bottom and to step and set up the mast. They might then, should the wind be favourable, stand boldly out to sea.

This being settled, Bill lowered himself down on the sand by a rope, and ran off as fast as he could go.

Jack quickly finished the work he had undertaken; then putting his hand into his pocket, he felt the gold pieces.

“It’s a pity we shouldn’t have more of these,” he said to himself. “I don’t agree with Bill in that matter. If he does not care about them for himself, I do for him, and he shall have half.”

As he said this he emptied his pockets into one of the chests.

“I shall want a lantern by-the-bye,” he said; and springing below, he secured one with a fresh candle in it.

Having done this, he forthwith lowered himself, as Bill had done, down on the sand, and quickly made his way to the cavern.

He had left the basket with the tinder-box, and the remnant of their provisions at their camp, which he soon reached.

His desire to obtain the gold overcame the fears he had before entertained of ghosts and spirits.

Having lighted his lantern he took up the basket, which had a cloth in it, and pushed forward. The pale light from his lantern, so different from that of a couple of blazing torches, made the objects around look strange and weird. He began not at all to like the appearance of things, and fancied at last that he must have got into a different part, of the cavern; still he thought, “I must have the gold. It would be so foolish to go away without it. It belongs to us as much as to anybody else, seeing that the owners are dead. Their ghosts won’t come to look for it, I hope. I wish I hadn’t thought of that. I must be going right. It would have been much pleasanter if Bill had been with me. Why didn’t I try to persuade him to stop?”

Such were the thoughts which passed through Jack’s mind; but he was a bold fellow, and did not like giving up what he had once determined on.

He saw no harm in what he was doing; on the contrary, he was serving his friend Bill as well as himself, or rather his mother, for he wanted the gold for her. In the meantime, Bill was hurrying on towards the Turgots’ cottage. He should astonish them, he knew, by waking them up in the middle of the night, or rather so early in the morning; but they would appreciate his desire to wish them good-bye, and would be very much obliged to him for telling them of the treasure in the cavern.

It would make their fortunes, and Jeannette would be the richest heiress in the neighbourhood; for, of course, he would bargain that she should have a good share. There might be some difficulty in getting the goods away without being discovered, which would be a pity, as they were of as much value as the boxes of gold. However, he was doing what was right in giving them the opportunity of possessing themselves of the treasure, though he considered that he could not take it himself.

He got round to the back door, under the room where Pierre slept. He knew that he would not be out fishing then, as the weather would have prevented him.

He knocked at once. No answer came. The third time, and he heard some one moving, and presently Pierre sang out, “Who’s there?”

“It’s one you know; let me in,” answered Bill, in a low voice, for he was afraid of any one who might by chance be in the neighbourhood hearing him.

Pierre came downstairs and opened the door. Bill explained all that had happened, except about the treasure.

“You going away!” cried Pierre. “It would be madness! You will only float about till another storm arises and you will be lost.”

“You don’t know what we can do,” answered Bill. “We shall probably be picked up by one of our ships before we reach England; and, if not, we shall get on very well, provided the wind holds from the southward, and after the long course of northerly gales there’s every chance of its doing that.”

“I must consult my father before I let you go,” said Pierre.

“You would not keep us prisoners against our will,” said Bill, laughing, as if Pierre could only be in joke. “Come, call your mother and father and Jeannette, and let me wish them good-bye. I haven’t many minutes to stop, and I’ve got something to tell them, which I’ve a notion will be satisfactory.”

Pierre went to his father and mother’s and Jeannette’s rooms, and soon roused them up. They appeared somewhat in deshabille, and looked very astonished at being called out of their beds by the young Englishman.

“What is it all about?” asked Captain Turgot.

“We are going away,” replied Bill, “but we could not go without again thanking you for all your kindness; and to show you that we are not ungrateful, I have to tell you how you can become a rich man in a few hours, without much trouble.”

On this Bill described how they had found the smuggler’s treasure.

Captain Turgot and the dame held up their hands, uttering various exclamations which showed their surprise, mixed with no little doubt as to whether Bill had not been dreaming.

He assured them that he was stating a fact, and offered, if Captain Turgot and Pierre would accompany him, to show them the place, as he thought that there would be time before daylight, when he and Jack had determined to set sail.

“I am sure he’s speaking the truth,” cried Jeannette; “and it’s very kind and generous of you, Bill, to tell us of the treasure, when you might have carried it off yourself. I know of the cave, for I saw it once, when I was very nearly caught by the tide and drowned, though I don’t think many people about here are acquainted with it; and very few, if any, have gone into the interior.”

Captain Turgot and Pierre confessed that they had never seen it, though they had gone up and down the coast so often; but then, on account of the rocks, they had always kept a good distance out.

At last Bill and Jeannette persuaded them that there really was such a cave; but on considering the hour, they came to the conclusion that the tide would come in before they could make their escape from it, and they would prefer going when the tide had again made out. Bill, they thought, would only just have time to get on board the vessel, if he was determined to go.

“But if you have so much gold, you could purchase a good boat,” said Captain Turgot; “and that would be much better than making your voyage on a raft.”

Bill acknowledged that such might be the case, but he was unwilling to risk any further delay. He trusted to his friends’ honour to let him go as he had determined. He had come of his own accord to bid them farewell, and they would not really think of detaining him against his will.

The fact, however, was that Captain Turgot doubted very much the truth of Bill’s story. Had any band of smugglers possessed a hiding-place on that part of the coast, he thought that he should have known it, and he fancied that the young Englishman must in some way or other have been deceived.

“Where is the gold you speak of?” he asked. “You surely must have secured some for yourself.”

Bill replied that Jack had, but that he had not wished to touch it.

“Then you give it to us, my young friend,” said Captain Turgot; “where is the difference?”

“No! I only tell you of it, that you may act as you think right. If you find out the owners, I hope you will restore it to them; but, at all events, it’s Frenchmen’s money, and a Frenchman has more right to it than I have.”

Captain Turgot did not quite understand Bill’s principles, though perhaps Jeannette and Pierre did.

“Well, well, my young friend, if go you must, I will not detain you. You and your companion will run a great risk of losing your lives, and I wish you would remain with us. To-morrow, as soon as the tide is out, Pierre and I will visit the cavern, which, I think, from your description, we can find; and we will take lanterns and torches. Again I say I wish you would wait, and if there is a prize to be obtained, that you would share it with us.”

Jeannette and Pierre also pressed Bill to remain, but he was firm in his resolution of rejoining Jack, and setting off at once.

He was so proud of the raft they had made, that he would have been ready to go round the world on it, if it could be got to sail on a wind, and at all events he had not the slightest doubt about its fitness to carry him and Jack across the Channel.

Bill had already delayed longer than he intended, and once more bidding his friends good-bye, he set off for the wreck. He hurried along as fast as he could go, for he felt sure that at daybreak it would be seen, if not from the shore, from the sea, and that people would come and interfere with his and Jack’s proceedings.

As he knew the way thoroughly, he made good progress. On getting abreast of the wreck, he looked out for Jack, but could nowhere see him.

The water was already coming round the vessel, and in a short time would be too deep to wade through. He thought that Jack must have gone below, but he was afraid of giving a loud shout, lest his voice might be heard. He accordingly, without stopping, made his way on board.

Great was his alarm when he could nowhere discover Jack.

Could he have gone to the cavern? or could he have been carried off?

The latter was not probable, for had the stranded vessel been discovered, people would have remained in her.

“He must have gone to the cavern, and to save time, I must follow him,” he said to himself; and sliding down the rope, he made his way as fast as he could towards its mouth.

He quickly climbed up, and hurried on as fast as he dare move in the dark, holding out his hands to avoid running against the sides, or to save himself should he fall.

He knew that there were no pitfalls or other serious dangers, or he could not have ventured to move even so fast as he did.

He shouted out as he went Jack’s name.

“How foolish I was not to bring a lantern with me,” he said. “Jack is sure to have taken one if he went to get more gold, and that I suspect is what he has been after; if he has a light, I shall see it, but I don’t.”

“Jack! Jack!” he again shouted out; but the cavern only echoed with his voice.

Bill was a fine-tempered fellow, but he felt very much inclined to be angry with Jack. All their plans might be upset by his having left the wreck. Even should he soon find him, they would have to swim on board, and set off in their wet clothes; but that was of little consequence compared with the delay.

At last his hands touched the rock near their camping-place, and he thence groped his way on; for having so often traversed the cavern in the dark, he found it as easily as a blind man would have done.

He soon felt his feet treading on the ashes of their former fires, and feeling about, he discovered the things which Jack had thrown out of the basket.

Among them was a candle and the tinder-box. Jack having a lighted lantern, had not troubled himself to bring it.

The basket was gone! This convinced him that Jack had been there. He quickly lighted the candle, and as there was not a breath of air, he was able to walk along with it in his hand.

The stalactite formations, which appeared on both sides, looked as weird and strange to him as they had to Jack, but he, knowing perfectly well what they were, did not trouble himself about their appearance.

He went on, keeping his gaze ahead, in the hopes of meeting Jack. He was sorry that he had not made more determined attempts to persuade Captain Turgot and Pierre to accompany him; for if anything should have happened to his companion, they would have assisted him. But what could have happened? that was the question. Sometimes he thought that Jack might, after all, not have come to the cavern; but, then, who could have carried away the basket?

Brave as he was, the strange shadows which occasionally seemed to flit by made him feel that he would much rather not have been there all alone.

Suppose, too, the smugglers should have returned, and, perhaps, caught Jack; they would seize him also, and it would be impossible to persuade them that he had not come to rob their store. Still, his chief anxiety was for Jack.

He thought much less about himself, or the dangers he might have to encounter.

Bill was a hero, though he did not know it, notwithstanding that he had been originally only a London street boy.

“I must find Jack, whatever comes of it,” he said to himself, as he pushed on.

At last he reached the low entrance of the smugglers’ store-room, as Jack and he had called it. He crept on carefully, and as he gained the inner end of the passage, he saw a light burning close to where the goods were piled up, but no voices reached his ear.

If the smugglers were there, they would surely be talking. He rose to his feet, holding out the candle before him. Seeing no one, he advanced boldly across the cavern. There lay a figure stretched upon the ground!

It was Jack!

Chapter Thirteen.

The raft launched and voyage commenced.

Could Jack be dead? What could have happened to him? Bill, hurrying forward, knelt down by his side, and lifted up his head. He still breathed.

“That’s a comfort,” thought Bill. “How shall I bring him to? There’s not a drop of water here, and I can’t carry him as far as the spring.”

Bill rubbed his friend’s temples, while he supported his head on his knee.

“Jack! Jack! rouse up, old fellow! What’s come over you?”

Bill held the candle up to Jack’s eyes. Greatly to his joy they opened, and he said, “Where am I? Is that you, Bill! Is it gone?”

“I am Bill, and you are in the cavern; but there is nothing to go that I know of. It’s all right. Stand up, old fellow, and come along,” replied Bill, cheeringly.

“Oh, Bill,” said Jack, drawing a deep sigh, “I saw something.”

“Did you?” said Bill; “the something did not knock you down, though.”

“No; but I thought it would,” responded Jack.

“That comes of wanting to take what isn’t your own,” said Bill. “However, don’t let’s talk about that. If we are to get off with this tide, we must hurry on board as fast as we can. Don’t mind the gold; I suppose that’s what you came for. Our friends the Turgots will get it, I hope; and they have more right to it than we have.”

Bill’s voice greatly re-assured Jack, who, fancying that he saw one of the ghosts he was afraid of, had fallen down in a sort of swoon. How long it would have lasted if Bill had not come to him it is impossible to say; perhaps long enough to have allowed his candle to be extinguished. Had this happened, he would never have been able to find his way out of the cavern. He, however, with Bill by his side, soon felt like himself again.

“Let me just fill my pockets with these gold pieces,” he exclaimed. “I have taken so much trouble that I shouldn’t like to go away without them.”

“Perhaps the ghost will come back if you do,” Bill could not help saying. “Let them alone. You have got enough already, and we must not stop another moment here.”

Saying this, he dragged Jack on by the arm.

“Come, if we don’t make haste, our candles will go out, and we shall not be able to see our way,” Bill continued.

Jack moved on. He was always ready to be led by Bill, and began to think that he had better not have come for the gold.

Bill did not scold him, vexed as he felt at the delay which had occurred. They might still be in time to get on board the wreck and to launch their raft, but it would be broad daylight before they could get to any distance from the shore, and they would then be sure to be seen. Bill only hoped that no one would think it worth while to follow them.

Having two lights, they were able to see their way pretty well, though they could not run fast for fear of extinguishing them.

Every now and then Jack showed an inclination to stop. “I wish I had got the gold,” he muttered.

Bill pulled him on.

“The gold, I say, would not do us any good. I don’t want it for myself, and you have got enough to make your mother independent for the rest of her days.”

On they went again. Bill was thankful, on reaching the mouth of the cavern, to find that it was still night. It seemed to him a long time since he had quitted the wreck. He did not remember how fast he had gone. They jumped down on the beach, and began to wade towards the wreck, but had to swim some distance.

“If we had had our pockets full of gold we could not have done this,” observed Bill. “We should have had to empty them or be drowned. We are much better without it.”

They soon reached the side of the vessel, and climbed up on deck. There was plenty of water alongside to launch the raft, and to get the casks under it. The wind, too, if there were any, was off shore, but here it was a perfect calm. They had one advantage through having waited so long; they were beyond the influence of the wave which breaks even on a weather shore, especially after a gale, although the wind may have changed.

The tackles having been arranged, they lost no time in launching their raft, which they did very successfully, easing it with handspikes; and in a couple of minutes it floated, to their great satisfaction, safely alongside. Their first care was to lash the casks under the bottom. This took some time, but they were well repaid by finding the raft float buoyantly on the very surface of the water.

The cargo had, however, to be got on board, consisting of the three chests, which, of course, would bring it down somewhat. They lowered one after the other, and lashed them in the positions they had intended. The foremost chest was secured over all by ropes, as that had not to be opened, and was to serve only as a step for their mast; the other two chests were secured by their handles both fore and aft and athwartships, the lashings contributing to bind the raft still more securely together.

Daylight had now broken, and they were in a hurry to get on with their work, but this did not prevent them from securing everything effectually.

They next had to get their stores into the chests; and lastly they stepped and set up the mast, securing the sail ready for hoisting to the halyards, which had been previously rove.

They surveyed their work when completed with no little satisfaction, and considered, not without reason, that they might, in moderate weather, run across Channel, provided the wind should remain anywhere in the southward.

They well knew that they must run the risk of a northerly wind or a gale. In the first case, though they need not go back, they could make little or no progress; but then there was always the hope of being picked up by an English craft, either a man-of-war or a merchant vessel.

They might, to be sure, be fallen in with by a Frenchman, but in the event of that happening, they intended to beg hard for their liberty.

Should a gale arise, as Jack observed, they would look blue, but they hoped that their raft would even weather that out. That it would come to pieces they had no fear; and they believed that they could cling on to it till the sea should again go down.

They had put on board a sufficient supply of spare rope to lash themselves to the chests.

Jack climbed up for the last time on deck, and handed down the three sweeps, taking a look round to see that nothing was left behind.

“All right,” he said; “we may shove off now, Bill. You are to be captain, and take the helm, and I’ll pull till we get out far enough to find a breeze. It seems to me, by the colour of the sea, that it’s blowing in the offing, and we shall then spin merrily along.”

“All right,” said Bill; “cast off, Jack.”

Jack hauled in the rope which had secured the raft to the wreck, and give a hearty shove against it with his oar, he sent the raft gliding off some way ahead. He then got out the other oar, and standing between the two chests, pulled lustily away.

The raft floated even more lightly than they had expected. They had so well noted all the rocks, that they could easily find their way between them, and there was ample space, especially thereabouts where the brig had been driven in.

Their progress was but slow, though they worked away with all their might; every now and then looking back to ascertain whether they were observed from the shore. No one, however, could be seen on the cliffs above; and people, unless they had discovered the wreck, were not likely at that early hour to come down to the beach.

It took them more than half an hour to get clear of the rocks. When once out on the open sea, they began to breathe more freely. They pulled on and on; still, unless they should get the wind, they could not hope to make much progress. The day was advancing. Bill wetted his finger and held it up.

“There’s a breeze,” he cried out; “hoist the sail, Jack.”

The sail filled as Bill sheeted it home, and the raft began to glide more rapidly over the water.

Jack took in the oars, for he wanted to rest, and there was but little use rowing, though it might have helped the raft on slightly.

He could now look about him, and as the two harbours to the east and west opened out, he turned his eyes anxiously towards them.

If they were pursued, it would be from one or the other. He had little fear from that on the west, as there was no one likely to trouble himself about the matter; but there were officials living near the larger harbour, and they might think it their duty to ascertain what the small raft standing off shore under sail could be about.

“I wish that we had got away a couple of hours ago,” said Bill; but he did not remind Jack that it was through his fault they had not done so. He blamed himself, indeed, for having gone to see the Turgots, much as he would have regretted leaving the country without paying them a visit.

The farther the raft got from the shore the more rapidly it glided along, the sea being too smooth in any way to impede its progress.

Bill’s whole attention was taken up in steering, so as to keep the raft right before the wind.

Presently Jack cried out, “There’s a boat coming out of the harbour. She’s just hoisted her sail, and a whacking big sail it is. She’s coming after us. Oh! Bill! what shall we do?”

“Try to keep ahead of her,” answered Bill, glancing round for a moment. “The Frenchmen may not think it worth while to chase us far, even if they are in chase of us, and that’s not certain. Don’t let us cry out before we are hurt. Get out the oars, they’ll help us on a little, and we’ll do our best to escape. I don’t fancy being shut up again, or perhaps being carried off to a prison, and forced into a dungeon, or maybe shot, for they’ll declare that we are escaped prisoners.”

Jack did not, however, require these remarks to make him pull with all his might; still he could not help looking back occasionally. He was standing up, it should be understood, rowing forward, with the oars crossing, the larboard oar held in the right hand, and the starboard in the left.

“The boat’s coming on three knots to our one,” he cried out. “It won’t take her long to be up with us.”

“Pull away,” again cried Bill. “We’ll hold on till the Frenchmen begin to fire. If their bullets come near us, it will be time to think whether it will be worth running the risk of being shot.”

Jack continued to row with might and main, and the raft went wonderfully fast over the water. It was too evident, however, that the boat was in pursuit of them, and in a few minutes a musket ball splashed into the water a short distance astern of the raft.

“That shows that they are in earnest,” said Jack. “We had better lower the sail, another might come aboard us.”

“Hold all fast, perhaps they are getting tired of chasing us, and may give it up when they see that we are determined to get away,” replied Bill; not that he had much hope that this was the case, but he stuck to the principle of not giving in as long as there was a chance of escape.

Jack had plenty of courage, but he did not like being fired at without the means of returning the compliment.

Another shot from the boat came whistling close to them.

“It’s of no use,” cried Jack, “we must lower the sail.”

“If you’re afraid, take in the oars and lie down between the chests; you’ll run very little risk of being hit there; but for my part, I’ll stand at the helm till the boat gets up with us,” said Bill.

Jack would not do this, but pulled away as stoutly as at first.

Presently another shot struck one of the oars, and so splintered it that the next pull Jack gave it broke short off. He was now compelled to take in the other.

“The next time the Frenchmen fire they may aim better,” he said. “Come, Bill, I’m ready to stand by you, but there’s no use being killed if we can help it.”

“The boat isn’t up with us yet,” answered Bill. “Till she gets alongside I’ll hold on, and maybe at the very last the Frenchmen will give up.”

“I don’t see any hope of that,” said Jack. “In ten minutes we shall be prisoners. By-the-bye, I turned all my gold into this chest. If the Frenchmen find it they’ll keep it, so I’ll fill my pockets again, and they may not think of looking into them, but they’re sure to rummage the chest.”

Saying this, Jack opened the chest, and soon found his treasure, which he restored to his pockets. He asked Bill to take some, but Bill declined on the same ground that he had before refused to appropriate it.

Bill again advised Jack to lie down, and, to induce him to do so, he himself knelt on the raft, as he could in that position steer as well as when standing up.

Thus they presented the smallest possible mark to the Frenchmen.

Shot after shot was fired at them. Their chances of escape were indeed rapidly diminishing.

At last the Frenchmen ceased firing.

They were either struck by the hardihood of the boys, or had expended their ammunition; but the boat came on as rapidly as before, and was now not half a cable’s length from them.

“We must lower the sail,” cried Bill, with a sigh, “or the Frenchmen maybe will run us down;” and Jack let go the halyards.

In another minute the boat was up to them.

Besides her crew, there were five soldiers on board.

A volley of questions burst from the people in the boat; and all seemed jabbering and talking together.

As she got alongside the raft, two men leaped out, and seizing Jack and Bill, hauled them into the boat, while another made fast the raft, ready to tow it back to the harbour.

Jack and Bill were at once handed aft to the stern-sheets, where they were made to sit down. Immediately the officer in command of the boat put various questions to them, as to who they were, where they had come from, and where they were going.

According to their previous agreement they made no reply, so that their captors might not discover that they understood French; still, as far as Bill could make out, the Frenchmen were not aware that they were the lads who had escaped from the old tower.

They had no reason to complain of the way they were spoken of by the Frenchmen, who were evidently struck by their hardihood and determination in their persevering efforts to escape. They remarked to each other that their young prisoners were brave boys, and expressed their satisfaction that they were not hurt.

When the officer found, as he supposed, that they could not answer him, he forbore to put any further questions.

The crew did not appear to be angry at the long pull that had been given them back; indeed, Jack and Bill suspected, from what they heard, that the seamen, at all events, would not have been sorry if they had escaped altogether.

On reaching the landing-place in the harbour, they found a party of soldiers, with an officer, who, from what Bill made out, had sent the boat in pursuit of them.

As soon as they stepped on shore the officer began to question them, in the same way as the commander of the boat had done.

Bill shrugged his shoulders and turned to Jack, and Jack shrugged his and turned to Bill, as much as to say, “I wonder what he’s talking about?”

“The lads do not understand French, that is evident,” said the officer to a subordinate standing near him; “I shall get nothing out of them without an interpreter. They do not look stupid either, and they must be bold fellows, or they would not have attempted to made a voyage on that raft. I must have a nearer look at it;” and he ordered the boatmen to bring it in close to the shore, so that he might examine it.

He again turned to Bill, and said, “What were you going to attempt to cross the Channel on that?”

Bill, as before, shrugged his shoulders, quite in the French fashion, for he had learnt the trick from Pierre, who, when he was in doubt about a matter, always did so.

“I forgot; the boy doesn’t understand French,” observed the officer.

Bill had some little difficulty in refraining from laughing, as he understood perfectly well everything that was said around him, except when the Frenchmen talked unusually fast.

“Let the raft be moored close to the shore, just in its present state,” said the officer; “the general may wish to see it. How could the lads have contrived to build such a machine?”

The commander of the boat explained that a wreck had occurred on the shore, and that they had evidently built it from the materials they found on board her, but anything further about them he could not say.

“Well, then, I’ll take them up at once to the general, and the interpreter attached to our division will draw from them all we want to know. Come, lads! you must follow me,” he said. “Sergeant, bring the prisoners along with you.”

On this Jack and Bill found themselves surrounded by the soldiers; and thinking it possible, should they not move fast enough, that their movements might be expedited by a prick from the bayonets, they marched briskly forward, keeping good pace with the men.

Chapter Fourteen.

Again shut up.

“I say, Bill, I wonder what the mounseers are going to do with us,” whispered Jack, as they marched along. “Will they put handcuffs on our wrists and throw us into a dungeon, do you think?”

Bill acknowledged that he feared such might be the fate prepared for them. They were not, however, ill-treated during their walk. Naturally they felt very much disappointed at being recaptured, but they tried as before to put as bold a face as they could on the matter, and talked away to each other in an apparently unconcerned manner.

They found from the remarks of the soldiers that they had a march of a couple of miles or more inland to the place where the troops were encamped, and that they were not to be carried to the old tower.

On one account they were sorry for this, as, having made their escape once, they thought that they might make it again, though, of course, they would be more strictly guarded if it was discovered who they were.

From a height they reached they saw the camp spread out on a wide level space a short distance off. As they got nearer to it they observed a party of officers on horseback riding towards them, one of whom, from the waving plume in his hat, and from his taking the lead, they supposed was the general.

They were right in their conjecture. As he approached with his staff, the officer who had charge of them ordered his men to halt and draw on one side.

The general reined in his horse and inquired who they were.

The captain explained that two foreign lads, supposed to be English, had been discovered, endeavouring to leave the shore on a small raft of curious construction, such as no sane people would have wished to go to sea on; that there was something very suspicious about their movements, as they had persisted in trying to escape, although fired at by the soldiers, and that he had considered it his duty to bring them up for examination, as he could not understand them or make them understand him.

“You acted rightly, Captain Dupont,” said the general. “Let them be brought to my quarters, and I’ll send for Colonel O’Toole to cross-question them.” Bill and Jack understood every word that was said. “We are in for it,” said Bill; “but we must put a bold face on the matter, and speak the truth. We can say that we were living in the cavern for some time, and that when the brig was wrecked, we resolved at once to build a raft, and get back to our own country.”

“It would save a great deal of trouble if we were to say that we were wrecked in the brig, and then it would be but natural that we should try to escape from her,” replied Jack.

“It would not be the truth, and we should not be believed,” answered Bill. “I would say just what happened—that our ship caught fire and blew up, that we were saved by the fishermen, that some French soldiers got hold of us and carried us off prisoners, and that we made our escape from them. We need not mention the names of our friends, and perhaps the interpreter won’t be very particular in making inquiries.”

Bill finally persuaded Jack to agree that they should give a true account of themselves, leaving out only such particulars as were not necessary to mention, such as their visit to the Turgots, and their discovery of the smugglers’ stores.

The general, who was making a survey of the country around the camp, rode on with his staff, while Captain Dupont and his men conducted their two young prisoners to head quarters, there to await his return.

The general was residing in an old chateau, with a high-peaked roof, and towers at each of the angles of the building.

The party passed through the gateway, and proceeded to a room near the chief entrance, which served as a guard-room.

The soldiers remained outside, while the captain, with two men to guard the prisoners, entered. Jack and Bill had to wait for some time, during which they were allowed to sit on a bench by themselves.

Jack began to make observations on the people around them.

“Hush!” whispered Bill, “some one here may understand English better than we suppose, and we shall be foolish to let our tongues get us into a worse scrape than we are in already.”

Jack took Bill’s advice, and when he made any remark it was in a whisper.

They saw several of the officers who entered looking at them, and they were evidently the subject of their conversation. Jack and Bill had reason to consider themselves for a time persons of some importance, though they had no wish to be so.

At last an officer in a handsome uniform entered. He was a red-haired man, with queer twinkling eyes, and a cock-up nose, anything but of a Roman type.

Captain Dupont spoke to him, when the lads saw him eyeing them, and presently he came up and said, “Hurroo! now me boys, just be afther telling me what part of the world you come from!”

Bill, as agreed on, began his narrative in a very circumstantial manner.

“All moighty foine, if thrue,” observed Colonel O’Toole, for he was the officer who had just arrived, having been sent for to act as interpreter.

“It’s true, sir, every word of it,” said Bill.

“Well! we shall see, afther you repeat it all over again to the gineral, and moind you thin don’t made any changes,” said the colonel.

Bill wisely did not reply. Presently the general with his staff appeared, he and a few officers passing on into an inner room. A few minutes afterwards Jack and Bill were sent for.

They found the general with Colonel O’Toole and several other persons seated at a table.

The general spoke a few words, when the colonel again told the prisoners to give an account of themselves.

Bill did so exactly in the words he had before used, Colonel O’Toole interpreting sentence by sentence.

“Good!” said the general. “And what could induce you, when you were once safe on shore, to venture out to sea on so dangerous a machine?”

The colonel interpreting, turned to Jack.

“I wanted to get home and see my mother, for she must fancy I am lost,” answered Jack.

“Well, and a very right motive too,” said the colonel; and he explained to the general what Jack had said.

“And what induced you to attempt the voyage?” asked the colonel, turning to Bill. “Did you want to get back to see your mother?”

“No, sir; I have no mother to see,” answered Bill. “I wanted to get back to do my duty, and fight the enemies of my country.”

The general laughed when this was interpreted to him; and observed to the officers around him, “If such is the spirit which animates the boys of England, what must we expect from the men? I must, however, consider whether we shall allow these boys to return home. They are young now, but in a short time they will grow into sturdy fellows.”

“They’ve got tongues in their young heads,” remarked the colonel. “I’m not altogether certain that they are quite as innocent as they look. Maybe they were sent on shore as spies, and perhaps are midshipmen disguised as common seamen.”

“Let them be searched, then, and ascertain whether they have any papers about them which may show their real character,” said the general.

Jack and Bill clearly understood these remarks, and began to feel very uncomfortable.

Bill remembered that Jack had got his pockets filled with gold, and Jack remembered it too, and wished that he had left it behind in the cavern as Bill had advised.

The colonel, who was in no wise particular as to what work he performed, at once took hold of Bill.

“Come, young gintleman,” he said, “let me see what you have got in your pockets, and next your skin; or, if you will save me the throuble, just hand out your orders or any papers you may have about you.”

“I have got none, sir,” answered Bill. “I told you the truth, that we are mere ship-boys, and as to being spies as you seem to think, we had nothing to spy out that I know of.”

“Well, we will soon see all about that,” said the colonel, beginning to search Bill; but, greatly to his surprise, he found nothing whatever about him, except his knife, the whole of Bill’s worldly wealth, “I told you so, sir,” said Bill, when he had finished. “I spoke only the truth about myself and my companion.” Bill said this, hoping that Jack would escape the search; but the colonel was far too knowing, and presently he seized upon Jack, who, in spite of his efforts to appear unconcerned, began to quake.

The first plunge the colonel made with his hand into one of Jack’s pockets brought forth a number of gold pieces. “Hurroo! now, this is your innocence is it, young gintlemen?” he exclaimed, exhibiting a handful of gold to the general. “Let me be afther seeing what your other pocket contains;” and as he spoke he quickly drew forth another handful of gold, some of which, observing that the general and the other officers were examining the first which he had produced, he slipped into his own pocket.

“Troth! you’re an arrant young rogue,” he exclaimed. “You either stole these, or they were given you to bribe the people to betray their country.”

“They were not given me to bribe any one, and I didn’t steal them,” answered Jack, boldly; “I took them out of the chest which was on our raft, and there was no harm in doing that, I should think.”

Bill was somewhat surprised to hear Jack say this. It was the truth, and the idea must have at that moment occurred to him. He was thus saved from having to betray the existence of the boxes of gold in the cavern, which the colonel would not have long allowed to remain unvisited, he suspected, from the little incident which has just been described.

The colonel translated fairly enough to the general what Jack had just said.

“It is probably the truth,” he remarked; “however, let the boys be detained till we can ascertain more about them. I don’t wish to have them ill-treated. There is a room in the western turret where they can be shut up securely till to-morrow. Colonel O’Toole, see that my orders are carried out; but you can first let them have a view of the army, that they may tell their friends, if they get home, of the mighty force prepared for the conquest of England, and impress on the minds of their countrymen how hopeless is their attempt to resist the armies of France.”

Bill understood every word of these remarks, and they raised his hopes that they might be set at liberty and allowed to return home; still, the Irish colonel did not look very amiably at them; perhaps he did not quite like Bill’s observations.

“Come along,” he said, turning to them; and, bowing to the general and to the other officers, he conducted them from the room, when the two soldiers, who stood ready outside, again took charge of them.

They were led along to a terrace, from whence a view extended over the surrounding country. Here they saw an almost countless number of white tents pitched, with soldiers in various uniforms moving among them.

“Can you count those tents?” asked the colonel. “Each tent contains eleven or thirteen men, and one spirit animates the whole—that is, the conquest of perfidious Albion.”

“They’ll have a tough job, sir, let me tell them,” observed Bill. “I haven’t seen much of English sojers except the Guards in London, and our Marines on board ship, but I know that one of our Guardsmen would lick a whole tentful of the little chaps I see about here; and I would advise the general to stay quietly at home, and not attempt to take our tight little island.”

“The French have wrongs to revenge, as have my gallant people, and bitterly will they revenge them some day, when your king and his nobles are brought in chains to France.”

“That won’t be just yet, and may be never,” answered Bill, who was growing bold, and inclined to speak his mind. “I’ll not bandy words with you, boy. Take care what you are about!” exclaimed the colonel, who did not like Bill’s boldness, especially when he saw a broad grin on Jack’s countenance. “If you ever get back to England—and I don’t say you ever will get back—remember what you have seen to-day, and tell those wretched slaves your countrymen what they are to expect.”

“We’ll not forget it, sir,” answered Bill, thinking it wiser to be civil; “and I hope the general won’t think it necessary to keep in prison two poor sailor boys who never did any harm to the French, and never wished to do any harm, except to thrash them well in a fair stand-up fight; and you will allow, sir, that that’s all right and fair play.”

“Or receive a thrashing from them,” answered the colonel; “however, come along. I must see you stowed safely in the tower, where the general has ordered you to be placed, and moind you kape quiet and don’t kick up a row, as you midshipmen are apt to do.”

“We are not midshipmen, sir,” said Bill, who had not forgotten what the colonel had before said. “We are humble boys serving before the mast. Jack, there, is a fisherman’s son, and I am a poor boy out of the London streets. I am only telling you the truth, sir.”

“You are a very sharp boy, then,” responded the colonel, looking at Bill.

“Yes, sir,” said Bill, “the school I went to is a place where boys are apt to get their wits sharpened. They have little else to depend on.”

The colonel still seemed to doubt whether Bill was speaking the truth, and, perhaps fortunately for them, was fully impressed with the idea that he had charge of a couple of midshipmen. Possibly Bill was a lord’s son; and though he railed against English lords, yet, when brought into contact with them, he was inclined to pay them the deepest respect.

Owing to the colonel’s idea, Bill and Jack were treated with far more attention than they otherwise would have received.

The room into which they were put, though small, had a table and chairs in it, and a bed in one corner.

“You will remain here for the present,” said the colonel, as he saw them into the room; “probably before long the general may wish to examine you again, and I would advise you to take care that you tell him only the truth, and confess your object in coming to the country.”

Bill made no answer; and the colonel, after again surveying the room, took his departure, locking the door behind him.

Chapter Fifteen.

The escape.

Jack and Bill heard Colonel O’Toole descending the stairs, and, listening, were convinced that he had gone away without leaving a sentry at the door.

“We are in luck,” said Bill, as he looked round the room. “This is a better place than the old tower, and I don’t see that it will be much more difficult to escape from.”

They went to the window. It was long and narrow, but there was ample space for them to creep out of it. It was, however, a great height from the ground; three or four storeys up they calculated; and should they attempt to drop down, they would break every bone in their bodies.

“It cannot be done, I fear,” said Jack.

“It can be done, and we’ll do it before to-morrow morning, too,” answered Bill. “When the general ordered us to be shut up here, he was thinking that we were just like a couple of French boys, without a notion of going aloft, or of finding their way down again.”

“But I don’t see how we can manage to get down here,” said Jack, peeping through the window, cautiously though, for fear of being seen. “There is nothing to lay hold of, and the door is locked and bolted. I heard that traitor Irishman shoot a bolt before he went away.”

“Look here,” replied Bill, pointing towards the bed.

“Why, that’s a bed,” said Jack. “It was very good-natured in the mounseers to give it us to sleep on.”

“What do you think it’s made of?” asked Bill. “Why, sheets and blankets and ticking,” replied Jack. “Yes,” said Bill, “you are right; and with those selfsame sheets and blankets, and maybe a fathom or two of rope besides, underneath, I intend that we shall try to lower ourselves down to the ground; and when we are once outside, it will be our own fault if we do not get back to the harbour, and when there, that we do not get on board our raft again. The French captain said it was to be left just as it was for the general to see it to-morrow morning. Before that time comes, I hope that we shall be out of sight of land, if we get a fair breeze, or, at all events, out of sight of the people on shore.”

“I’m always ready for anything you propose, Bill,” said Jack. “I see now well enough how we are to get away. If all goes smoothly, we shall do it. But suppose we are caught?—and there are a good many chances against us, you’ll allow.”

“We can but be shut up again. Even if they were to flog us, we could stand it well enough; and as to the pain, that would be nothing, and it would not be like being flogged for breaking the articles of war, or doing anything against the law. I should call it an honourable flogging, and should not mind showing the scars, if any remained,” said Bill.

“I’m your man, and the sooner we set about turning our sheets and blankets into a rope the better,” exclaimed Jack, enthusiastically. “If we are caught and punished ever so much, we must not mind it.”

“Stop a bit,” said Bill. “Perhaps the red-haired colonel may pay us a visit before nightfall. We must not be caught making preparations for our escape; that would be a green trick.”

“I hope if they come they’ll bring us some supper,” said Jack. “I am pretty sharp set already; and if the mounseers should have stolen the grub out of our chest, we should have nothing to eat on our voyage.”

“I have been thinking too much about going away to feel hungry,” said Bill. “But now you talk of it, I should like some food, and I hope they’ll bring enough to last us for a day or two. Now, I say, it’s getting dark, and we must fix upon the best spot to lower ourselves down to. You listen at the door lest any one should come up suddenly, and I’ll examine the windows and settle the best plan.”

Bill, however, first went to the bed, examined the blankets and sheets and mattress, and found, to his satisfaction, that below all were two thick pieces of canvas, drawn together by a rope. The rope, though rather thin, would, he was satisfied, bear their light weights. It might take them half an hour or so to twist the various materials up into a rope, and altogether would give them one of ample length for their purpose.

This discovery greatly raised the boys’ spirits and hopes of success.

Bill now went to the window, and found that the grass came close up to the walls of the tower underneath. Even should they fall from a considerable height, they might have the chance of not breaking their bones, and that was some satisfaction. An iron bar extended from the top of the window to the bottom in the centre. He felt it, and it was strong as need be. It would do well for securing their rope. As far as he could judge, there was no window under them. This was of consequence, as had there been, they might have been seen by any person within during their descent, rapidly as they might make it. Bill considered whether it would be possible to withdraw the rope after they had descended, but he doubted whether they had sufficient materials to enable them to do that.

“Well, it cannot be helped,” Bill said to himself. “The Frenchmen will see how we escaped, but they won’t find it out till daylight, and it won’t matter much then.”

He had finished his survey, and settled his plan, when Jack cried out, “Hist! there’s some one coming!” and they ran back and sat themselves down near the table with their heads on their hands, as if they were feeling very melancholy and disconsolate.

“I wish I could squeeze out a tear,” said Jack; “but I can’t for the life of me. I feel so jolly at your idea of getting off.”

Presently the door opened, and an old woman entered with a basket.

“I have brought you some food and a bottle of wine, mes garçons,” she said, in a kind tone. “The general gave me permission, and I was very glad to bring it, as I knew that you must be hungry. Poor boys! I heard of your attempt to get away. You would have been drowned to a certainty if you hadn’t been caught, and that would have been sad, for one of you, they say, wanted to get back to see his mother. I have got a son at sea, so I can feel for her. I wish he was safe back again. I don’t know what they will do with you, but I hear that you are to be tried to-morrow, and the Irish officer here says you are spies, and if so, you will run a great chance of being hung, or, at all events, shut up in a prison till you confess what you have been about. Ah! but I forgot. They say you don’t speak French, and you may not have understood a word I have said.”

Jack and Bill could scarcely refrain from laughing as the old woman ran on, but they restrained themselves, and when she showed them the contents of the basket, they merely said, “Bon! bon! merci! merci!” several times, and looked very well pleased, as indeed they were, for there was food enough to last them two or three days, full allowance—cheese and sausages, bread, figs, raisins, and butter, besides the bottle of wine.

They were afraid of drinking much of that, not knowing how weak it was, lest it should get into their heads, for they wanted no Dutch courage to do what they intended—they had pluck enough without that.

The old woman—not that she was so very old, but she was small and thin, with a high white cap and a brown dress fitting closely, which made her look older than she was—stood by, after she had covered the table with the provisions, that she might have the pleasure of seeing the boys eat. They were very willing to give her that pleasure, and set to with a good appetite.

She smiled benignantly, and patted them on their heads, as she watched them stowing away the various things. They were not very particular as to which they took first.

“Bon! bon!” said Jack, every now and then, as he saw that his saying so pleased her. “Merci! merci!”

She poured them out some wine; it was dreadfully sour, so Bill thought, and he made signs to her that he would drink it by-and-by, as he did not like to show her how much he disliked it.

Jack was not so particular, but he was content with a mouthful or two, and then began again on the sausages and figs.

“I hope she is not going to stop till we have done,” said Bill, “or she may take away the remainder. I’ll try and make her understand that we should like a little more by-and-by. I vote we stop now and put the things into the basket. We’ll then show her that we do not wish her to take them away.”

The kind old housekeeper of the chateau—for such she was—seemed to understand the boys’ wishes. Bill even ventured to say a few words in French, which would show her what they wanted; and at last, wishing them good-night, she took her departure.

They heard the door locked and bolted after she went out, as if by some other person; and it made them fear that a sentry was placed there, who might, should they make any noise, look in to see what they were about. It would be necessary, therefore, to be extremely cautious as to their proceedings.

“There’s no one moving,” said Bill, who had crept to the door to listen. He, of course, spoke in a low whisper. “I vote we set to work at once and make our rope. It will take some time, and we ought to be off as soon as the people have turned in, as we must try to get a good distance from the shore before daylight.”

“Suppose any one was to come, and find us cutting up our bed-clothes,” said Jack, “it would be suspected what we were going to do.”

“We’ll keep the coverlid till the last, so as to throw it over the bed should we hear a step on the stair; we must then sit down on the edge, and pretend that we are too sorrowful to think of going to bed,” said Bill.

“That will do,” replied Jack; “I never was a good hand at piping my eye, but I know that I should be inclined to blubber if I thought there was a chance of being found out.”

“There’s no use talking about that. We must run the risk,” observed Bill; “so here goes.” And he forthwith turned back the coverlid, and began measuring the sheets. They were of strong and tough material, and by dividing each into four lengths, he calculated that a rope formed of them would be of sufficient strength for their purpose, and they were quickly cut through with their knives, and each length was then twisted tightly up.

The bed-ticking was treated in the same manner; but that being of less strength, gave them only six much shorter lengths. The sacking and rope at the bottom of the bed would, Bill was sure, reach, at all events, to a short distance from the ground.

As they twisted and bent one piece to another, they surveyed their work with satisfaction, and were convinced that it would bear their weight, though it would hardly have borne that of a man of moderate size. To try it, they tugged away against each other, and it held perfectly firm.

“It will do famously,” exclaimed Bill, after they had joined all the pieces together. “Even if it does not quite reach to the ground, I should not mind dropping a dozen feet or so.”

“But if we do that, the noise we make in our fall may be heard,” said Jack. “Hadn’t we better bend on the coverlid? It’s not so strong as the sheets, but we can put it at the lower end.”

Bill agreed to this, and, as it was of considerable width, it formed three lengths.

“We have enough almost for a double rope, I expect,” said Bill, as he coiled it away ready to carry to the window at the opposite side of the room.

“Oh, no; I don’t think we’ve enough for that,” said Jack; “even if we had, it won’t matter leaving the rope behind. The Frenchmen will see by the disappearance of the bed-clothes how we got out. I advise that we make only one rope, and just get down to the ground as quietly as we can manage to do.”

Bill made another trip to the door to listen.

“No one is coming,” he whispered, as he returned. “Now let’s carry the rope to the window.”

They did so, and Bill leant out to listen again. No sounds reached his ear, except the occasional barking of a dog.

“The people go to bed early in this country,” he observed, “and I am very much obliged to them. We may start, Jack, without much fear of being stopped.”

“But don’t let us forget our grub,” said Jack; and they filled their pockets with the provisions the old woman had brought them, tying up the remainder in their handkerchiefs, which they fastened to the lanyards of their knives. “Now let’s bend on the rope,” said Bill.

They secured it round the iron bar.

“I’ll go first,” said Jack; “if the rope bears me, it’s certain to bear you.”

“No; I proposed the plan, and I ought to go first,” answered Bill. “It’s of no use wasting words. Don’t begin to come down till you feel that I am off the rope. So here goes.”

Bill, on saying this, climbed through the narrow opening between the bar and the side of the window, and then, first grasping the bar with his hands, threw his legs off straight down, and began descending the thin rope. Jack stretched out his head to watch him, but Bill soon disappeared in the darkness.

The rope held, however, though, as he felt it, it appeared stretched to the utmost. He could with difficulty draw a breath, while he waited till, by finding the rope slacken, he should know that Bill had safely reached the bottom. At last he ascertained that Bill was no longer hanging to the rope, while, from not hearing a sound, he was sure that his companion had performed the feat in safety.

As Bill had charged him not to lose a moment, he, following his example, commenced his descent.

Down and down he went, but had he not been thoroughly accustomed to suspend himself on thin ropes, he could not have held on. It seemed to him that he should never reach the bottom; how much further he had to go he could not tell.

All at once he felt a hand grasping him by the leg. A sudden fear seized him.

Could the Frenchmen have got hold of Bill, and were they about to recapture him?

He could with difficulty refrain from crying out; still, as there would be no use in attempting to get up the rope again, he continued to lower himself.

The hand was withdrawn, and presently he found that he had reached the ground.

“All right,” whispered Bill in his ear; “I caught hold of your ankle to let you understand that you were close to the bottom. Now let’s be off! The harbour lies directly under yonder star. I marked its position during daylight, and again just before I began to descend the rope.”

Chapter Sixteen.

Voyage on the raft.

Bill and Jack remained for a few seconds in the dark shade caused by the tall wall of the chateau, listening attentively for any sounds of people moving about. None reached their ears, and only here and there, in the more distant part of the building, were any lights to be seen gleaming from the windows.

“We may run for it now without much chance of being seen,” said Bill. “We must step lightly, though, or we may be heard by some of the sentries. Keep your eye on the star, it’s the best guide we have for the harbour. Now for it! let’s start.”

They set off, treading as lightly as they could on the ground with their bare feet, the soles of which were pretty well hardened. For some distance they had only grass to run over, and a couple of phantoms could scarcely have produced less sound.

In a short time, however, they reached a fence. It was somewhat rotten, and as they were climbing over it, a part gave way and came down with a crash.

“Quick!” said Bill, as he was helping over Jack, who followed him; “we must run on like the wind; somebody may be coming to find out what’s the matter.”

They did not stop, as may be supposed, to repair the damage they had caused, but soon reaching a road which led in the direction they wished to take, they scampered on at full speed.

Tall trees grew on either side of the road, which, casting a dark shadow over it, would have effectually concealed them from view, even if anybody had been looking out for them. The darkness, however, also prevented them from seeing any one who might be ahead.

Sometimes indeed they had a difficulty in keeping in the middle of the road.

“I hope we’re going in the right direction,” said Jack; “I can’t see the star, and the road seems to me to have twisted about.”

“We must, at all events, go on,” answered Bill. “Perhaps we shall catch sight of the star again before long, and we must steer our course accordingly. There’s no use stopping still.”

They went on and on.

“There it is at last,” cried Jack.

The trees which lined the road were much lower, being indeed mere pollards, and allowed them to see the sky overhead.

Presently they heard a dog bark; then another and another. Could the brutes be barking at them?

It was a sign that there were dwellings near, and the inhabitants might be looking out to ascertain what made their dogs bark.

“Never mind,” whispered Bill; “the chances are that the dogs are tied up, and if we keep moving the people won’t see us.”

They passed through the village or hamlet.

They were still, they knew, some distance from the harbour.

Here and there only could they see a light twinkling from a window, probably of some sick-chamber. It was pretty evident that most of the people had gone to bed, still some one or other might be up who would give the alarm.

They found themselves verging to the right; it was better, however, than keeping to the left side, which might lead them away from the harbour. Presently they came to some grassy downs, and the regular road they had been pursuing turned sharp off to the left.

“We had better keep straight on,” said Bill; “we shall be more exposed on the open downs; but then it isn’t likely that anybody will be there to see us, so that won’t matter.”

Jack, as usual, was ready to do whatever Bill proposed. They got quickly over the grass, which was cropped short by sheep feeding on it, and they could manage to see somewhat better than they had done on the road. Presently Jack, whose eyesight was even keener than Bill’s, having been well practised at night from his childhood, caught his companion’s arm, exclaiming, “Hold back; it seems to me that we have got to the edge of the downs.”

They crept cautiously forward. In another instant they would have leapt down a cliff some hundred feet in height, and been dashed to pieces.

They turned away from it, shuddering at the fearful risk they had run, and kept along on somewhat lower ground, still having the star which had before guided them ahead.

Once more they found themselves approaching buildings, but they were low and scattered; evidently only in the outskirts of the village.

“We must be close to the harbour now,” said Jack.

“The greater reason that we should be cautious,” observed Bill. “This road, I suspect, leads right down to the part of the harbour we want to reach.”

They ran on, their hope of escape increasing.

Suddenly they heard the voice of a man shouting out, “Who goes there?”

Bill seized Jack’s arm, and pulled him down in the shadow of a high wall, near which they happened at that moment to find themselves.

Some minutes they waited, scarcely daring to draw breath.

The shout was not repeated.

“We may go on now,” whispered Jack; and getting up, they crept forward. Presently, below them, they caught sight of the harbour, with the stars reflected on its surface.

The most difficult part of their undertaking was now to be performed. They had to find out exactly where their raft lay.

Bill had not failed to observe the shape of the harbour, and to take note of the various objects on shore, as he and Jack were brought in prisoners by the French boat; but the partial survey he was then able to make did not enable him to settle positively in what direction they ought to proceed to find their raft.

By keeping on as they were then going they believed that they should make the shore of the harbour at no great distance from the mouth. They might then keep along up it until they reached the place where they landed, near which they hoped to find their raft moored.

“I am only afraid that we may meet some guards or patrols, or fishermen coming on shore or going off to their vessels,” observed Jack.

“If we do we must try to hide ourselves,” answered Bill. “We’ll keep along as close as we can under the cliffs, or any walls or houses we are passing, so that we may see people before we are seen ourselves.”

They acted as Bill suggested, and pushed boldly onwards. Not a sound was heard coming either from the land side or from the harbour. The water was as smooth as glass.

They were still going forward when Jack seized Bill’s arm. “That’s the place,” he whispered. “I can make out the raft, moored outside a boat at the end of a slip.”

Bill, creeping forward, assured himself that Jack was right, and, as nothing could be gained by waiting a moment, they hurried on, and in a few seconds were on board their raft. Jack plunged his hand into one of the chests, to ascertain that the articles it had contained were still there. They had not been taken away.

He could scarcely refrain from shouting out for joy.

Even the oars had not been removed.

They got another from the boat alongside to supply the place of the one which had been splintered.

“Cut the warps,” cried Bill. “We’ll paddle on till we find the breeze.”

The raft was quickly cast loose, and, getting out the oars, they began to paddle silently down the harbour. They could not avoid making some slight noise, but they hoped that there was no one on the watch to hear it. Very frequently they turned their glances astern to ascertain if they were followed, but they could see nothing moving. There were several vessels lower down the harbour, so they steered a course which would carry them past at some little distance from them.

The raft moved easily over the smooth surface, and they made good way. There was only one vessel more which they had to pass before they reached the harbour’s mouth. They both earnestly hoped that her crew were fast asleep, and that no watch was kept on deck.

They paddled slowly by, and more than half a cable’s length from her, moving their oars as gently as possible, and scarcely daring to breathe. The slightest sound might betray them.

At length they got outside her, and there was nothing now between them and the open channel.

Again Jack could hardly refrain from shouting.

Just then a voice came from the vessel.

Bill looked back. He judged by the distance the vessel was off that the character of the raft could not be discovered. He answered in very good French, “We are going out early this morning, and if we have good luck in fishing, we’ll bring you some for breakfast.”

“Thank you, my friend, thank you,” answered the man on board the vessel.

Bill had been paddling on all the time he was speaking. He was certain that the man did not suspect who he and Jack were, and in a few minutes they lost sight of the vessel altogether.

They now gave way with might and main. They were rowing for life and liberty; for if again caught, they fully believed that they should be shot. How anxiously they wished that a breeze would spring up!

For fully an hour they rowed on, till the shore faded from sight.

They were steering by the polar star, which both Jack and Bill knew well.

“If there’s a breeze from the southward, we ought to feel it by this time,” observed Jack.

“Never fear; we shall find it before long,” answered Bill. “We are not so far away from the cliffs as you suppose, and it would be as well not to speak loud, or our voices may reach any boat passing, or even people on shore.”

“I hope there will be none there at this hour, though they will come down fast enough in the morning from the chateau, when they find we have taken French leave,” said Jack.

“A very proper thing to take, too, seeing we were in France,” remarked Bill, with a quiet chuckle. “I hope we shall never set foot on its shores again.”

“So do I; but I’m afraid we have a great chance of doing so, unless we get a breeze pretty soon. I am inclined to whistle for it,” said Jack.

“It won’t come the faster for that,” answered Bill. “We shall do more good by working our oars. We are sending the raft along at three knots an hour at least, and as it will be three hours or more before daylight, we shall be ten miles or so away from the shore, even if we do not get a breeze, before the Frenchmen find out that we have got off.”

As Bill advised, he and Jack continued pulling away as lustily as at first.

The smoothness of the water was a great advantage to them, for had there been any sea their progress would have been much slower.

An hour or more passed away, when Bill exclaimed, “Here comes the wind, and right aft, too! It’s not very strong yet, but it will freshen soon, I hope. Stand by, Jack, to hoist the sail!”

“Ay, ay!” answered Jack, taking hold of the halyards and feeling that all was clear.

“Hand me the sheet; and now hoist away,” said Bill.

Jack, with right good will, hauled away at the halyards, and the sail was soon set.

The raft felt the influence of the breeze and glided on at an increased speed. It was cheery to hear the water rippling against the bows.

“We must take care not to capsize the raft if the wind increases much,” observed Bill. “Keep the halyards ready to let go in a moment; the sail is full large for our craft, and it would not take long to capsize it.”

“Trust me for that,” said Jack; “I have no wish to be drowned, and I feel wonderfully jolly at the thought of having got away. Are you steering a right course, Bill? It seems to me that the sail must be between you and the polar star.”

“No; I can see it directly over the yard when I stand up and keep well aft,” answered Bill. “The wind, too, won’t let us go in any other direction.”

“How about the tide?” asked Jack.

“Why, as it was just on the ebb when we came out of the harbour, and helped us along, it is, I calculate, making to the westward. It won’t, however, run much longer in that direction, and it will then carry us to the eastward for a good six hours. We’ll be well out of sight of land by that time, and, I hope, may fall in with an English cruiser, though, for my part, I would rather run right across the Channel. It would be fine fun to land, and tell the people how we managed it. They would think more of our raft than the Frenchmen did, though there are not many boys afloat who would not try to do as we have done.”

Jack was of the same opinion, and as there was no necessity for rowing, while Bill steered, Jack sat on a chest with his arms folded. Suddenly he exclaimed, “I say, Bill, I am getting very peckish; I vote we have some supper.”

“Well, we have not far to go for it,” observed Bill, “seeing we have got enough in our pockets to last us for the whole of to-morrow.”

As Bill could not well manage to steer and tend the sheet and eat his supper, too, he let Jack finish his; after which they changed places, and Bill fell to with a good appetite on some of the old Frenchwoman’s provisions.

“I hope the kind old creature won’t get into any scrape for supplying us,” said Bill.

“I don’t see how it will be found out that she gave us so much,” said Jack. “When she finds that we are gone, she’ll keep her own counsel, depend on that.”

“We must not expend the food too fast, though,” remarked Bill. “It will take us several days to get across Channel; and it won’t do to run short of provisions.”

“You forget those we have in the chest,” said Jack.

“Are you certain that the Frenchmen allowed them to remain there,” asked Bill, opening the lid of one of them, and feeling about. “Yes! here’s a piece of beef or pork and some biscuit. All right, we shall do now. I’ll take the helm again if you like; I feel more comfortable when I’m at it, though you steer well enough, I dare say.”

“As you like,” said Jack. “I’d just as soon stand by the halyards.”

They again changed places.

Bill kept his eye on the polar star, while Jack peered under the sail ahead, that they might not, as he said, run down any craft.

Thus the night passed away. The breeze slightly increased, but Bill considered that they might still carry their whole sail with safety. Perhaps they did not move along quite so fast as he supposed. He told Jack that he thought they were running through the water at five knots an hour; but four, or even three, knots was a good deal for a raft to make, with flat bows, light and well put together as it was.

They were too much excited to feel the slightest inclination to sleep, and being both in capital spirits, did not trouble themselves with thinking of the possibility that the weather might change before they could get across to the English coast. A fast lugger would take nearly two days to do the distance.

The dawn now broke, and they eagerly looked out on every side for a sail. As the light increased they were greatly disappointed, on gazing astern, to discover the French coast still in sight, though blue and indistinct, like a cloud rising out of the water. No sail, however, was to be seen in that direction. That was a comfort; they were not pursued by any large craft, and could certainly not be seen from the shore.

To the northward, however, they caught sight of a sail just rising above the horizon, and soon afterwards another was seen to the eastward, but which way she was standing they could not determine.

As the sun rose the wind decreased, and before long it became perfectly calm.

“We must lower the sail and take to our oars again,” said Bill. “It won’t do to stop where we are.”

“I am ready to pull on as long as I have any strength in me,” answered Jack, as he stowed the sail, and got out his oar.

Chapter Seventeen.

A narrow escape—The fugitives picked up by a frigate.

The rest Jack and Bill had obtained while their raft was under sail enabled them to row with as much vigour as at first; and row they did with might and main, knowing that their liberty might depend upon their exertions.

The calm was very trying, for they had expected to be wafted quickly across the Channel, and row as hard as they could, their progress must be slow. After rowing for a couple of hours or more, they found themselves apparently no nearer the ship ahead than they had been at first.

At length hunger compelled them to lay in their oars and take some breakfast. They ate a hearty one, for they had plenty of provisions; but on examining their stock of water they found that they must be very economical, or they might run short of that necessary of life.

After a short rest, Bill sprang to his feet.

“It won’t do to be stopping,” he observed. “If we only make a couple of miles an hour it will be something, and we shall be so much nearer home, and so much farther away from the French shore.”

“I’m afraid that when the mounseers find out that we have escaped, they will be sending after us,” said Jack. “They will be ashamed of being outwitted by a couple of English boys, and will do all they can to bring us back.”

“I believe you are right, Jack,” replied Bill; “only, as they certainly will not be able to see us from the shore, they won’t know in what direction to pull, and may fancy that we are hid away somewhere along the coast.”

“They’ll guess well enough that we should have pulled to the nor’ard, and will be able to calculate by the set of the tide whereabouts to find us,” said Jack. “We mustn’t trust too much to being safe as yet. I wonder what that vessel to the eastward is. She’s a ship, for I can see her royals above the horizon, and she’s certainly nearer than when we first made her out.”

“She must be standing to the westward, then, and will, I hope, pass inside of us, should the breeze spring up again from the same quarter,” observed Bill. “She’s probably French, or she would not be so close in with the coast.”

“As to that, our cruisers stand in close enough at times, and she may be English notwithstanding,” answered Jack.

“Unless we are certain that she’s English we shall be wiser to avoid her,” remarked Bill, “so we’ll pull away to the nor’ard.”

“But what do you think of the ship out there?” asked Jack, pointing ahead.

“I cannot help believing that she’s English,” said Bill. “We must run the chance of being seen by her. We shall have to pull on a good many hours, however, first, and when the breeze springs up, she’ll pretty quickly run either to the eastward or westward.”

The boys, however, after all their remarks, could arrive at no conclusion. They rowed and rowed, but still appeared not to have moved their position with regard either to the shore or the two vessels in sight.

The sun rose high above their heads and struck down with considerable force; but they cared little for the heat, though it made them apply more frequently than they otherwise would have done to their water-cask. Bill had more than once to warn Jack not to drink too much.

The day was drawing on, and at last Jack proposed that they should have another rest and take some dinner. “There’s no use starving ourselves, and the more we eat the better we shall be able to pull,” he said.

Bill was not quite of this opinion. At the same time he agreed to Jack’s proposal, as his arms were becoming very weary.

They had just finished their dinner when Jack, getting up on the chest in which the mast was stepped, so that he might have a better look-out, exclaimed, “I see a sail between us and the land. The sun just now glanced on it. There’s a breeze in shore, depend on it, and it will reach us before long.”

Bill jumped up to have a look-out also. He could not distinguish the sail, but he thought by the darker colour of the water to the southward that a breeze was playing over it, though it had not as yet got as far as they were. They again took to their oars and pulled on. Jack, however, occasionally turned round to look to the southward, for he entertained the uncomfortable idea that they were pursued.

They were now, they agreed, nearer the ship to the northward. Her lofty sails must have caught a light westerly air, which did not reach close down to the water, and had sent her along two or three knots an hour. They could see half-way down her courses, and Jack declared his belief that she was a frigate, but whether English or French he could not determine.

Unless, however, they were to hoist their sail, they might pass very close to her without being discovered, and the course she was steering would take her somewhat to the eastward of them.

They would have to settle the point as to whether she was a friend or foe, and in the former case whether it would be advisable to hoist their sail, and made every signal in their power to attract her attention, or to keep the sail lowered until she was at a distance from them. Bill had not been convinced that Jack had seen a sail to the southward.

“Whether or not I saw one before, there’s one now,” cried Jack, “and pretty near, too, and what’s worse, it’s a boat, so that they have oars, and will be coming up with us in spite of the calm.”

“They must have had a breeze to get thus far,” remarked Bill.

“Yes, but it has failed them now; see, they are lowering down the sail.” As Jack spoke, a light patch of white like the wing of a wild-fowl was seen for a moment glancing above the water landward.

“Yes, there’s no doubt that was a sail, which must have come from the shore; but it is a question whether the Frenchmen will have the pluck to pull on in the hopes of finding us, or will turn back. One thing is certain, that we had better try to keep ahead, when they will have farther to come if they still pursue us.”

Once more the boys got their oars out, and laboured away as energetically as before. They every now and then, however, looked back to ascertain if the boat were coming after them. Meantime a light breeze played occasionally over the water, but it was so light that it would not have helped them much, and they thought it wiser not to hoist their sail, as it would betray their position should a French boat really be in pursuit of them.

The ship, which they supposed to be a frigate, was in in the meantime drawing nearer to them from the north-east.

“I cannot help thinking that the boat is still coming after us,” cried Jack. “I fancy I caught sight of the gleam of the sun on the men’s hats; if I were to swarm up the mast I should be more certain.”

“You will run the chance of capsizing the raft if you do,” observed Bill.

“I’ll just go a little way up,” retorted Jack; and he jumped on the chest, and hoisted himself three or four feet only up the mast, while Bill sat down on the deck to counterbalance his weight.

“Yes, I was right,” said Jack, coming down. “I made out a boat, as sure as we are here, and a large one, too, or I should not have seen her so clearly. She’s a good way off still, so that it will be some time before she can get up with us. The French fellows in her must take yonder ship to be a countryman, or they would not pull on so boldly.”

“They may think that they have time to pick us up and be off again before the ship can get near them,” said Bill; “but whatever they think, we must try to disappoint them, so we’ll pull away as long as we can stand, and then we’ll row on our knees.”

The sun was by this time sinking towards the west; and should darkness come on, their chances of escape would be increased. The wind had shifted slightly to the south-west, and should it freshen sufficiently to make it worth while hoisting the sail, they might stand away to the north-east. It still, however, wanted two or three hours before it would be perfectly dark, while the boat would be up to them before that time. After rowing for the greater part of an hour, Jack again took a look-out, and reported that he could distinctly see the boat.

“So I suspect by this time can the people on board the ship,” observed Bill, “and probably they can see us also; but the crew of the boat well know that with this light wind they can easily row away from the ship should she prove to be English.”

In a short time they could both see the boat when only standing up on the raft. They had now too much reason to fear that, in spite of all their efforts, they should be overtaken. Still, like brave boys, they pulled on, though their arms and backs were aching with their exertions.

The Frenchmen, who must by this time have seen the raft, appeared determined to re-take them.

Presently a report was heard, and a bullet flew skimming over the water, but dropped beneath the surface somewhere astern.

Another and another followed.

“Their shot won’t hurt us as yet,” observed Bill. “They fancy that they can frighten us, but we’ll show them that they are mistaken;” and he pulled on as steadily as he had before been doing.

Jack, however, could not resist jumping up once more on the chest, and looking towards the ship.

“Hurrah! there’s a boat coming off from the ship!” he cried out. “If she’s English, she’ll soon make the Frenchmen put about.”

Jack was right as to a boat coming from the ship, but the Frenchmen still pulled on. Perhaps they did not see the boat, or if they did, thought that she also was French.

Again and again the pursuers fired, the bullets now falling close to the raft.

“A miss is as good as a mile,” cried Bill, rowing on.

But the French boat was evidently getting terribly near.

If any tolerable marksman were on board, he could easily pick off the two occupants of the raft. They knew that well enough, but they kept to their resolution of pulling on till the last.

They were encouraged, too, by seeing the boat from the stranger making towards them. Presently three or four bullets together flew close to their ears, and fell into the water ahead.

“Pull on! pull on!” cried Bill; “the fellows fired to vent their spite. They are going to give up the chase.”

He looked round as he spoke, and, sure enough, the stern of the boat was seen.

The Frenchmen were rowing back to the shore.

The boat of the stranger, instead of steering, as she had been, towards the raft, was now seen directing her course after the French boat, the crew of which were evidently straining every nerve to escape.

“Hurrah!” cried Jack, standing up and waving his cap, “that’s an English frigate.”

“No doubt about it,” exclaimed Bill; “I can see her ensign blowing out;” and he could scarcely refrain from throwing up his cap, but remembered that it might chance to fall overboard if he did.

Directly afterwards a gun was heard, fired by the frigate.

It was a signal to recall the boat.

She would have had a long pull before she could over take the Frenchmen.

The signal was not to be disobeyed, and she was seen to pull round and steer for the raft.

The boys eagerly watched her approach.

She was soon up to them.

“Hallo, my lads! where do you come from?” asked the officer, who was standing up in the stern-sheets.

“We are running away from the Frenchmen, sir,” answered Bill.

“A curious craft you have chosen for the purpose,” observed the officer.

“It was the best we could get, sir,” said Bill. “We twice have managed to make our escape, and the first time were caught and carried back.”

“Well, we’ll hear all about it by-and-by. Come, jump on board. I should like to tow your raft to the frigate, but we must not delay for that purpose,” exclaimed the officer.

Jack and Bill quickly tumbled into the boat, though, as soon as they were on board, they cast wistful glances at their raft.

The officer ordered the men to give way, and steered the boat towards the frigate. He now asked the lads how they came to be in France.

Bill briefly described how the Foxhound had blown up, and the way in which they had been taken on board a French fishing-vessel, and their various adventures on shore.

“That’s curious enough,” observed the lieutenant, “for we have on board the frigate most of those who escaped.”

The officer, who was the third lieutenant of the frigate, had learned the greater part of their history by the time the boat got up to her.

He and most of the crew quickly climbed on board, followed by the boys.

The falls were hooked on, and the boat hoisted up.

Whom should Jack and Bill see standing on the deck, and issuing his orders to the crew to “brace round the yards,” but Mr Saltwell, the first lieutenant of their former ship.

They stood for some minutes by themselves, for everybody was too much engaged to attend to them. The frigate’s head was now turned in the direction of the stranger they had seen to the eastward, towards which they observed that the glasses of several of the officers were directed.

“Though she has not shown her colours, I feel positive that she’s French,” observed the captain to Mr Saltwell.

“I hope that you are right, sir,” was the answer; “but we shall scarcely get up to her before dark.”

“We shall get near enough to make the private signal,” said the captain, “and if she does not answer it we shall know how to treat her when we do get up to her.”

All the sail the frigate could carry was set, and as the breeze had increased, she ran rapidly through the water.

Chapter Eighteen.

The frigate in action—Bill shows that he can be of use.

The stranger, which had apparently been beating down Channel, now put up her helm, and setting studden sails stood to the eastward before the wind. She failed also to answer the private signal; no doubt, therefore, remained that she was French, and wished to avoid an action, though, as she appeared to be as large as the English frigate, if not larger, this was somewhat surprising.

“Perhaps she has some consorts to the eastward, and wishes to lead us into their midst during the night,” observed Mr Saltwell.

“She will find that she’s mistaken. We will keep too bright a look-out to be so caught,” said the captain.

The first lieutenant, as he was walking forward, caught sight of Bill and Jack.

“Why, lads, where do you come from?” he asked.

As he spoke he recognised Bill.

“Are you not the lad who gave notice of the plot of the American captain to capture our ship?” he asked.

Bill acknowledged that such was the case.

“I am truly glad that you have escaped. I promised our late captain that I would keep an eye on you,” he continued, “and I shall now have the opportunity. I thought you, with the rest of our poor fellows, had been lost when our ship blew up.”

Bill briefly described their adventures, and the lieutenant seemed much interested. He said he would have them at once entered on the ship’s books, for as they were likely soon to be engaged with the enemy, it might be of importance to them.

He accordingly sent for the purser, to whom he gave the proper directions. Bill and Jack then made their way below.

On passing the galley they saw a boy busily employed, assisting the cook’s mate in cleaning pots and pans. He looked up at them and started, letting drop the pot at which he was scrubbing.

“What! Bill! Jack! I thought you had gone to Davy Jones’s locker,” he exclaimed. “Are you really yourselves?”

“No doubt about it, Tom,” answered Bill and in a few words they again told their adventures.

Tom soon recovered from his astonishment. He appeared somewhat ashamed of his present occupation. He had got into a scrape, he acknowledged, and had been ordered to assist the cook’s mate.

“I wish you would tell him, Tom, that we are very hungry, as we have had a long pull, and that if he would give us something to eat we should be very much obliged to him. If he’s a good-natured fellow, I daresay he will.”

Tom undertook to plead for them with the cook himself, who just then put his head out of the galley. The cook, without hesitation, on hearing their story, gave them each a basin of broth and a handful of biscuit.

While they were eating they asked Tom to tell them how he had escaped.

“I’ve no very clear notion about the matter,” he answered; “I must have been in the water, for I found myself lying at the bottom of a boat wet to the skin, and more dead than alive. There were a dozen or more of our fellows in her, and Mr Saltwell, our first lieutenant, who had been picked up, I supposed, as I had been. They thought I was done for, and, as the boat was overloaded, they were about to heave me overboard, when I opened my eyes, and sang out, ‘Don’t;’ so they let me remain, and after some time pulled alongside a cutter, on board which we were taken and looked after below. Shortly afterwards we went in chase of a French craft of the same rig as ours, but she got away, and we then steered for Plymouth. We were at first taken on board the guardship, where we remained some time, and then I was transferred with others to this frigate, the Thisbe, of which, to my great satisfaction, I found that Mr Saltwell had been appointed first lieutenant. Thinking that, as we had shared a common misfortune, he would stand my friend, I went up to him, and telling him that I was a gentleman’s son, begged he would have me put on the quarter-deck. He told me that if I did my duty I should have as good a chance as others; but here I am set to scrape potatoes and clean pots and pans. It’s a shame, a great shame, and I can’t stand it.”

Bill and Jack had a tolerably correct notion why Tom was not better off, but they did not say so, as they did not wish to hurt his feelings, and were grateful to him for having obtained for them the broth and biscuits.

They had scarcely finished their meal when the order came to extinguish the galley fire.

A short time afterwards the drum beat to quarters, and every one was employed in getting the ship ready for action.

Jack and Bill expected that they would be employed in their former occupation of powder-monkeys, though, having been awake all the previous night, and in active exertion the whole of the day, notwithstanding the expectation of a battle, they could with difficulty keep their eyes open. They were going with the rest of the boys to the powder-magazine, when they heard their names called out, and the ship’s corporal appearing, told them that the first lieutenant had directed that they should turn in below and take some sleep.

A couple of hammocks were slung for them forward, and they very gladly obeyed the order.

Bill made an effort to keep awake, that he might turn out again should the ship go into action, but in less than two minutes drowsiness overtook him, and he went fast asleep.

He dreamed, however, that he heard the guns firing, and the crew shouting, and that he got up and found that the frigate had taken the Frenchman.

Meantime, however, the wind falling light, the frigate made but slow progress, though she still kept the enemy in sight.

When Bill really awoke, the light was streaming down through the fore-hatchway. He roused up Jack, as there was no one below to call them, and on going on deck they discovered the crew at their quarters, and the French frigate almost within range of their guns.

She was to leeward, for the wind was still in its former quarter, and she had just then hauled up and backed her main-topsail to await their coming.

She was now seen to carry four more guns than the Thisbe, and to be apparently considerably larger, her bright, polished sides showing that she had not been long out of harbour.

When a ship goes into action, sail is generally shortened, but Captain Martin kept all the Thisbe’s set, and stood on, bearing down directly for the enemy.

Jack had been sent to join the other boys, who were employed in bringing up the powder as required from the magazine, but the first lieutenant directed Bill to remain near him.

Jack took his seat as a matter of course on his tub, and, as it happened, next to Tom.

“How are you feeling?” asked Tom, who looked rather pale.

“Much as I generally do, only I am rather peckish,” answered Jack. “I wish we had had time for breakfast before thrashing the mounseers, but I hope that won’t take us very long.”

“I hope not,” said Tom; “only they say that the French ship is the bigger of the two.”

“What’s the odds of that, provided we can work our guns twice as fast as they can?” observed Jack; “that’s the way we licked the Frenchmen before, and, of course, we shall lick them again; but I say, Tom, what makes you look so melancholy?”

“Do I? Well, if you want to know, I was thinking of home, and wishing I had not run off to sea. I’ve had a miserable life of it since I came on board this frigate. It was my own fault that I did not go back when I was last on shore. I had the chance, but was ashamed to show my face.”

“There’s no use thinking about that sort of thing now,” said Jack. “We shall be fighting the Frenchmen in a few minutes, and the round and grape shot and bullets will be flying about our ears.”

“That’s what I don’t quite like the thoughts of,” replied Tom. “I hope neither you nor I will be hit, Jack.”

“Of course not,” said Jack; “it wouldn’t be pleasant, though we must do our duty, and trust to chance, or rather trust in Providence, like the rest.”

“I don’t envy Bill up on deck there,” remarked Tom. “I wonder what the first lieutenant wants with him.”

“Perhaps he intends to turn him into a midshipman,” suggested Jack.

“Into a midshipman! a London street boy, who scarcely knows who his father was,” ejaculated Tom. “I should think he would have made me one before him.”

“The first lieutenant doesn’t care a rap what he or his father was. He remembers only the way Bill saved the ship from being taken by the American skipper, and he seemed highly pleased at our having escaped from France. I tell you I shouldn’t be at all surprised if Bill is placed on the quarter-deck,” said Jack.

Tom gave a grunt of dissatisfaction. The conversation had a good effect, as far as he was concerned, as it made him forget the fears he had entertained about his personal safety.

In the meantime Bill remained on deck watching what was going forward. He heard Captain Martin tell the first lieutenant that he intended to engage the enemy to leeward, in order to prevent her escape; but as the Thisbe approached the French ship, the latter, suspecting his intention, so as to frustrate it, wore round on the starboard tack.

After much skilful seamanship on both sides, Captain Martin, finding that he could not succeed, ranged up to windward of the enemy within pistol shot, both ships being on the larboard tack, two or three points off the wind.

They now simultaneously opened their broadsides, the shot of the Thisbe telling with considerable effect, while not a few of those of the enemy came on board in return, cutting up her rigging, and laying low three or four of her men.

The French ship now passed under the stern of the Thisbe, firing her larboard broadside with great precision. A second time she attempted to repeat the manoeuvre, but the crew of the Thisbe, having quickly rove new braces, her sails were thrown aback, and gathering sternway, her starboard quarter took the larboard bow of the French frigate.

The French on this made several attempts to board, but the marines, who were drawn up on deck, opened so warm a fire that they were driven back with considerable loss.

The Thisbe had now her enemy fast to her quarter. In order to keep her there, Captain Martin and some of his crew endeavoured to lash her bowsprit to his mizenmast; while others were engaged in bringing a gun to bear, out of a port which the carpenters quickly cut through the stern windows and quarter gallery.

While they were thus engaged, the enemy kept up a hot fire on them, several men being killed and wounded; but the gun was at length brought into position.

“Now fire, my lads!” cried the second lieutenant, who was superintending the operation.

After the first, discharge, no sooner had the smoke cleared away, than full twenty Frenchmen were seen stretched on the deck.

Bill had been standing near the first lieutenant. A marine had just loaded his musket, but was knocked over before he had time to fire it. Bill at that moment saw a French seaman run along the bowsprit with a musket in his hand. Bill, springing forward, seized that of the marine, and, as he did so, he observed the Frenchman taking aim at the head of Mr Saltwell, whose eyes were turned in a different direction.

There was not a moment for deliberation. Without ceremony pushing the lieutenant aside, he fired at the Frenchman, who, as he did so, discharged his musket, but immediately fell overboard, the ball tearing away the rim of Mr Saltwell’s hat, but without hurting him.

The first lieutenant, turning round, perceived the way by which his life had been saved.

“Thank you, my lad,” he said, “I see how you did it, and I’ll not forget the service you have rendered me.”

There was no time just then for saying more, for a party of Frenchmen were attempting to fire a carronade on their forecastle. Before they could succeed, the marines had picked off the greater number. Others took their places, but every man of them was treated in the same manner. At last the attempt to fire the gun was abandoned.

The French ship now getting a breeze, began to forge ahead. This enabled the Thisbe’s crew to bring their aftermost gun on the starboard side to bear, the first discharge from which cut away the gammoning of the French frigate’s bowsprit.

The two ships now separated, but were soon again abreast of each other exchanging broadsides; but so rapidly did the English crew work their guns that they managed to fire three to the Frenchman’s two.

A loud cheer burst from their throats as they saw the enemy’s maintopmast go over the side. The Thisbe now forged ahead clear of her adversary, and the breeze dying away, the firing ceased on both sides. Still the Frenchmen kept their colours flying.

The English crew were busily employed in knotting and splicing the rigging which had been cut away, and repairing other damages.

“I hope they’ve had enough of it, and that the fighting is over,” exclaimed Tom.

“Not so sure of that,” said Jack. “The French take a good deal of drubbing, and don’t always know when they are beaten.”

Tom felt, at all events, that he had had enough of it, as he looked along the deck and saw numbers of the men who had been slightly hurt binding up each other’s wounds. Several lay stiff and stark, whose bodies were dragged on one side, while not a few, severely hurt, had been carried below to the cockpit, where the surgeon and his mates had ample employment.

Among the killed was the second lieutenant, a master’s mate, and two young midshipmen; altogether of the two hundred and fifty men who that morning were in health and strength, forty were either killed outright or were severely wounded.

Just then, however, the survivors were too much occupied to think about the matter; every man and boy was wanted to get the ship to rights, and all were eagerly looking out for a breeze that they might again attack the enemy. Bill was as eager as any one for the fight. He felt that he was somebody, as he could not help reflecting that he had done good service in saving the life of the first lieutenant, though he did not exactly expect any reward in consequence. It seemed to him that he had grown suddenly from a powder monkey into a man. Still the calm continued, and the two ships lay with their sails against the masts, the water shining like a polished mirror.

The calm was to the advantage of the French, who had thus longer time to repair their damages. The English were soon ready to renew the action.

What, however, might not happen in the meantime?

Both the captain and Mr Saltwell thought it possible that the French squadron might be to the eastward, and should the firing have been heard, and a breeze spring up from that direction, which it was very likely to do, the Frenchmen in overwhelming force might be down upon them.

The captain walked the deck, looking anxiously out in every direction for signs of a breeze. Occasionally reports were brought to him of the way the wounded men were getting on. The surgeons had as much work as they could get through, cutting off arms and legs, setting broken limbs, and binding up flesh wounds. Such are the horrors of war! How many might be added ere long to the number of the killed and wounded!

It was nearly noon when the captain exclaimed, “Here comes a breeze! Trim sails, my lads!” The men flew to the braces. The canvas blew out, and the frigate began slowly to move towards her antagonist.

Chapter Nineteen.

The “Thisbe” victorious—An enemy’s squadron heaves in sight.

The crew of the Thisbe stood at their guns, ready to open fire at the word of command. Several who had, at the commencement of the action, been among them, were missing; and though the survivors mourned their loss, that was not the time either to think or talk about them. Not a word, indeed, was spoken fore and aft; not even the usual jokes passed between the men. The Frenchman showed no inclination to avoid the combat. He could not have got away even had he wished, for his foretopmast was gone, and he had not fully repaired the other damages he had received aloft.

Nearer and nearer the Thisbe drew to the enemy, still the looked-for word of command did not come. The captain resolved to wait till he got close up to her. The French, also, for some time refrained from firing, though the Thisbe was within range of their guns. They were the first to lose patience, or perhaps they thought that they could knock away the spars and rigging of their antagonist, and thus be able to make their escape.

The Thisbe, however, was coming up on their larboard quarter. Their guns which they could bring to bear were trained high for the purpose mentioned. The shot came whistling about her masts and rigging; but though some of her sails were shot through, and a few ropes cut away, no material damage was received. The breeze at that instant freshened, and the Thisbe glided rapidly on.

“Give it them, my lads!” cried the captain, as the helm being put to starboard the whole of the Thisbe’s broadside was brought to bear with terrible effect on the enemy.

The Frenchman again fired. The Thisbe’s guns were quickly run in and reloaded. The breeze at that instant blew aside the smoke, and as it did so the enemy’s foremast was seen to fall with a crash overboard.

Loud cheers rang forth from the decks of the Thisbe. Again her broadside was fired, but no return came. The next instant, through the smoke, the Frenchman’s ensign was seen in the act of being lowered, just in time to save them from another broadside.

The British crew had cheered lustily when they saw the foremast fall. They now redoubled their shouts, turning round and shaking each other heartily by the hand; some throwing up their caps, and others, mostly the Irishmen of the crew, leaping and dancing with delight.

Two of the Thisbe’s boats being uninjured, they were lowered; and the third lieutenant, with a master’s mate and a party of seamen, was sent on board to take possession of the prize.

As they were about to shove off, Mr Saltwell inquired whether any one could speak French.

“I can, sir,” said Bill, touching his hat.

“Then go and assist Mr Sterling; you will be of much use,” said the first lieutenant.

Bill, who had been longing to visit the prize, obeyed with no small satisfaction.

As they reached her deck, an officer advanced with his sword in his hand, and presented it to Mr Sterling, who, receiving it, handed it to Bill.

The French officer announced that he was the second lieutenant of the Diana frigate, which it was his misfortune now to yield into the possession of her British conquerors.

Mr Sterling bowed in return.

“Tell him, Rayner,” he said, “that we acknowledge how bravely he and his countrymen have fought their ship, and that though they have lost her, they have not lost their honour.”

The French lieutenant looked highly gratified at this remark when Bill interpreted it, and desired him to express his obligation to the English lieutenant.

The captain and first lieutenant had been killed, as were no less than thirty of the crew, including other officers, while fifty were wounded.

The deck, indeed, presented a dreadful scene—strewed in every direction with corpses, while many poor fellows were so fearfully injured that their shipmates had been unwilling to move them.

The other officers presented their swords, while the seamen unbuckled their cutlasses, and the marines piled their arms. Many wry faces were made, though most of the Frenchmen merely shrugged their shoulders, observing that what had happened to them was the fortune of war. Bill made himself very useful in communicating with the French officers and crew.

One of the Diana’s boats had escaped injury, and she, being lowered, assisted the other boats in carrying the prisoners on board the Thisbe. They far outnumbered the English, and much vigilance was required to keep them in order.

The prize crew sent on board the Diana set to work, under the command of Mr Sterling, to stop the shot-holes in her sides, and to repair her other more serious damages. A jury-mast was rigged forward, to supply the place of the foremast carried away. In the meantime, a hawser being conveyed on board the Thisbe, the prize was taken in tow, and sail was made for Plymouth.

It was of the greatest importance to get away from the French coast without delay, for a northerly wind might spring up and drive the two ships upon it; or if, as Captain Martin suspected, a French squadron was in the neighbourhood, the sound of the firing might have reached them, and they would very probably come up to ascertain what had taken place, when the prize would be recaptured, and the Thisbe herself might find it very difficult to escape.

Everybody on board had, therefore, ample work to do; besides which the prisoners in both ships had to be watched. Several had been allowed to remain on board the prize to assist the surgeons in attending to the wounded men. An eye had also to be kept on them.

Mr Saltwell sent for Bill, who had returned to the Thisbe.

“I remember well how you behaved on board the Foxhound, and I want you to keep a watch on the prisoners, and let me know if you hear or see anything suspicious. They will probably remain quiet enough, as they must know that they would have very little chance of success should they attempt to rise upon us. At the same time it is better to be on the safe side, and not to trust them too much.”

“They have heard me talking French to the officers, and will be careful what they say when they see me near them,” answered Bill; “but there’s my messmate, Jack Peek, who was in France with me, and knows their ‘lingo’ as well as I do; and as they have not heard him talking, they’ll not suspect him; and if you will allow me, sir, I will tell him to go among them, and he’ll soon find out if they have any thoughts of mischief.”

Mr Saltwell approved of Bill’s proposal, and gave him leave to employ Jack as he suggested.

Bill, going below, soon found out his messmate.

Jack was well pleased at the confidence placed in him, and promised to keep his eyes and ears well open.

There was no time for conversation just then, for every man in the ship was busy, and the boys were wanted to assist them.

The frigate and her prize had made some way to the northward before night came on. A bright look-out was kept for any enemy which might heave in sight; but when darkness gradually stole over the ocean, none had appeared.

During that night none of the English officers or men turned in. The most tired snatched a few moments of sleep at intervals as best they could when off watch.

The Frenchmen were allowed to lie down on deck between the guns, with sentries placed over them. It was very evident that, had they chosen to rise, they might have overpowered the sentries at the cost of a few of their own lives. Fortunately none of them liked to run the risk of being shot, and remained quiet.

The wind was light, and the Thisbe and her prize made but slow progress.

The captain anxiously waited the return of morning.

At early dawn look-outs were sent aloft to ascertain if any vessels were in sight. They reported three to the south-east, and one to the westward; but what they were it was impossible at that distance to say, as their loftier sails could but indistinctly be seen rising above the horizon.

The Thisbe had already as much sail set as she could carry, but Lieutenant Sterling was making an effort to get up a maintopmast on board the prize.

When Jack and Bill met at breakfast, Jack reported that he had been frequently among the prisoners, but had failed to hear anything which showed that they had the slightest thoughts of attempting to regain their liberty.

“What would you know about the matter even if they had been talking treason?” observed Tom. “I doubt if either of you fellows know much about French.”

“As to that,” said Bill, “we managed to talk to Frenchmen, and to understand what they said to us. That, at least, shows that we do know something about French; not that I wish to boast, only I think I should do much better if I could get hold of some French books.”

Tom laughed. “Oh! I dare say you are going to become a great scholar, and to beat us all,” he observed, with a sneer. “Jack was even declaring that you were likely to be placed on the quarter-deck. That would be a good joke.”

“It would be a good reality for me, though I don’t think it’s what is very likely to happen,” answered Bill, without getting at all angry.

“Nor do I,” said Tom, in the same tone as before. “Just fancy a chap like you turned into an officer. You can jabber a few words of French, and may have picked up a smattering of navigation on board the Foxhound, though I’ve a notion you must pretty well have forgotten all you knew by this time, and you may be fond of books, but all that won’t turn a fellow who has come out of the gutter, as one may say, into a gentleman, as I suppose those on the quarter-deck call themselves.”

“And what do you call them?” exclaimed Jack, not liking to hear such remarks made to Bill. “I wonder you dare to speak in that way.”

“I call myself the son of a gentleman, and I’m thinking when I get into port of writing to my father and asking him to have me placed on the quarter-deck.”

“I wonder you didn’t do that before you ran away from home,” said Jack. “They’ll have forgotten all about you by this time, and maybe, if you do manage to write a letter, your father won’t believe that it comes from you.”

“Let him alone, Jack,” said Bill; “I don’t mind what he says about me. If his father gets him made a midshipman, I shall be as glad as any one.”

“Thank you,” said Tom; “I flatter myself I shall know how to strut about the quarter-deck and order the men here and there as well as the rest of them.”

Just then a voice was heard shouting, “Tom Fletcher, the cook wants you in the galley. Be smart, now, you’ve been long enough at breakfast.”

Tom, bolting his last piece of biscuit, hurried away, as he had no fancy for the rope’s-ending which would have been bestowed upon him had he delayed obeying the summons.

The mess-tins were stowed away, and the watch hastened on deck. The wind by this time had somewhat freshened, and the frigate and her prize were making better progress than before. The strangers, however, which had appeared in sight in the morning were considerably nearer. A fourth was now seen beyond the three which had been made out to the eastward. The ship to the westward which was considerably farther off than the others, was evidently a large vessel, and the captain declared his belief that she was a line-of-battle ship, but whether English or French, it was impossible to decide. He hoped, as did everybody on board, that she was English, for should she prove to be French, as undoubtedly were the vessels to the eastward, the Thisbe would lose her hard-won prize, even though she might manage to escape herself. Still, Captain Martin was not a man to give up hope while there was a chance of escape.

The Thisbe, followed by her prize, kept on her course with every stitch of canvas she could carry set.

“I’m afraid if we don’t outrun those fellows there, we shall get boxed up again by the Frenchmen,” observed Jack, pointing to the approaching ships.

“If we do we must manage to get out somehow or other, as we did before,” answered Bill; “but even if they do come up with us, that’s no reason why we should be taken. We must try and beat them off, and the captain and Mr Saltwell are the men to do it. They are only four to our two ships, for the lieutenant in charge of the prize will fight his guns as well as we do ours.”

“But what do you say to that big ship coming up Channel out there?” asked Tom. “We shall be made mincemeat of if she gets up to us, for I heard the boatswain’s mate say that she’s a seventy-four at least, and may be an eighty-gun ship, or still larger.”

“She hasn’t come up with us yet,” answered Bill. “We shall have time to beat off the others and stand away to the northward before she gets us within range of her guns. Perhaps, too, the wind will shift to the eastward, and throw her to leeward. We shall then be well in with Plymouth by the time she can manage to beat up to us. We are not going to give in while the tight little frigate keeps above water.”

Bill expressed the sentiments of most of the crew. Still, the odds were greatly against the Thisbe and Diana. The latter had but forty hands on board to work the guns and manage the sails, while the crew of the Thisbe was thus far diminished, besides which they had to look after their prisoners.

The two leading ships of the enemy had been made out to be frigates, as it was thought probable were their consorts astern; and even though they might fail to capture the Thisbe, they might knock away her masts and spars, and so maul her that she would be compelled to succumb to the line-of-battle ship coming up from the westward.

Not, however, by his manner, or anything he said, did the captain show the least apprehension of such a result. The crew were at their stations, ready to shorten sail should the breeze freshening render it necessary. The men joked and laughed as usual, as ready for action as if they were only expecting one opponent of equal size.

The morning wore on, the hands were piped down to dinner, the prospect of hot work not at all damping their appetites, though perhaps they got through their meal rather faster than was their wont; when they again hurried on deck to see how things were going on. The two French frigates were approaching. The headmost in a short time fired a bowchaser, but the shot fell short. It served, however, as a signal to prepare for action. Once more the guns were cast loose, and their crews stood ready to fire as soon as they received the looked-for word of command.

A few of the French prisoners who had been allowed to remain on deck were now ordered below. They went willingly enough, exhibiting in their countenances the satisfaction they felt at the expectation of being soon restored to liberty. They were, of course, narrowly watched, and well knew that they would be pretty severely dealt with should they show any signs of insubordination.

Chapter Twenty.

The “Thisbe’s” narrow escape—Tom hopes to be made a midshipman.

Half an hour or more passed, when again the leading French frigate fired, the shot falling close to the counter of the Diana, which by this time, having got up a fresh maintopmast, was able to make more sail.

Captain Martin now ordered Lieutenant Sterling to cast off the tow rope and to stand on ahead of him, while, to allow the Diana to do so, he clewed up the Thisbe’s topsails.

“Make the best of your way to Plymouth,” he shouted, as the Diana passed the Thisbe; “we’ll keep these two fellows in play, and shall, I hope, be soon after you.”

As soon as the prize had got some distance ahead, Captain Martin, who had been watching the two frigates coming up on the starboard quarter, ordered the Thisbe’s helm to be put to port; at the same moment, her starboard broadside being fired, the shot raked the two Frenchmen fore and aft. The helm was then immediately put over, and the frigate coming up on the other tack, her larboard broadside was poured into her antagonists. The shot told with considerable effect. The foretopmast of the leading frigate was shot away, and the mizenmast of the one following was seen to go by the board. This, however, did not much alter their rate of sailing, as, the wind being aft, all the canvas they required continued set. They also opened their fire, and their shot came crashing on board the Thisbe, killing and wounding two or three men, but not doing any material damage to her spars or rigging. She having shortened sail, her antagonists were compelled to do the same; and while they poured their broadsides into her, she returned them as rapidly as the crew could run the guns in and out.

Captain Martin’s great object was to keep them engaged, and, if possible, to knock away their masts, so as to enable the Diana to escape, for although he might hope to get off himself, he could not expect to capture either of the enemy’s ships.

The Thisbe had been several times hulled, and her sails were already completely riddled, while many more of her crew had fallen.

“It is going hard with us, I fear,” said Jack to Tom, who was seated next him on his powder tub. “There’s well-nigh a score of poor fellows killed or wounded within the last half-hour. It may be the lot of one of us before long.”

“Oh, dear! I hope not,” cried Tom. “I wish the skipper would try and get away instead of fighting the Frenchmen. Two to one is fearful odds against us, and we shall have the two other ships blazing away at our heads before long.”

“We haven’t much to fear from them,” said Jack. “I have just heard they’re corvettes, and they won’t be up to us until we’ve given the other two a drubbing, and have made sail again to the northward.”

The two corvettes were, however, likely to prove no despicable opponents, and Captain Martin was only watching until he had knocked away the masts or spars of one or both of the frigates, to make sail and escape, for it would have been madness to have continued the fight longer than was necessary to accomplish that object.

The Frenchmen, however, fought bravely, and evidently did not intend to let him get off if they could help it. Each had just fired another broadside into the Thisbe, when they were seen to haul their wind, the two ships coming up astern doing the same. The reason of this was evident: the line-of-battle ship to the westward, now approaching under a pressure of sail, had hoisted British colours, and any longer delay would have enabled her quickly to capture one or both of them. The brave crew of the Thisbe expressed their satisfaction by giving a loud cheer, which was joined in even by many of the wounded.

Captain Martin had accomplished his object; he had secured the safety of his prize, and his crew, now swarming aloft, set to work rapidly to knot and splice the rigging which had been shot away.

As soon as this had been accomplished sufficiently to make sail, the Thisbe, brought to the wind, stood after the flying enemy, firing her bow chasers as she did so; but it was soon seen that she had little chance of coming up with them. Still her captain persevered; but, with both masts and spars wounded, it was impossible to carry as much sail as would otherwise have been done. Consequently, before long the line-of-battle ship, which made the signal Terrible, seventy-four, overtook her.

A cheer rose from the deck of the big ship, which came gliding slowly by. Her captain hailed, “Well done, Martin!”

The pursuit was continued for some time, but night was approaching, and the coast of France was not far off. The seventy-four therefore threw out the signal to bear up and a course was shaped for Plymouth.

A sharp look-out was kept during the night for the Diana. Soon after sunrise she was seen steering for Plymouth, into which harbour Captain Martin and his gallant crew had the satisfaction of conducting her the following day. Although it was a day of triumph to the surviving crew, it was one of mourning to many who had lost relatives and friends. The dead were carried on shore to be buried, the wounded conveyed to hospitals, the Frenchmen were landed and marched off under an escort of marines to the prisons prepared for them, and press-gangs were soon busy at work to obtain fresh hands to supply the places of those who had fallen, although many prime seamen volunteered to serve on board a frigate which had already won a name for herself.

Tom Fletcher, as soon as the ship got into harbour, managed to procure a pen and some ink and paper, and indited a letter to his father. It was not over-well written, but he contrived to make it pretty clearly express that he was serving on board H.M.S. Thisbe, and that having already seen a great deal of service, he felt sure that if his father would apply to the Admiralty and make him an allowance of thirty or forty pounds a year, he should be placed on the quarter-deck, and in due course of time become an admiral.

“We are sure to make lots of prize-money,” he added; “and if I were a midshipman now, I should be receiving a hundred pounds or more, so that you may be sure, father, that I will pay it all back with interest.”

“Father likes interest,” he observed to Bill, who was sitting by him at the time, and helping him in his somewhat unaccustomed task; “that’ll make him more ready to do what I want, though whether he’ll ever get the money is neither here nor there.”

“But if you promise to pay him, you are bound to do so,” observed Bill. “You need not have made the promise, then you could have waited to know whether he required interest.”

“Well, I’ve written it, and can’t scratch it out now,” said Tom. “It will come to the same thing in the end.”

Bill had some doubts whether Tom’s father would make the allowance Tom asked for; but if he were a rich man, as Tom asserted, he might do so, and therefore he said nothing.

The letter, after being folded several times and creased all over, was at length closed, sealed, and addressed, by which time it had assumed a somewhat grimy appearance. Tom got the cook’s mate, who was going on shore, to post his letter, having told him that he expected to receive a good sum of money by return, and promising him a part of the proceeds. Bill and Jack looked forward to the reply with almost as much interest as Tom himself, neither of them feeling that they should be at all jealous, should it produce the satisfactory result he anticipated.

Meantime, every possible exertion was made to get the ship ready for sea. Mr Saltwell was very busy superintending all the operations. Bill, however, found that he was not forgotten, from a kind word or two which on several occasions the first lieutenant bestowed upon him. As Tom was not aware of this, he amused himself by telling Bill that Mr Saltwell would not trouble himself more about him—that he must be content to remain a powder monkey until he got big enough to be rated as an ordinary seaman.

“Better than being cook’s boy,” cried Jack, who could never stand hearing Bill sneered at. “He’s a precious deal more likely to be made a midshipman than you are, even though your father is a rich man and rides in his carriage, as you say.”

Tom retorted, and Jack looked as if he was much inclined to knock him over, when the quarrel was cut short by the appearance of the cook’s mate, who dragged off Tom to help him clean the galley and scrub the pots and pans.

Day after day went by. The frigate was reported ready for sea, and her complement of men having been filled up, she only waited for her captain to come on board to continue her cruise.

Still Tom had received no reply from his father. “Perhaps he or the Admiralty may have written to the captain, and when he comes aboard I shall be placed in my proper position,” he observed in confidence to Bill.

“I hope so, but I’m afraid there will be but little time for you to get a proper uniform and an outfit,” was the answer.

“I’m not much afraid of that; the tailors won’t take long in rigging me out,” answered Tom.

Soon after this the captain came on board, and Tom, greatly to his disappointment, was not sent for. Just, however, as the ship was going out into the Sound, the mail-bag arrived, and a letter addressed, “Thomas Fletcher, H.M.S. Thisbe,” was handed him. He eagerly broke the seal. As he was no great hand at reading writing, he was obliged to ask Bill to assist him in deciphering the contents. He had, however, to rub his eyes several times before he could make them out, even with his messmate’s help.

“It’s not from father at all,” he observed, after looking at the paper all over. “S. Fletcher must be my biggest brother, and he always gave me more kicks than ha’pence.”

The letter began:—

“Dear Tom,—Our father received yours of the third instant, as the first intimation of your being alive since your unaccountable disappearance. You have caused us by your wicked proceeding no end of grief and trouble, and, as far as we can make out by your wretchedly written epistle, you do not seem to be at all ashamed of yourself, or sorry for what you have done; and our father bids me to say, that as you have made your bed, you must lie in it. As to making you an allowance of thirty or forty pounds a year, and getting you placed on the quarter-deck, the notion is too ridiculous to be entertained. I must tell you, too, our father has failed, smashed up completely, won’t pay sixpence in the pound. As we find it a hard matter to live, he is not likely to make you an allowance of thirty pounds, or thirty pence a year, or to trouble himself by going to the Admiralty with the certainty of being sent away with a flea in his ear; so you see, Tom, you must just grin and bear it. If you don’t get killed, I would advise you—should you ever wish to come home—to make your appearance with your pockets full of the prize-money you talk of, and you will then perhaps receive a welcome, and be well entertained as long as it lasts by the rest of the family, as also by—

“Your affectionate brother—

“S. Fletcher.

“P.S. Until then I would advise you not to show your nose in this neighbourhood.”

“He always was an ill-natured fellow, was my brother Sam,” exclaimed Tom, not seeming concerned at the news of his father’s ruin, while, crumpling up the letter, he thrust it into his pocket. “I feel inclined to hang myself or jump overboard.”

“Don’t think of doing anything so bad,” said Bill. “You are no worse off than you were before. All you’ve got to do is to attend to your duty, and try to please those above you.”

“The cook and the cook’s mate,” growled poor Tom. “It isn’t a pleasant task to have to scrub saucepans and clean out the galley.”

“But it is your duty, and while you have to do it it would be best to try and do it as well as you can,” observed Bill. “Neither the cook nor the cook’s mate are bad fellows, and you will gain their good-will by showing a pleasant temper, and working as hard as you can.”

“All very well for you to preach,” said Tom; “but there’s no help for it, I suppose, and so I must make the best of my hard lot.”

“That’s just what I’m advising,” said Bill; though he did not add, “You must remember you brought it upon yourself by running away from home.”

The boatswain’s pipe summoned all hands on deck to make sail, and the frigate, standing down the Sound, at once put to sea.

A bright look-out was kept for enemies; all hands, from the captain downwards, being eager to secure another prize, even though they might have to fight a tough battle to win her. The captain’s orders were to capture, sink, burn, destroy, or drive on shore any of the enemy’s vessels he could come up with. With this object in view the Thisbe continued to cruise, now down the Channel, now up again, keeping as much as possible in sight of the French coast. She had been some time at sea, however, without having made any prizes; for although she had chased several vessels, they, having espied her in time, had managed to escape by running close in shore, under strong batteries, or getting up harbours where they could not be followed. At last one morning, as the frigate had just made the land, from which she had been standing off during the night, a sail was seen inside of her—that is, between her and the French coast, steering to the eastward, apparently bound down Channel.

Chapter Twenty One.

A cutting-out expedition—Bill discovers an old friend.

The wind being very light, every stitch of canvas the Thisbe could carry was packed on her, and her course altered so as to cut off the stranger. As the sun rose, and its beams lighted up the white canvas of the latter, she was pronounced to be a full-rigged ship, either a man-of-war or privateer, or a large merchantman, but at the distance she was off it was difficult to determine whether she was a frigate or a flush-decked vessel. Captain Martin hoped that she would prove to be a frigate, and an antagonist worthy of engaging. She must have seen the Thisbe approaching, but either took her for a friend or believed that she was well able to cope with her, as she did not alter her course. Captain Martin calculated that the Thisbe would be up with the stranger before noon. Every telescope on board was directed towards her. Bill wished that he had one, that he might form an opinion as to what she was. He heard some officers talking, and they declared that she was undoubtedly French, and was either a large man-of-war corvette, or a privateer. If such were the case, and the Thisbe could get up to her, she would be captured to a certainty, though she would probably fight, and try to knock away some of the Thisbe’s spars, so as to effect her escape. The wind, which had hitherto been blowing from the southward and south, suddenly shifted to the east. As soon as the stranger felt it, she was seen to haul her tacks on board, brace up her yards, and stand away towards the land.

“She’s going to run on shore,” exclaimed Jack, who had been watching her as eagerly as any one, when his duty would allow him to take a look-out.

“More likely she knows of a harbour or battery in there, and is running in for shelter,” answered Bill.

“We shan’t be able to take her then,” said Jack. “I was making sure we should have her as our prize.”

“I won’t say we shan’t take her, notwithstanding,” observed Bill. “Perhaps we shall fight the battery and her too, if she brings up under one. Or if she runs into a harbour, the boats may be sent in after her to bring her out.”

As soon as the stranger was seen standing to the southward, the Thisbe also hauled up to continue the pursuit, but the chase was still beyond the reach of her guns.

“We shan’t catch her after all,” said Jack, who had taken another look at the stranger some time after she had altered her course.

“I don’t see that we have not still a chance of coming up with her,” answered Bill. “The captain thinks so, or he would not be keeping after her. Perhaps she may be becalmed closer in with the land, or we may draw near enough to knock away her masts. We have gained a mile on her during the last hour. I would always try to succeed while a single chance remains, and I would never knock under to an enemy while I had a stick standing, or a plank beneath my feet.”

Still, notwithstanding Bill’s sanguine hopes of success, as the day wore on there seemed every probability that the French ship would make good her escape. It was now seen that she was steering for a harbour, the mouth of which could be distinguished from the deck of the Thisbe, with a battery on one side.

“Our bow chasers will reach her, Mr Saltwell,” cried the captain, at length.

The order to fire was eagerly obeyed. The frigate, however, had to yaw for the purpose. One of the shot was seen to go right through the sails of the chase, but the other fell on one side.

The guns were quickly reloaded, and were fired immediately the ship was kept away sufficiently for the purpose. Again one of the shot took effect, but what damage was done it was impossible to say, and the chase stood on as before.

The manoeuvre was repeated several times, causing the frigate to lose ground; but a fortunate shot would have enabled her quickly to regain it. Though several of the Thisbe’s shot took effect, the chase continued her course, firing in return from a gun run out astern; but none of the shot struck her pursuer. At last, however, the chase ran past the battery, which shortly afterwards opened fire. Captain Martin returned it with such effect that two of the guns were silenced, when the frigate’s head was put off shore, and she stood away to avoid the risk of being becalmed should the wind fall, as was very likely, towards evening.

“I say, Bill, I really believe that’s the very place we got away from on our raft,” said Jack.

“No doubt about it,” answered Bill. “I remember the look of the land to the eastward, and I feel pretty sure I could find my way up the harbour.”

Bill had scarcely said this when he heard his name called, and he was told to go to the first lieutenant.

“Do you recollect anything about the harbour up there?” asked Mr Saltwell.

“Yes, sir,” answered Bill. “I remember it was the one from which Peek and I got off, and I was thinking I could make my way up it at night, if I had to do so.”

“You will have an opportunity to-night, I hope, of showing your knowledge. The captain intends to send up the boats to try and cut out the vessel we chased into the harbour. I am to command the expedition, and I will take you with me.”

“Thank you, sir,” said Bill, touching his hat. “I feel pretty sure that I know my way up to the landing-place, and I do not suppose that a ship the size of the chase could get up higher.”

“You can go forward now, and be ready to accompany me when you are summoned,” said Mr Saltwell.

Bill felt highly gratified by the confidence placed in him, and was thankful that he had so thoroughly observed the harbour before he and Jack had made their escape. The frigate, meantime, was standing out to sea, so that by the time the sun went down she could not be perceived from the shore. She was then hove-to, and preparations were made for the intended expedition.

Lieutenant Saltwell went in the barge, the third lieutenant in the launch, and the lieutenant of marines, with the senior mate, in the cutter, the oars of all the boats being muffled, so that no sound would betray their approach to the enemy.

The frigate then again stood in, taking care to show no lights, when in perfect silence the boats shoved off, carrying among them about fifty officers and men. Lieutenant Saltwell called Bill aft to take a seat by his side. Before leaving the frigate, the captain had directed the first lieutenant to return should he find the ship so moored as to render it impossible to bring her out. Bill, however, told him that he had observed a vessel at anchor some way below the landing-place, and that he supposed no large craft could get up higher on account of the shallowness of the water. The wind, which had hitherto been east and north-east, again shifting to the southward, blew directly down the harbour, which would enable the ship, should she be captured, to be brought down without difficulty.

Bill’s heart beat quicker than usual as he thought of the work in hand, and recollected that the success of the undertaking might considerably depend upon him. The night was very dark, but as the boats got up to the mouth of the harbour the lights on shore could be distinguished, as well as several on board vessels at anchor. The boats kept clear of the latter, lest any of their people might discover them and give the alarm. The barge led, the launch and cutter following in succession. The success of the undertaking would depend on their being able to take the enemy by surprise.

As yet no signs had been perceived that their approach was discovered, and Bill advised that they should keep over to the west shore, where there were no vessels at anchor, but where he was sure there was water for the boats, from having seen a good-sized craft keeping that course at low tide.

As they got higher up, the sound of voices came off the shore, as if the people were laughing and making merry. This gave Mr Saltwell hopes that many of the crew were landed, and that those on board would be totally unprepared for an attack. He intended to board on the starboard quarter, and he had given directions to the other officers, one to board on the larboard quarter and the other at the main chains, his object being to overpower the resistance the officer’s would make aft, then to sweep the decks until the forecastle was gained. One of the boats was immediately to shove ahead and cut the cable, while certain of the men had been directed to hoist the headsails, so that the prize might, without an instant’s delay, be making her way down the harbour before any assistance could come off to her from the land.

The moment for action was approaching. The ship was seen at the spot where Bill thought she would be found, lying silent and dark, her tall masts and the tracery of her rigging just to be distinguished against the sky. No one was observed moving on her deck. Eagerly the boats dashed forward to the posts allotted to them. The bows of the barge had just hooked on when the sentry on the gangway, who had evidently not been attending to his duty, shouted out, and fired his musket.

The rest of the watch came rushing aft, but it was to encounter the crew of the barge, who, having climbed up her side, had already gained her deck. Their officers at the same moment sprang up the companion-hatch, sword in hand, but were knocked over before they could strike a blow.

The crews of the other boats had, in the meantime, gained the deck, but not before the rest of the Frenchmen came tumbling up from below armed with cutlasses and pikes, or such weapons as they could lay their hands on. Though they made a bold stand, and endeavoured to defend the fore part of the ship, they had to retreat before the desperate charge of the boarders, who, with cutlasses flashing and cutting, soon hewed a way for themselves to the forecastle, leaving the deck on either side covered with dead or wounded men. Not a word had been spoken, and scarcely a shout uttered, but the clashing of steel and flashing of pistols must have showed the people on shore what was going forward.

The mate, to whom the duty had been assigned, having in the meantime carried his boat under the bows, quickly cut the cable, then allowing her to drift alongside, he sprang on to the forecastle, where he took charge of the party engaged in making sail.

The third lieutenant, though he was severely wounded, went aft to the helm, and in less than three minutes from the time the boats got alongside, the prize, under her foresail and foretopsail, was standing down the harbour.

Bill, having got hold of a pistol, kept close to Mr Saltwell, that he might be ready to assist him or obey any orders he might receive. A few only of his men were standing round the lieutenant when a party of the French crew, who had already yielded, led by the boatswain, a big, sturdy fellow, whose cutlass had already brought two of the English seamen to the deck, suddenly attacked him, hoping to regain the ship. The sailors had enough to do to defend themselves, and the big boatswain was making a desperate blow at the lieutenant’s head, when Bill, who thought it a time to use his pistol with effect, fired, and the boatswain fell, his cutlass dropping from his hand. His followers on this sprang back, and, throwing down their weapons, cried for mercy.

“I saw you do it, my lad,” said the lieutenant. “The second time you have saved my life. I’ll not forget it.”

The English sailors now had work enough to do to prevent the Frenchmen from rising. While sail was being made, numerous boats also were seen coming off from the shore full of armed men, evidently with the intention of attempting to board the prize. Sail after sail was let drop, and the ship ran faster and faster through the water. She was not, however, as yet entirely won. Her crew, though beaten down below, were still very numerous, and might, should they find the boats of their friends coming alongside, at any moment rise and try to regain her. The fort also had to be passed, and the garrison were sure to have heard the uproar and would open fire as soon as she got within range of their guns.

Notwithstanding this, the British seamen performed their various duties as steadily as if they were on board their own ship. Some were aloft, loosing sails; others ran out the guns, ready to give the boats a warm reception, and others kept an eye on the prisoners.

The breeze freshened, and the prize in a short time reached the mouth of the harbour. No sooner had she done so than the guns from the fort, as had been expected, opened fire, and their shot, thick as hail, came crashing on board. Several men were struck, and the sails shot through and through. None of the yards, however, were carried away, and the canvas stood filled out with the breeze.

A number of prisoners had remained on deck, with sentries over them, as the shot struck the ship. Several, to avoid it, endeavoured to escape below. Some succeeded, not waiting to descend by the ladders, but leaping down, to the no small risk of breaking their arms and legs. There was still more sail to be set, and Bill was pulling and hauling, when he saw a shot come plump in among a party of prisoners. Three fell; the rest, in spite of the sentries, making a desperate rush, leapt down the main hatchway.

Bill at that moment saw a young Frenchman, who had been struck, struggling on the deck, and a voice crying out which he thought he recognised.

He sprang towards the sailor, and lifted him up. He was not mistaken; it was his friend Pierre.

“Are you badly hurt?” he asked in French.

“I’m afraid so, in my side,” was the answer. “My poor mother, and Jeannette, I shall never see them more.”

“I hope that things are not so bad as that,” responded Bill. “I will try and get you below. Here!” and he called to one of the prisoners who had remained on deck, and who, being very glad to get out of the way of the shot, willingly assisted Bill in dragging the wounded man to the companion-hatchway, down which the two together lifted him, and placed him in the gun-room.

Fortunately the French surgeon had been ill in his berth, but had now got up, prepared to attend to his professional duties. As yet, however, none of the wounded prisoners had been brought aft, and Pierre, who had been placed on the gun-room table, was the first man the surgeon took under his care.

“He is not badly hurt, I hope,” said Bill, rather anxiously.

“That’s more than I can say, my young friend,” answered the surgeon, “but I will attend to him. I shall have patients enough on my hands directly, I fear.”

Bill felt that he ought not to remain a moment longer below, though he greatly wished to learn how much Pierre had been injured. All he could do, therefore, was to press his friend’s hand, and spring up again on deck.

The battery was still firing away at the prize, and every now and then a crashing sound, as the shot struck her, showed that she was within range of its guns; but she was rapidly distancing the boats, which could now only be dimly seen astern.

The British crew raised a cheer when they found that they had to a certainty secured their prize. Still the battery continued firing, but not another shot struck her, and at length the dim outline of the Thisbe was seen ahead. Shortly afterwards the prize, rounding to under the frigate’s quarter, was received with hearty cheers by her crew.

Chapter Twenty Two.

The powder monkey gets his first step up the ratlines.

The British wounded, and the French prisoners captured in the prize, were forthwith taken on board the Thisbe, when both ships made sail to get a good offing from the coast before daylight. Mr Saltwell remained in command of the prize with the crew which had so gallantly won her. The wounded Frenchmen were also allowed to continue on board under charge of their surgeon, with an English assistant-surgeon to help him, for there were upwards of forty poor fellows who required his care.

Bill was glad to find that he had not to go back to his own ship, as he wanted to look after Pierre, and as soon as his duty would allow him he went below to learn how his young French friend was getting on. When he asked for the man whom he had brought down, the doctor pointed to one of the officer’s cabins in the gun-room, observing, “He is somewhat badly hurt, but there are others still more cruelly knocked about who require my care, and I have not been able to attend to him for some time.”

Bill hurried into the cabin. A faint voice replied to him.

“Merci, merci! It is very kind of you to come and see me, but I fear that I shall not get over it,” said Pierre. “Is there no chance of our returning to France? I should like to die under my father’s roof, and see my mother and Jeannette once more.”

“There’s no chance of your getting back for the present, but I hope you will see your mother and sister notwithstanding,” answered Bill. “We are running across the Channel, and shall be in an English port in a day or two, when you will be landed, and I will ask the captain to let me take care of you. I should like to prove how grateful I am for all your kindness to me and Jack Peek, and I will tell Mr Saltwell, the lieutenant who commands this ship, how you and your family treated me. But I don’t think you ought to talk; I came to see if I could do anything for you.”

“My lips are parched; I am very thirsty; I should like something to drink,” answered Pierre.

“I will see what I can find,” said Bill; and making his way to the steward’s pantry outside the captain’s cabin, he hunted about until he discovered some lemons. He quickly squeezed out the juice of a couple of them, and mixing it with water, brought the beverage to Pierre, who drank it eagerly. It much revived him.

“I was very unfortunate to be on board the Atlante when you captured her, for I had no wish to fight the English,” said Pierre. “Only ten days ago I was persuaded to come on board to see a friend, and the crew would not let me return on shore. However, I was determined to make the best of it, hoping before long to get back to my family, and be able to assist my father. And now to be cut down by my own countrymen, for it was a shot from the battery on shore which wounded me. It is more than I can bear!”

“Don’t think about it,” said Bill; “you are safe from further harm, and will be well taken care of; and when you have recovered, and the war is over, you will be able to go back. I must leave you now, but I will come and see you as often as I can. I have placed the jug of lemonade close to your head, where it cannot slip. When that is gone I will get some more; it is the best thing you can take at present.”

Saying this, Bill hurried back to attend to his duty on deck, for, young as he was, as the prize was short-handed, he had plenty of work to do. Several times he passed Mr Saltwell, who gave him a kind look or said a word or two of encouragement, but did not allude to the service Bill had done him.

“He probably has forgotten all about my having shot the French boatswain,” thought Bill. “I only did my duty, and if anybody else had been in his place I should have done the same.”

The frigate and her fresh prize were meantime making the best of their way across the Channel. As the latter, a fast sailor, was not materially injured, all sail was made on her, and she kept good way with the Thisbe. At the same time there was still the risk of either one or both being taken by a French ship of superior force, though neither was likely to yield without making every effort to escape. A constant look-out was kept from the mast-head, but as the ships got farther and farther from the French coast, the hope of escaping without having again to fight increased.

Several sail were seen in the distance, but it was supposed that they were either merchantmen, standing up or down Channel, in spite of the enemy’s cruisers on the watch to pick them up, or privateers, and, seeing that the Thisbe was a frigate, took good care to keep out of her way.

At length the entrance to Plymouth Sound was descried, and the Thisbe and her prize stood up it triumphantly with colours flying, creating considerable astonishment at her quick return with another capture. Both were soon moored in Hamoaze, when the Atlante, a fine little ship, carrying twenty guns on one deck, was handed over to the prize agents with the full expectation that she would be bought into the service. The prisoners were carried on shore, the wounded men were taken to the hospital, and the prize crew returned on board their own ship.

Bill had been very anxious to accompany Pierre, that he might watch over him with more care than strangers could do, but he had had no opportunity of asking leave of Mr Saltwell.

He had not been long on board the frigate, and was giving an account of the boarding expedition to Jack and Tom, when he heard his name called along the decks.

“Boy Rayner, the captain has sent for you into the cabin,” said the master-at-arms.

“What can you be wanted for!” exclaimed Tom. “Look out for squalls. I shouldn’t like to be in your shoes.”

“No fear of that,” said Jack. “Maybe the first lieutenant has told the captain how Bill saved his life. I wish that I had had a chance of doing something of the sort.”

Bill, however, did not stop to hear the remarks of his two friends, but hurried aft, thinking that now would be the time to say something in poor Pierre’s favour.

The sentry, who knew that he had been sent for, allowed him to pass without question, and he soon found himself in the presence of the captain and Mr Saltwell, who were seated at the table in the main cabin. Bill stood, hat in hand, ready to answer any questions which might be put to him.

“William Rayner,” said the captain, “you have, I understand, behaved remarkably well on several occasions, twice especially, by saving Mr Saltwell’s life through your coolness and presence of mind. You are also, I find, a fair French scholar, and the first lieutenant reports favourably of your conduct in your former ship. I wish to reward you. Let me know how I can best do so in a way satisfactory to yourself.”

“I only did my duty without thinking of being rewarded,” answered Bill; “but I have been wishing since we took the prize that something could be done for a young Frenchman who was badly hurt on board her by a shot from the battery which fired at us. He and his father saved Jack Peek and me from drowning when we were blown up in the Foxhound, and his family were afterwards very kind to us, and did their utmost to save us from being carried off to prison, and when we were hid away in a cave, his sister, at great risk, brought us food. He will now be amongst strangers, who do not understand his lingo, and the poor fellow will be very sad and solitary; so I think he would like it, if I could get leave to go and stay with him while the frigate remains in harbour. I’ll take it as a great favour, sir, since you ask me what reward I should like, if you can let me go and be with him at the hospital, or if that cannot be, if he may be removed to some lodging where he can be well looked after until he recovers and is sent back to his own home.”

“There may be some difficulty in doing as you propose,” replied the captain. “Mr Saltwell will, however, I have no doubt, try to make a satisfactory arrangement, for a person behaving as the young Frenchman has done deserves to be rewarded; but that is not what I meant; I want you to choose some reward for yourself, and wish you to let me know how I can best serve you.”

“Thank you, sir,” answered Bill. “I cannot think just now of anything I require, though I should be very glad if I could get Pierre sent back to his family.”

“Your parents, perhaps, will be able to decide better than you can do, then. Your father or mother,” observed the captain.

“I have neither father nor mother, sir,” answered Bill. “They are both dead.”

“Your relatives and friends might decide,” said the captain.

“I have no relatives or friends, nor any one to care for me that I know of,” said Bill, in a quiet voice.

“Then Mr Saltwell and I must settle the matter,” said Captain Martin. “Should you like to be placed on the quarter-deck? If you go on as you have begun, and let duty alone guide you on all occasions, you will, if you live, rise in the service and be an honour to it.”

Bill almost gasped for breath as he heard this. He knew that the captain was in earnest, and he looked at him, and then at Mr Saltwell, but could not speak.

“Come, say what you wish, my lad,” said Captain Martin, in an encouraging tone.

Still Bill was silent.

“You will have opportunities of improving your education, and you need not fear about being well received by the young gentlemen in the midshipmen’s berth,” observed Mr Saltwell. “Captain Martin and I will make arrangements for giving you an outfit and supplying you with such funds as you will require, besides which you will come in for a midshipman’s share of prize-money.”

The kind way in which the captain and first lieutenant spoke greatly assisted Bill to find his tongue and to express himself appropriately.

“I am grateful, sirs, for your offer, and hope that I always shall be grateful. If you think that I am fit to become a midshipman, I will try to do my duty as such, so I accept your offer with all my heart.”

Bill, overpowered by his feelings, could say no more.

“The matter is settled, then,” said the captain; and sending for the purser, he at once entered the name of William Rayner as a midshipman on the ship’s books, the only formality requisite in those days, though his rank would afterwards have to be confirmed at the Admiralty.

The purser observed that he had a suit of clothes belonging to one of the midshipmen killed in the action with the French frigate, which would, he thought, exactly fit Mr Rayner.

Bill felt very curious at hearing himself so spoken of.

The purser said that he would debit him with them at a moderate price.

The captain approving of this proposal, Bill, in the course of a few minutes, found himself dressed in a midshipman’s uniform. He could scarcely believe his senses. It seemed to him as if by the power of an enchanter’s wand he had been changed into some one else.

The first lieutenant then desired him to accompany him, and leading the way down to the berth, in which a number of the young gentlemen were assembled for dinner, he stopped at the door.

“I wish, young gentlemen, to present a new messmate to you,” he said, looking in. “Mr William Rayner! He has gained his position by exhibiting those qualities which I am sure you all admire, and you will, I have no doubt, treat him as a friend.”

The members of the mess who were present rose and cordially put out their hands towards Bill, whom the first lieutenant, taking by the aim, drew into the berth.

Mr Saltwell then returned on deck.

Bill naturally felt very bashful, but his new messmates did their best to set him at ease, and no one alluded to his former position. They spoke only of the late action, and begged him to give a description of the way in which he had saved Mr Saltwell’s life, a vague account of which they had heard.

Bill complied, modestly, not saying more about himself than was necessary. What he said gained him the applause of his new messmates, and raised him greatly in their estimation; he therefore found himself far more at his ease than he had expected would be possible; no one by word or deed showing that they recollected that he had been just before a ship’s boy, but all treated him as an equal.

His only regret now was that he could no longer talk with Jack and Tom as he had been accustomed to do, though he hoped that he should still be able, without doing anything derogatory to his new position, to speak to them in a friendly way. Thinking highly of Jack as he did, he regretted more than ever that his former messmate could neither read nor write. He felt sure that he would, should he have an opportunity, do something to merit promotion.

Bill commenced his new duties with a spirit and alacrity which was remarked by his superior officers. He had narrowly observed the way the midshipmen conducted themselves, and was thus able to behave as well as the best of them. He was a little puzzled at first at dinner, but by seeing what others did he soon got over the slight difficulty he had to encounter.

Next day Mr Saltwell called him up as he was walking the quarter-deck.

“I have been making inquiries as to what can be done for your friend Pierre Turgot,” he said. “As you told me he was not willingly on board the privateer, I was able to state that in his favour, and I have obtained leave for him to be removed to a private house, where he can remain until he has recovered, and he will then, I hope, be allowed to return to France without waiting for an exchange of prisoners. Were he to be sent back with others, he would probably at once be compelled to serve afloat, and his great desire is, I understand, to return to his own family, to follow his former occupation of a fisherman.”

“Thank you, sir,” exclaimed Bill, “I cannot be too grateful to you for your kindness.”

“Don’t talk of that, my lad; if it hadn’t been for your courage and coolness I should not have been here. I am now going on shore, and wish you to accompany me. I have seen the widow of an old shipmate of mine who is willing to receive Pierre into her house, and to attend to him. We will have him removed at once, so that when we sail you will know he is placed under good care.”

Chapter Twenty Three.

William Rayner is enabled to show his gratitude to Pierre.

Will at once got ready to attend the first lieutenant. The boat being alongside, they were soon on shore. Their first visit was to the hospital, which, being overcrowded, the authorities were glad to get rid of one of their patients. Pierre was placed in a litter and conveyed, accompanied by Mr Saltwell and Bill, to the residence of Mrs Crofton, a neat cottage standing by itself in a small garden. A pretty little girl about thirteen years of age opened the door, and on seeing the strangers summoned her mother, who at once appeared, and led the way to the room she had prepared for Pierre’s reception. It was on the ground-floor, and contained a dimity-covered bed, and a few other simple articles of furniture, quite sufficient for all the young French sailor’s wants.

Pierre again and again thanked Bill for having brought him to so delightful a place.

“Ah!” he said, “that lady,” looking at Mrs Crofton, “reminds me of my mother, and the little girl is just like Jeannette, when she was younger. And they are so kind and gentle! I shall get well very soon, though I think I should have died if I had remained at the hospital, where I was nearly stifled, while day and night I heard the oaths and groans of my wounded compatriots, who abuse the English as the cause of their suffering, regardless of the care that is being taken of them.”

“I was very sure you would recover sooner in a quiet house by yourself, and therefore I begged my officer to have you removed,” said Bill.

It was not for some time that Pierre remarked the new midshipman’s uniform.

“Why, you told me you were a ship’s boy, now I see you dressed as an officer!” he exclaimed, in a tone of astonishment. “The gendarmes were right after all.”

“No, they were wrong,” answered Bill. “I was then what I told you, but I am now a midshipman.”

He then gave an account to Pierre of how he had been promoted. Their conversation was interrupted by the return of Mrs Crofton and Mary with some food for their patient, as the doctor had told Mr Saltwell that he should be fed often, though with but little at a time. As Mrs Crofton could speak French, she did not require Bill to interpret for her.

He was glad to find that Pierre would be able to converse with his kind hostess Mr Saltwell, who had gone into the drawing-room, now told Bill that he might stay with Pierre until the evening, and that he should have leave to visit him every day while the frigate remained in harbour.

The first lieutenant now took his leave, and Mrs Crofton observing that “Pierre would be the better for some sleep, after the excitement of being moved,” invited Bill into her sitting-room, she naturally wishing to hear more about his adventures in France than Mr Saltwell had been able to tell her. Bill himself was perfectly willing to talk away on the subject as long as she wished, especially when he found so ready a listener in Mary. He began with an account of the blowing up of the Foxhound; and when he had finished, Mrs Crofton wished to know how it was that he first came to go to sea, and so he had to go back to tell her all about himself, and the death of his mother, and how he had been left penniless in the world.

“And now I find you a midshipman with warm friends; in a few years you will be a lieutenant, then a commander, and next a post-captain, I hope, and at length a British admiral, and you will have gained your promotion without the interest of relatives or born friends, simply by your own good conduct and bravery.”

“I don’t know what I may become, ma’am,” said Bill, inclined to smile at Mrs Crofton’s enthusiasm. “At present I am but a midshipman, but I will try, as I always have, to do my duty.”

This conversation made Bill feel perfectly at home with Mrs Crofton. Indeed, it seemed to him as if he had known her all his life, so that he was willing to confide in her as if she were his mother.

He was equally willing to confide in Mary. Indeed, all the reserve he at first felt quickly wore off, and he talked to her as if she had been his sister. If he did not say to himself that she was a perfect angel, he thought her what most people would consider very much better—a kind, good, honest, open-hearted girl, with clear hazel, truthful eyes, and a sweet smile on her mouth when she smiled, which was very frequently, with a hearty ring in her laughter. She reminded him, as she did Pierre, of Jeannette, and Bill felt very sure that, should she ever have the opportunity of helping any one in distress, she would be ready to take as much trouble and run as many risks as the French girl had in assisting Jack and him.

“Do you know, Mr Rayner, I like midshipmen very much?” she said, in her artless way. “My brother Oliver is a midshipman, and as I am very fond of him, I like all midshipmen for his sake. At first I was inclined to like you because you were a midshipman, but now I like you for yourself.”

“I am much obliged to you,” said Bill; “and I like you for yourself, I can tell you. I didn’t know before that you had a brother Oliver. Where is he serving?”

“On board the Ariel corvette in the West Indies,” answered Mary.

“Perhaps some day we may fall in with each other,” said Bill; “and I am very sure, from what you say about him, we shall become good friends, for I shall be inclined to like him for your sake.”

“Then I’m sure he will like you; he could not help doing so. He is only three years older than I am; just about your age I suppose. He went to sea when he was a very little fellow with poor dear papa, who was killed in action. Oliver was by his side at the time, and wrote us home an account of the sad, sad event, saying how brokenhearted he was. The people were very kind to him. Papa was lieutenant of the ship, and was loved by all the men, as I am sure he would have been, remembering how good and kind and gentle he was with us.”

The tears came into Mary’s bright eyes as she spoke of her father.

“Whenever we hear of a battle out there, poor mamma is very anxious until the particulars come home, and she knows that Oliver is safe,” said Mary. “We are nearly sure to get a letter from him, for he always writes when he can, and I hope that you’ll write also when you are away, and tell us all that you are doing; then we shall receive two letters instead of one, and we shall always be so very, very glad to hear from you.”

Bill promised that he would write constantly, saying that he should be pleased to do so, especially as he had not many correspondents; indeed, he might have said that he had none, as he was, in truth, not acquainted with anybody on shore. Mary and her mother were the first friends he had ever possessed, so that he very naturally valued them the more. They were of very great service to him in many respects, for Mrs Crofton was a ladylike and refined person, though her means were small, and she was able to give him instruction in the ways and manners of people of education; though Bill was so observant, and anxious to imitate what was right, that he only required the opportunity to fit himself thoroughly for his new station in life.

Mr Saltwell lent him books, and he read during every spare moment, to make amends for his want of early education.

When he came on shore, Mrs Crofton assisted him, and as she knew French very well, helped him to study it with a grammar and dictionary, which he found very easy, as he already understood so much of the language, and he was able to practise speaking with Pierre.

The young Frenchman slowly recovered, but the doctor, who came to visit him from the hospital every day, said that it would be a long time before he would regain strength and be able to return to France.

Bill had written, at Pierre’s dictation, to Madame Turgot, to tell her where he was, what had happened to him, and how well he was treated. It was rather a funny composition, as Pierre was no great scholar, and could not say how the words should be spelt, but Bill showed it to Mrs Crofton, who assured him that it would be understood perfectly well, which was the great object required, and that Madame Turgot would be satisfied, from the tone and expression, that it came from her son.

There was no regular post in those days between the two countries. Pierre, however, at length got an answer from his mother, directed to the care of Mrs Crofton, expressing her heartfelt thanks to Lieutenant Saltwell and Bill, and the kind lady who had befriended him. She sent also many messages from Captain Turgot and Jeannette.

The letter arrived just as the Thisbe was ready for sea. Mary could not help bursting into tears when Bill took his leave for the last time.

“It’s just like Oliver going away,” she said. Indeed, it was evident that she looked upon Bill as another Oliver, and even Mrs Crofton showed how sincerely sorry she was to part with her young visitor, who had so greatly won on her affections.

She promised to write again to Madame Turgot to let her know how Pierre was getting on; but there appeared no probability of his being able to move until the frigate came back, when Mr Saltwell would be able to make arrangements for his return to France.

Though sorry to leave his kind friends, Bill was very glad to be at sea again, and engaged in the active duties of his profession. His messmates treated him with much kindness, and remarked among themselves the improvement in his manners, while two or three fresh members of the mess, when they heard how he had gained his promotion, looked upon him with evident respect. He did not, however, forget his old friends, and Jack was always pleased when he came forward to talk to him, and did not appear at all jealous, which could not be said of Tom, who, though he did not venture to show his feelings, was inclined to keep out of his way, and sometimes answered in rather a surly tone when spoken to, always taking care to bring in the “sir” after every sentence, and touching his hat with mock respect, of which Bill, though he could not fail to observe, took no notice.

The Thisbe had been several weeks at sea, and had during that time captured, without firing a shot, three of the enemy’s merchantmen, which she had sent into Plymouth, the more pugnacious of the crew grumbling at not having encountered an enemy worthy of their prowess, and which would have afforded them a larger amount of prize-money.

Captain Martin was about to return to port to take on board his officers and men when he was joined by the Venus frigate. Her captain told him that he had just before made out two French frigates to the south-east, and the Thisbe bore up with the Venus in chase, with every stitch of canvas they could carry set.

A stern chase is proverbially a long chase, and the French frigates, which had been seen to the eastward, had a considerable start of their pursuers. Still, as they had been under moderate canvas, it was hoped that they would set no more sail, and might thus be overtaken.

A sharp look-out was kept, and the officers were continually going aloft with their glasses, and sweeping the horizon from north to south, in the hopes of espying the enemy.

“I say, Jack, do you think if we come up with those two Frenchmen we are chasing they’ll turn round and fight us?” asked Tom, who thought it much pleasanter to capture unarmed merchant vessels than to have to fight an enemy which sent round shots and bullets on board in return.

“No doubt about that, youngster,” answered Ben Twinch, the boatswain’s mate, who overheard Tom’s remark. “What do you think we come to sea for? If we can take a man-of-war of our own size she’s worth half a dozen merchant craft, though, to be sure, some of us may lose the number of our mess; but we all know that, and make no count of it. Maybe you’ll have your head taken off one of these days, and if you do, you’ll only share the fate of many another fine fellow.”

“I hope not!” cried Tom, mechanically putting up his hand to his head as if to hold it on, and turning from Ben.

“Never fear!” said Jack, wishing to console him; “the chances are that you will escape and live to fight another day.”

If Tom had any fear, it was not the time to show it. He heard all around him speak of fighting as if it were fun, and of death with seeming levity. It is the way of the young and the thoughtless. Old sailors and old soldiers seldom talk thus, and think more of duty than of glory. For young or for old the loss of life is not a matter for light talk, as if death were only the end of it. Those that cause war will have much to reckon for hereafter. But there is no time for such thoughts in sight of the enemy. So we must go on with our story.

The midshipmen aft were universally anxious to come up with the vessels of which they were in chase. It was supposed that they were frigates of the same size as their own and the Venus; but should they prove much larger, they were equally ready to engage them.

Still, hour after hour went by, and no enemy appearing, they began to fear that the Frenchmen would get into port before they could be overtaken. At length, just before the sun reached the horizon, his rays fell on the royals and topgallantsails of two ships right ahead. As the sun sank lower they were again lost to view, but their appearance revived the hopes of all on board. It was not likely that they would alter their course during the night, and it was hoped, therefore, that before morning they would be overtaken. It was not likely that the Thisbe and Venus, being in the shadow, would have been perceived.

“The chances are that we shall be upon them in the dark,” said Jack to Tom; “and we’ll surprise them, I’ve a notion. The captain thinks so, or he wouldn’t have given the order to prepare for action.”

“I would rather fight in daylight,” said Tom, “and I hope they’ll manage to keep ahead till then.”

Jack laughed, for he suspected that Tom would rather not fight at all.

The watch below were ordered to turn in as usual, but most of the officers kept on deck, too eager for the work to be able to sleep.

Chapter Twenty Four.

Action between the “Thisbe” and a French frigate.

Rayner—for such he ought now to be called—who was in the middle watch, was standing forward on the look-out, and, as may be supposed, he did not allow an eye to wink. Several times he thought that he could see two dark objects rising above the horizon, but his imagination might have deceived him, for they, at all events, grew no larger. When his watch was over, he came aft into the midshipmen’s berth, where several of his messmates were collected. He might have turned in, for the night was drawing on, but there were still two hours to daylight. He, as well as others, dropped asleep with their heads on the table.

They were aroused from their uncomfortable slumbers by the boatswain’s call, piping the hammocks up, and on coming on deck the first thing they saw were the two ships they had been chasing all night directly ahead, their topsails just rising above the water. Their hopes revived that they would come up with them before the day was many hours older; still the strangers were a long way out of range of their bow chasers.

As the sun rose and shone on their own canvas they knew that they must be clearly seen, and it was hoped that the two ships would, if their captains were inclined to fight, heave to and await their coming.

Such, however, it was evidently the intention of the Frenchman not to do, for it was seen that studding-sails were being set below and aloft.

“Still they may not have the heels of us,” observed Captain Martin to the first lieutenant; “and before they get into Cherbourg we may be up to them.”

It was thought that as the day advanced the wind might increase, but in this Captain Martin was disappointed. At length, towards evening, Cape La Hogue and the coast of France, to the westward of Cherbourg, appeared in sight. In a few hours it was too probable that the French ships would get safe into port.

Remarks not over complimentary to the valour of the Frenchmen were made by the crews of the English frigates, when they saw that the enemy had escaped them; but as Jack observed, “There’s no use grumbling; the mounseers have got away from us because they knew the tremendous drubbing we would have given them.”

“Perhaps we may see them again before long,” said Tom, his courage returning now that all danger of an encounter had passed. “Depend on it, our captain will do his best to give them a taste of our quality.”

Tom was right; for although the Thisbe and Venus had to haul their wind, and stand off shore, a bright look-out was kept, in the hopes that the French frigates might again put to sea.

Day after day passed, and at length the Venus parted company from the Thisbe. The latter frigate was standing across Channel when a lugger was sighted, to which she gave chase. The stranger at first made all sail, as if to escape. She was at length seen to heave to. On coming up with her, it was at first doubtful whether she was English or French, but as the frigate approached she hoisted English colours and lowered a boat, which in a short time came alongside, and a fine, intelligent-looking man stepping upon deck, announced himself as master of the lugger. He had, he said, at first taken the Thisbe for a French frigate which was in the habit of coming out of Cherbourg every evening, picking up any prizes she could fall in with, and returning next morning with them into port. He had, indeed, narrowly escaped once before.

This was valuable information, and Captain Martin determined to act upon it, in the hopes of capturing the marauder. Being engaged in particular service, the master of the lugger was allowed to proceed on his way, and the Thisbe stood back towards Cherbourg.

The day passed, and no enemy appeared. Next morning, however, a sail was seen to the northward. Captain Martin immediately bore up to ascertain her character. As the daylight increased, all felt confident that she was a frigate, and probably French. The stranger was seen to be carrying a press of canvas, and apparently steering for Cherbourg. To re-enter that port she must encounter the Thisbe, on board which preparations were made for the expected engagement. The stranger, too, continuing her course, hauled her wind, and stood down Channel, as if anxious to escape. Why she did so it was difficult to say, except on the possibility that she had seen another English ship to the northward, and was unwilling to encounter two enemies at once.

It was the general opinion that she was a powerful frigate, considerably larger than the Thisbe; but even if such were the case, Captain Martin was not the man to be deterred from engaging her. The stranger sailed well, and there appeared every probability that she would distance the Thisbe, and if she wished it, get back to port without coming to action.

In a short time the weather became very thick, and, to the disappointment of all, the stranger was lost sight of. Still the Thisbe continued her course, and many a sharp pair of eyes were employed in looking out for the Frenchman, it being difficult to say, should the fog lift, in what direction she might next be seen. She might tack and run back to Cherbourg, or she might, trusting to her superior sailing, stand across the Thisbe’s bows to the southward.

A couple of hours passed. As at any moment the fog might clear away, and the stranger might appear close aboard her, the Thisbe prepared for immediate action. The men had been sent below to dinner, and the prospect of a fight did not damp their appetites.

The midshipmen had finished theirs, and Rayner, who had just relieved one of his messmates on deck, was on the look-out when he espied, away on the larboard bow, a sail through the fog, which had somewhat dispersed in that quarter. A second glance convinced him that she was a large ship. He instantly shouted out the welcome intelligence. Every one hoped that she was the vessel they were in search of. The drum beat to quarters, and scarcely were the guns run out than the fog clearing still more discovered a large frigate standing under all sail to the eastward, about half a mile away. If she were the one they had before seen, she had evidently acted as Captain Martin had supposed might be the case, and having crossed the Thisbe’s course, had then kept away, hoping to get in shore of her and back to Cherbourg. At once the Thisbe was put about, and then stood so as to cross the stranger’s bows. The latter, on seeing this, hoisting French colours, rapidly shortened sail and hauled up to the northward, the two ships crossing each other on contrary tacks. The Thisbe fired her starboard broadside, receiving one in return, and then going about, endeavoured to get to windward of her antagonist. This, however, she was unable to do, and was compelled to continue the engagement to leeward. Her crew fought with the usual courage of British seamen, but the enemy’s shot were making fearful havoc on her masts and rigging. Her three lower masts and bowsprit were in a short time wounded in several places, most of her stays were shot away, and much damage was done to the main rigging.

At length her main-topsail yard was shot away in the slings by a double-headed shot, and the yard-arms came down in front of the mainyard, the leech ropes of the mainsail were cut to pieces and the sail riddled. All the time, also, whenever the ships were within musket-range, showers of bullets came rattling on board, and several of the men were laid low.

Still Captain Martin did not attempt to escape from his opponent, which was seen to have twenty guns on a side, besides quarter-deck guns, and a number of men armed with muskets. He hoped, by perseverance, to knock away her masts or inflict such other serious injury as might compel her to give in.

This was Rayner’s first action since he had attained his present rank. He endeavoured to maintain his character, and though it was trying work to see his shipmates struck down on either side of him, he did not for a moment think of himself or the risk he ran of meeting the same fate. All the time spars, rigging, and blocks were falling from aloft, shot away by the hot fire of the enemy. He endeavoured to keep himself cool and composed, and to execute the orders he received.

Jack and Tom were employed as powder-monkeys on the maindeck, when Rayner was sent by the captain to ascertain what was going on. As he went along it he passed his two friends.

Jack was as active as ever, handing up the powder required; poor Tom looked the picture of misery.

“Ain’t the enemy going to strike yet, Mr Rayner?” he asked, in a melancholy tone; “we’ve been a long time about it, and I thought they would have given in long ago.”

“I hope they soon will have enough of it and give in, and we must blaze away at them until they do,” answered the midshipman, hurrying on.

Just then a shot came crashing in through the side, passing just where Rayner had been standing, sending the splinters flying about in all directions. He had not time to look round, but thought he heard a cry as if some one had been hit, and he hurried on to deliver his message to the second lieutenant.

On his way back he took a glance to see how it fared with his two friends. Tom was seated on his tub, but poor Jack lay stretched on deck. Rayner, hastening to him, lifted him up.

“I’m only hit in the leg,” answered Jack to his inquiries. “It hurt me very much, and I fell, but I’ll try to do my duty.” How barbarous is war!

Rayner, however, saw that this was impossible, as the blood was flowing rapidly from the wounded limb, and calling one of the people appointed to attend those who were hurt, he ordered him to carry Jack below. “Tell the surgeons he’s badly wounded, and get them to attend to him at once,” he said.

He longed to be able to go himself, but his duty compelled him to return to the upper deck. Scarcely had he got there than he saw, to his grief, that the enemy had dropped under the stern, and the next instant, discharging her broadside, she raked the Thisbe fore and aft. In vain the latter tried to escape from her critical position; before she could do so she was a second time raked, the gaff being shot away, the mizenmast injured, and the remaining rigging cut through and through. Fortunately, the Thisbe still answered her helm, and the crew were endeavouring to make sail, when the enemy ranged up on the starboard quarter, her forecastle being covered with men, evidently intending to board.

Captain Martin, on seeing this, sent Rayner below with orders to double shot the after-maindeck guns, and to fire them as the enemy came close up. The next he shouted the cry which British seamen are always ready to obey, “Boarders, repel boarders;” and every man not engaged at the guns hurried aft, cutlass in hand, ready to drive back the foe as soon as the ships should touch; but ere that moment arrived, an iron shower issued from the guns beneath their feet, crashing through the Frenchman’s bows and tearing along her decks. Instead of coming on, she suddenly threw all her sails aback, and hauled off out of gunshot. On seeing this, the British crew uttered three hearty cheers, and Rayner, with others who had hurried from below, fully believed that the enemy had hauled down her flag, but instead of that, under all the sail she could carry, she continued standing away until she had got two miles off. Here she hove-to, in order, it was evident, to repair damages. These must have been very severe, for many of her men were seen over the sides engaged in stopping shot-holes, while the water, which issued forth in cascades, showed that the pumps were being worked with might and main to keep her from sinking.

The Thisbe was in too crippled a condition to follow. Several shot had passed between wind and water on both sides. One gun on the quarter-deck and two on the maindeck were dismounted, and almost all the tackles and breachings were cut away. The maindeck before the mainmast was torn up from the waterway to the hatchways, and the bits were shot away, as was the chief part of the gangways. Not an officer had been killed, but two midshipmen, the master, and gunner, were wounded. Twenty men were wounded and eleven lost the number of their mess.

The wind, which had been moderate when the action began, had now greatly increased. Not a moment was lost in commencing the repair of damages. The sky indicated the approach of bad weather, and a westerly or south-westerly gale might be expected. Before all the shot-holes could be stopped it came on to blow very hard. Plymouth being too far to the westward, the nearest shelter the Thisbe could reach was Portland, towards which she steered.

The moon coming forth, she had light sufficient to run in and anchor, protected by the projecting headland from the furious gale now blowing.

Many a brave man on board besides the captain breathed more freely than they had done for some hours when the anchor was dropped and the torn canvas furled. Still the Thisbe would be in a critical position should the wind shift more to the southward, as she would be exposed to the seas rolling into the bay.

Chapter Twenty Five.

The shipwreck.

As soon as Rayner could obtain a spare moment, he hastened below to visit poor Jack. He met Tom on the way.

“Jack’s very bad, Mr Rayner,” answered Tom to his inquiries. “He didn’t know me just now; he’s talking about his mother, and fancying she’s nursing him.”

This news made our hero feel very sad, and he hurried on to the lower deck, where the wounded lay in their hammocks, sheltered by a canvas screen.

He inquired of one of the attendants where Jack Peek was, and soon found him, the surgeon being by his side dressing his wound.

“I’m much afraid that he will slip through our fingers unless we can manage to quell the fever. He requires constant watching, and that is more than he can well obtain, with so many men laid up, and so much to do,” said the doctor as he finished his task. “However, Rayner, if you can stay by him, I’ll be back in a few minutes to see how he’s getting on. In the meantime give him this medicine; if he comes to his senses, a word or two from you may do him good.”

Though Rayner himself could scarcely stand from fatigue, he undertook to do as the doctor requested. He waited until he saw, by the light of the lantern hung up from a beam overhead, that Jack had come somewhat to himself, when he got him to take the draught he held in his hand.

“How do you feel, Jack?” he asked in a low tone; but poor Jack did not reply. After waiting a little time longer, Rayner again spoke. “We’ve beaten off the enemy, you know, and are safe under shelter of the land. Cheer up now, you’ll soon get round.”

“Is that you, Bill?” asked Jack, in a faint voice. “I thought mother was with me, and I was on shore, but I’m glad she’s not, for it would grieve her to see me knocked about as I am.”

“You’ll do well now, the doctor said so, as you’ve come to yourself,” observed Rayner, much cheered at hearing Jack speak. “I’ll stay by you while it is my watch below, and then I’ll get Tom to come. Now go to sleep, if the pain will let you.”

“The pain isn’t so very great, and I don’t mind it since we have licked the enemy,” answered Jack; “but I hope you won’t be angry at me calling you Bill; I quite forgot, Mr Rayner, that you were a midshipman.”

“No, I didn’t remark that you called me Bill,” answered Rayner; “if I had, I shouldn’t have thought about it. I just feel as I did when I was your messmate. However, I must not let you be talking, so now shut your eyes and get some sleep; it will do you more good than the doctor’s stuff.”

Rayner was very glad when the doctor came back, accompanied by Tom, and having observed that Jack was going on as well as he expected, told him to go to his hammock. This he gladly did, leaving Tom in charge of their friend.

Rayner felt that he greatly needed rest; but as he had expended part of his watch below, he could not have three hours’ sleep.

On coming on deck he found the gale was blowing harder than ever, though the frigate lay sheltered by the land.

Almost immediately the sound of a distant gun reached his ear. It was followed rapidly by others, and the sound appeared to come down on the gale.

“There’s a ship in danger on the other side of Portland,” observed the second lieutenant, who was the officer of the watch. “Rayner, go and tell the captain. He desired to be called if anything happened.”

Captain Martin, who had only thrown himself down on his bed in his clothes, was on his feet in a moment, and followed Rayner on deck.

After listening a minute. “It’s more than possible she’s our late antagonist,” he observed. “If the gale caught her unprepared, her masts probably went by the board, and, unable to help herself, she is driving in here. Get a couple of boats ready with some coils of rope, and spars, and rockets, and we’ll try and save the lives of the poor fellows.”

Rayner was surprised to hear this, supposing that the captain intended to pull out to sea, whereas he had resolved to go overland to the part of the coast which probably the ship in distress was approaching. Although where the frigate lay was tolerably smooth water, yet, from the white-crested seas which broke outside, and the roaring of the wind as it swept over the land, it was very evident that no boat could live when once from under its shelter.

The captain, accompanied by three gun-room officers, Rayner and another midshipman, and twenty men, landed at the nearest spot where the boats could put in, and proceeded overland in the direction from which the sound of the guns had come.

Again and again they boomed forth through the midnight air. Solemnly they struck on the ear, telling of danger and death. Scarcely, however, had the party proceeded a quarter of a mile than they ceased. In vain they were listened for. It was too evident that the ship had struck the fatal rocks, and if so, there was not a moment to be lost, or too probably the whole of the hapless crew would be lost.

The western shore was reached at last. As they approached the cliffs they saw a number of people moving about, and as they got to the bay and looked down over the foaming ocean, they could see a dark object some fifty fathoms off, from which proceeded piercing shrieks and cries for help. It was the hull of a large ship, hove on her beam-ends, her masts gone, the after-part already shattered and rent by the fierce seas which dashed furiously against her, threatening to sweep off the miserable wretches clinging to the bulwarks and stanchions. To form a communication with her was Captain Martin’s first object. As yet it was evident that no attempt of the sort had been made, most of the people who had collected being more eager apparently to secure the casks, chests, and other things thrown on shore than to assist their perishing fellow-creatures. It was vain to shout and direct the people on the wreck to attach a line to a cask and let it float in towards the beach. The most stentorian voices could not make themselves heard when sent in the teeth of the gale now blowing. On descending the cliffs, Captain Martin and his party found a narrow strip of beach, on which they could stand out of the power of the seas, which, in quick succession, came foaming and roaring in towards them. He immediately ordered a couple of rockets to be let off, to show the strangers that there were those on shore who were ready to help them. No signal was fired in return, not even a lantern shown, but the crashing, rending sounds which came from the wreck made it too evident that she could not much longer withstand the furious assaults of the raging ocean. Captain Martin inquired whether any of his crew were sufficiently good swimmers to reach the wreck.

Rayner longed to say that he would try, but he had never swum in a heavy sea, and felt that it would be madness to make the attempt.

“I’ll try it, sir,” cried Ben Twinch, the boatswain’s mate, one of the most powerful men in the ship. “I’d like, howsomdever, to have a line round my waist. Do you stand by, mates, and haul me back if I don’t make way; there are some ugly bits of timber floating about, and one of them may give me a lick on the head, and I shan’t know what’s happening.”

Ben’s offer was accepted. While the coil of line was being got ready, a large spar, to which a couple of men were clinging, was seen floating in towards the beach, but it was still at some distance, and there was a fearful probability that before it touched the shore the reflux of the water might drag them off to destruction.

“Quick, lads, quick, and I’ll try to get hold of one or both of them, if I can,” cried Ben, fastening the rope round his body. His example was followed by another man, who, in the same way, secured a rope round himself, when both plunged in and seized the well-nigh drowning strangers, just as, utterly exhausted, they had let go their hold. They were able, however, to speak, and Rayner discovered that they were French.

By the captain’s directions he inquired the name of the ship.

“The Zenobie frigate, of forty guns and three hundred and forty men,” was the answer. “We had an action yesterday with an English frigate, which made off while we were repairing damages, but truly she so knocked us about that when we were caught by the gale our masts went over the side, and we were driven utterly helpless on this terrible coast.”

Rayner did not tell the Thisbe’s men, who were trying to assist the hapless strangers, that they were their late antagonists. He merely said, “They are Frenchmen, lads; but I’m sure that will make no difference to any of us.”

“I should think not, whether they’re Mynheers or Mounseers,” cried Ben. “They’re drowning, and want our help; so, whether enemies or friends, we’ll try to haul as many of the poor fellows ashore as we can get hold of, and give them dry jackets, and a warm welcome afterwards. Slack away, mates!” And he plunged into the foaming billows.

His progress was anxiously watched as he rose now on the top of a roaring sea, now concealed as he sank into the hollow to appear again on the side of another, all the time buffeting the foaming breakers, now avoiding a mass of timber, now grasping a spar, and making it support him as he forced his way onward, until he was lost to sight in the gloom.

After a considerable time of intense anxiety it was found that the line was taut. Ben had, it was supposed, reached the forechains of the frigate. Then the question rose, whether he would be able to make himself understood by the Frenchmen. One of the men, however, who had been washed on shore said that he believed one or two people on board understood English; but it was doubtful whether they were among those who had already perished.

Some more minutes passed, and then they felt the line shaken. It was the signal for them to haul in. Rapidly pulling away, they at length had the satisfaction of finding the end of a stout hawser, with a smaller line attached to it. The hawser was made fast round a rock, then, knowing the object of the line, they hauled away at it until they saw a cradle coming along with a couple of boys in it. The moment they were taken out the cradle was hauled back, and then a man appeared, and thus, one after another, about sixty of the French crew were dragged on shore.

Every time the cradle appeared, his shipmates hoped to see Ben in it; but Rayner learned from one of the persons in it that he had remained on the wreck, assisting those who were too benumbed or bewildered with fear to secure themselves.

As the poor Frenchmen were landed, they were placed under charge of some of the men appointed for the purpose, while two of the officers supplied the most exhausted with such restoratives as they required.

Many, they said, had already been washed off the wreck and been lost, while others were too much paralysed by fear even to make their way to where Ben was standing, lashed to a stanchion, ready to help them into the cradle.

Great fears were now entertained lest he should suffer by his noble exertions to save others. The crashing and rending sounds increased in frequency. Every instant some huge portion of the wreck was rent away, and the whole intervening mass of seething waters was covered by dark fragments of timber, tossing and rolling as they approached the beach, or were floated out to sea, or cast against the rocks. Still the Frenchmen kept arriving. Now one more daring than the others would crawl along the cable in spite of the risk of being washed off by the hungry breakers into which it was occasionally plunged.

Rayner, who stood on the rock with a party engaged in assisting the people as they arrived in the cradle, inquired whether there were many more to come.

“I think so, monsieur,” was the answer; “we mustered nearly four hundred souls, but of those, alas! numbers have already been washed away.”

Again and again those fearful crashings, mingled with despairing shrieks, were heard above the roar of wild breakers. Rayner felt serious apprehensions about the safety of brave Ben.

At any moment the wreck might break up, and then it would be scarcely possible for a human being to exist amidst the masses of timber which would be hurled wildly about.

Again the cradle was to be hauled in. In came with greater difficulty than before, as if it carried a heavier weight. It seemed as if the cable would not bear the additional strain.

The British seamen exerted all their strength, for at any moment, even if the cable did not break, it might be torn from its holdfast on the wreck. As the cradle came in, two men were seen seated in it, one holding another in his arms. Rayner heard the words, “Vite, vite, mon ami, ou nous sommes perdu.”

“Haul away, lads, haul away!” he shouted out, though his men required no urging.

Just as the cradle was reaching the rock, a crash, even louder than its predecessors, was heard. Several men sprang forward to grasp the occupants of the cradle. The outer end of the rope had given way, and in another instant they would have been too late.

Again the wild shrieks of despair of the helpless wretches who still remained on the wreck echoed along the cliffs.

“Poor Ben! has he gone?” exclaimed Rayner. “No, sir, he’s one of those we’ve just got ashore,” answered a quarter-master who, with several others, had rushed down to help the two men taken out of the cradle, and who were now bearing the apparently inanimate body of the boatswain’s mate up the rock; “the other’s a Frenchman by his lingo.”

Rayner hurried to the spot, when what was his surprise, as the light of the lantern fell on the countenance of the Frenchman last landed, to see Pierre’s father, Captain Turgot!

Putting out his hand, he warmly shook that of his old friend, who opened his eyes with a look of astonishment, naturally not recognising him.

“Don’t you know me, Captain Turgot?” said Rayner. “I am one of the boys you saved when our frigate was blown up.”

“What! are you little Bill?” exclaimed the honest fisherman. “That is wonderful. Then you escaped after all. I am indeed glad.”

There was no time just then, however, for explanations. Rayner thanked his old friend for saving Ben’s life.

“I could do nothing else,” was the answer. “He was about to place another man in the cradle who had not the courage to get into it by himself, when a piece of timber surging up struck both of them, the other was swept away, and the brave English sailor would have suffered the same fate had I not got hold of him; and then, though I had made up my mind to remain to the last, I saw that the only way to save him was to bring him myself in the cradle to the shore, and I am thankful that I did so. But my poor countrymen! There are many still remaining who must perish if we cannot get another hawser secured to the wreck.”

This was what Captain Martin was now endeavouring to do, but there was no one found willing or able to swim back to the wreck. The danger of making the attempt was, indeed, far greater than at first.

Ben was regaining his consciousness; but even had he been uninjured, after the exertions he had gone through, he would have been unfit to repeat the dangerous exploit.

Captain Turgot offered to try; but when he saw the intermediate space through which he would have to pass covered with masses of wreck, he acknowledged that it would be impossible to succeed.

The final catastrophe came at last. A tremendous wave, higher than its predecessors, rolled in, apparently lifting the wreck, which, coming down again with fearful force upon the rocks, split into a thousand fragments.

As the wave, after dashing furiously on the shore, rolled back again, a few shattered timbers could alone be perceived, with not a human being clinging to them.

Shrieks of despair, heard above the howling tempest, rose from the surging water, but they were speedily hushed, and of the struggling wretches two men alone, almost exhausted, were thrown by a succeeding wave on the shingly beach, together with the bodies of several already numbered among the dead.

When Captain Martin came to muster the shipwrecked men saved by his exertions, he found that upwards of three hundred of the crew of his late antagonist had perished, seventy alone having landed in safety. Leaving a party on the beach to watch lest any more should be washed on shore, he and the magistrate led the way up the cliff. The Frenchmen followed with downcast hearts, fully believing that they were to be treated as prisoners of war. Some of them, aided by the British seamen, carried those who had been too much injured to walk.

After they had arrived at a spot where some shelter was found from the fury of the wind, Captain Martin, calling a halt, sent for Rayner, and told him to assure the Frenchmen that he did not look upon them as enemies or prisoners of war, but rather as unfortunate strangers who, having been driven on the English coast by the elements, had a right to expect assistance and kind treatment from the inhabitants, and that such it was his wish to afford them.

Expressions of gratitude rose from the lips of the Frenchmen when Rayner had translated what Captain Martin had said. The magistrate then offered to receive as many as his own house could accommodate, as did two gentlemen who had accompanied him, their example being followed by other persons, and before morning the whole of the shipwrecked seamen were housed, including three or four officers, the only ones saved. The poor fellows endeavoured by every way in their power to show how grateful they were for the kindness they were receiving.

Captain Martin’s first care was to write an account of the occurrence to the Admiralty, stating what he had done, and expressing a hope that the shipwrecked crew would be sent back as soon as possible to France.

By return of post, which was not, however, until the end of three or four days, Captain Martin had the satisfaction of receiving a letter from the king himself, highly approving of his conduct, and directing that the Frenchmen should each receive as much clothing and money as they required, and as soon as a cartel could be got ready, sent back to Cherbourg or some other French port.

News of the battered state of the Thisbe having been received at the Admiralty, a frigate was ordered round to escort her into port, as she was not in a position to put to sea safely by herself. The Frenchmen having been received on board the two frigates, and a light northerly breeze springing up, they sailed together for Plymouth. The pumps were kept going on board the Thisbe during the whole passage, when the Frenchmen, at the instigation of Captain Turgot, volunteered to work them.

Rayner had many a talk about Pierre with his old friend, who longed to embrace his son, and was profuse in his expressions of gratitude for the kindness he had received.

Directly he returned on board, Rayner went to Jack, whom he found going on well. Captain Turgot, on hearing that Jack had been wounded, begged permission to see him, and from that moment spent every instant he could by his side, tending him as if he had been his own son.

It was curious to see the way the English sailors treated their French guests who had so lately been engaged with them in a desperate fight. Several were suffering from bruises and exposure on the wreck. These were nursed with a tender care, as if they had been women or children, the sailors carrying those about whose legs had been hurt, and feeding two or three, whose hands or arms had been injured, just as if they had been big babies.

The rest of the Frenchmen who had escaped injury quickly recovered their spirits, and might have been seen toeing and heeling it at night to the sound of Bob Rosin’s fiddle; and Bob, a one-legged negro, who performed the double duty of cook’s second mate and musician-general of the ship, was never tired of playing as long as he could get any one to dance. The style of performance of the two nationalities was very different, but both received their share of applause from one another. The Frenchmen leapt into the air, whirled, bounded and skipped, while the British tars did the double-shuffle and performed the various evolutions of the hornpipe, to the admiration of their Gallic rivals.

By the time they had reached Plymouth they had won each other’s hearts, and hands were wrung, and many of the Frenchmen burst into tears as they took their leave of their gallant entertainers, all protesting that they should always remember their kindness, and expressing the hope that they should never meet again except as friends.

Sad it is that men, who would be ever ready to live on friendly terms and advance their mutual interests, should, by the ambition and lust of power of a few, be compelled to slaughter and injure each other, as has unhappily been the case for so many centuries throughout the whole civilised portion of the world.

As soon as the anchor was dropped, Rayner asked for leave to go on shore with Captain Turgot, to visit Mrs Crofton, and learn how Pierre was getting on.

“You may go, but you must return on board at night, as there is plenty of work to be done,” answered the first lieutenant.

“Thank you, sir,” said Rayner; and he hurried below to tell Captain Turgot to get ready.

They shoved off by the first boat going on shore. They walked on quickly through the streets of Plymouth, Rayner anticipating the pleasure of seeing Mrs Crofton and Mary, and of witnessing the meeting between the honest Frenchman and his son.

“I hope that we shall find Pierre recovered; but the doctor said his wound would take long to heal, and you must not be surprised if he is still unable to move,” he said to Captain Turgot. “Our friends will take very good care of him, and perhaps you would like to remain behind until he is well.”

“I would wish to be with him, but I am anxious to relieve the anxiety of Madame Turgot and Jeannette, who, if they do not see me, will suppose that I am lost,” answered the Captain. “I shall grieve to leave my boy behind, but I know that he will be well cared for, and I cannot tell you, my young friend, how grateful I am. Little did I think, when I picked you up out of the water, how amply you would return the service I did you.”

“I certainly did not expect in any way to be able to repay it,” said Rayner, “or, to say the truth, to feel the regard for Frenchmen which I do for you and your son.”

Rayner found Mrs Crofton and her daughter seated in the drawing-room. After the first greetings were over, and he had introduced Captain Turgot, he inquired after Pierre, expecting, through not seeing him, that he was still unable to leave his room.

“He has gone out for a short walk, as the doctor tells him to be in the fresh air as much as possible, and he is well able to get along with the help of a stick,” answered Mrs Crofton. “I hope his father has not come to take him away, for we shall be very sorry to lose him?”

“I don’t know whether he will be allowed to go without being exchanged,” answered Rayner; and he gave an account of the wreck of the Zenobie and the arrangement which had been made for sending the survivors of her crew back to France.

“That is very kind and generous of our good king. No wonder that his soldiers and sailors are so ready to fight for him,” remarked Mrs Crofton.

While they were speaking, Pierre entered the house. His joy at seeing his father almost overcame him. They threw themselves into each other’s arms and embraced as Frenchmen are accustomed to embrace—somewhat, it must be confessed, to Mary’s amusement. After they had become more tranquil they sat down and talked away at such a rate that even Rayner could scarcely understand what they were saying. He meantime had a pleasant conversation with Mary and her mother, for he had plenty to tell them, and they evidently liked to listen to him.

After some time, during a pause in the conversation, Captain Turgot desired Pierre to tell Mrs Crofton and her daughter how grateful he felt for their kindness, his own knowledge of English being insufficient to express his wishes.

They, hearing him, replied in French, and soon the whole party was talking away in that language, though Mary’s French, it must be admitted, was not of a very choice description; but she laughed at her own mistakes, and Rayner helped her out when she was in want of a word.

The afternoon passed pleasantly away, and Rayner, looking at his watch, was sorry to find it was time to return. He told Pierre that he must report his state to the Captain and Mr Saltwell, who would decide what he was to do.

Captain Turgot went back with him, having nowhere else to go.

Captain Martin lost no time in carrying out the wishes of the kind king. A brig was chartered as a cartel, on board of which the Frenchmen were at once sent. Rayner was not aware that Mr Saltwell had obtained permission for Pierre to go back with his father, and was much surprised on being directed to go to Mrs Crofton’s, and to escort him on board the brig.

Pierre seemed scarcely to know whether to laugh or cry at regaining his liberty as he took leave of his kind hostess and her daughter; but his desire to see his mother and sister and la belle France finally overcame his regret at parting from them, and he quickly got ready to set off.

“We shall be happy to see you as soon as you can come again, Mr Rayner,” said Mrs Crofton.

“Oh yes,” added Mary, in a sweet voice, with a smile, which made our hero at once promise that he would lose no opportunity of paying them a visit. Rayner’s first duty was to see Captain Turgot and Pierre on board the cartel. They embraced him with tears in their eyes as they wished him farewell, and many of the grateful Frenchmen gathered round him, several expressing their hopes that France and England would soon make up their quarrel.

“What it’s all about, ma foi, is more than I or any of us can tell,” exclaimed a boatswain’s mate, wringing Rayner’s hand, which all were eager to grasp. “We are carried on board ship and told to fight, and so we fight—more fools we! If we were wise, we should navigate our merchant vessels, or go fishing, or stay at home and cultivate our fields and gardens. We all hope that there’ll be peace when we next meet, messieurs.”

Many others echoed the sentiment, and cheered Rayner, who, after he had sent many kind messages to Madame Turgot and Jeannette, hurried down the side and returned on board the frigate.

Chapter Twenty Six.

The ship on fire.

Jack, with the rest of those who had been wounded, had been sent to the hospital. Rayner the next day obtained leave to visit him. He was sorry for Tom, who was thus left very much to his own resources, and he tried to find an opportunity of speaking a kind word to his former companion; but Tom, as before, sulkily kept aloof, so that he was compelled to leave him to himself. He was very sorry, soon after, to see him being led along the deck by the master-at-arms. Tom looked dreadfully downcast and frightened.

Rayner inquired what he had been doing.

“Attempting to desert, sir,” was the answer. “He had got on shore and had dressed himself in a smock-frock and carter’s hat, and was making his way out of the town.”

Tom could not deny the accusation, and he was placed in irons, awaiting his punishment, with two other men who had also run from the ship and had been caught.

Rayner felt a sincere compassion for his old messmate, and obtained leave to pay him a visit, anxious to ascertain if there were any extenuating circumstances by which he might obtain a remission of his punishment.

“What made you try to run, Fletcher?” he asked, as he found Tom and his two companions seated in “durance vile,” on the deck.

“I wanted to go back to my father and to try and persuade him to get me made a midshipman as you are,” answered Tom. “It’s a shame that a gentleman’s son should be treated as I have been, and made a powder monkey of, while you have been placed on the quarter-deck.”

“I thought that you had applied to your father before, and that he had refused to interfere,” said Rayner, taking no notice of Tom’s remark in regard to himself.

“I know that, well enough; but it was my brother who answered the letter; and, as my father is a clever man, I daresay by this time he has become rich again, and, for very shame at having a son of his a common ship’s boy, would do as I wish. Can’t you tell the captain that, and perhaps he’ll excuse me the flogging? It’s very hard to be prevented seeing my family, and to be flogged into the bargain. It’s more than I can bear, and I’ve a great mind to jump overboard and drown myself when I get my wrists out of these irons.”

“You’ll not do that,” answered Rayner, knowing very well that Tom did not dream of putting his threat into execution; “but I’ll tell the first lieutenant what you say about your wish to see your family, though I fear it will not influence him in recommending the captain to remit your punishment. I would advise you, whatever happens, to submit, and to try, by doing your duty, to gain a good name for yourself,” said Rayner, who gave him some other sound advice before he returned on deck.

Mr Saltwell shook his head when he heard what Rayner had to say.

“The captain won’t forgive him, you may depend upon that, Rayner,” he answered; “desertion must be punished, were it only as a warning to others.”

Rayner, fortunately for himself, was on shore when Tom underwent his punishment, so that he was saved the pain of seeing it inflicted.

The frigate had been surveyed, but what opinion had been formed about her was not known for some time. At length the captain, who had gone on shore, returned, and, mustering the ship’s company, informed them that, according to the surveyor’s report, it would take some months to put her in thorough repair, and that in the meantime he had been appointed to the command of the store-ship Bombay Castle, of sixty-four guns, bound for the Mediterranean, and he should take his officers and crew with him. “We all of us might wish for more active service, my lads, but we shall not be long absent, and I hope by the time we come back that we shall find our tight little frigate as ready for any duty she may be sent on, as you all, I am sure, will be.”

A cheer was the reply to this address, and the next day the officers and crew of the Thisbe went on board their new ship. They had, however, first to get her ready for sea, and then to receive the stores on board, by which time several of the wounded men, including Jack Peek, had sufficiently recovered to join her.

The Bombay Castle was rolling her away across the Bay of Biscay with a northerly breeze. She was a very different craft from the Thisbe, and though more than twice her size, not nearly so comfortable. Captain Martin had received orders to avoid an engagement, except attacked, and then to do his best to escape, as the stores she carried were of great value, and were much required by the fleet. Though several sail were sighted supposed to be an enemy’s squadron, she managed to escape from them, and arrived safe at Gibraltar. Here she was joined by the Ione frigate, and the two ships sailed together, expecting to fall in with the fleet off Toulon.

The two ships lay almost becalmed in the Gulf of Lyons. Several officers of the Ione, which was only a short distance off, had come on board, when Captain Martin advised them, somewhat to their surprise, to get back to the frigate.

“I don’t quite like the look of the weather,” he remarked. “I’ve seen the masts of a ship whipped out of her, when not five minutes before there was no more wind than we have at present.”

The frigate’s boat left the side and was seen pulling rapidly towards her. Suddenly the cry was heard, “All hands on deck to save ship!”

Those who were below, springing up, found the ship heeling over till her yard-arms almost touched the foaming water, which came rushing over the deck, while the watch were engaged in letting fly tacks and sheets, lowering topsails, clewing up, and hauling down, blocks were rattling, sails shivering, the wind roaring, the sea leaping, hissing, and foaming. The helm was put up, the ship righted, and away she flew before the furious blast, not having suffered any material damage.

The Ione, however, could nowhere be seen. Struck by the squall, she might either have been dismasted or have capsized. In the former case it was very probable that she might fall into the hands of the enemy; but, much as the captain desired it, he could not return to her assistance.

Night came on, and the gale increased, the big ship tumbling and rolling about almost as much as she would have done in the Atlantic, so rapidly did the sea get up. It took some time to get everything snug, but as the ship was at a considerable distance from the land, no great anxiety was felt for her safety.

In the morning the master reported that by his calculation they were about thirteen leagues south-east of Cape Saint Sebastian, on the Spanish coast.

The wind had fallen with almost the same rapidity with which it had risen, but there was still a good deal of sea on. It had now shifted. The first lieutenant was officer of the watch, and was superintending the operation of washing decks.

Rayner, and another midshipman, also with bare feet and trousers tucked up, were paddling about, directing the men in their various duties.

Our hero had just came aft, and was addressing Mr Saltwell, when the latter looking forward, suddenly exclaimed, “What can that smoke be? Run and see where it comes from!”

As Rayner hurried forward he observed a thick volume of smoke rising out of the fore-hatchway, and immediately afterwards a similar ominous cloud ascended from the main hatchway. Before he had made a step aft to report this he saw Mr Saltwell hastening forward.

The next moment the cry of “Fire!” was raised, and the people came rushing up the hatchway in the midst of volumes of smoke ascending from the orlop deck.

“Rayner, go and inform the captain what has occurred,” said Mr Saltwell, in a calm tone. “Let the drum beat to quarters!” he shouted.

The rolling sound of the drum was soon heard along the decks, and the men, springing from all parts of the ship, hurried to their respective stations, where they stood, ready for their orders.

Not a cry was heard. Not an expression of alarm escaped from one of the men. Scarcely a word was spoken as they stood prepared to do their duty.

Summoning the gunner and the boatswain, the first lieutenant ordered the former to open the ports, to give light and air below, and the latter to pipe up the hammocks. He then ascended to the orlop deck, made his way first into one tier, then into another, in both of which he found the smoke issuing exceedingly thick from forward. He was now joined by the second lieutenant and Rayner.

“We’ll just go into the sail-room and ascertain if the fire is there,” he said.

On reaching it, there was no appearance of fire or smoke. It was thus evident that the seat of the fire was farther forward. He and his companions next proceeded to the hold, but the dense smoke compelled them to beat a retreat, as their throats became affected as if from the fumes of hot tar. A second attempt to reach the hold was equally unsuccessful. The entire absence of heat, however, convinced them that the fire could not be in that part of the ship, but that the smoke found its way through the bulkheads.

They were returning on deck, when a cry was raised that the fire was down forward.

“I alone will go!” said Mr Saltwell. “Not a life must be risked without necessity. Remain, and render me any assistance I may require.”

Having descended to the orlop deck, he was attempting to go down into the cockpit, when several men rushed by him, crying out that the fire was increasing. He endeavoured to retreat, but would have fallen before he reached the deck, had not the second lieutenant and Rayner, springing forward, assisted him up, and the next moment he sank down, apparently lifeless.

It was some minutes before the fresh air revived him.

Two poor fellows were suffocated by the smoke rolling in dense volumes along the lower deck, and others were rescued half dead by their shipmates.

Some short time was of necessity lost while the captain and master and the lieutenants were holding a consultation as to what was to be done.

In the meantime, Rayner, seeing the importance of discovering the seat of the fire, resolved at every risk to make the attempt. Without telling any of the officers of his intention, he called on Ben Twinch and Jack and Tom, whom he met on his way, to accompany him, and to bring a long rope with him. On reaching the hatchway he fastened the end round his waist.

“Haul me up if you find it becomes slack,” he said. “You’ll know then that I am not able to get on.”

“Don’t go, sir! don’t go!” cried Jack. “It won’t matter to any one if I get choked, but so many would be sorry if anything happened to you.”

“I’ll tell you what it is, Mr Rayner,” exclaimed Ben; “no man who hasn’t been down to the bottom of Stromboli or down Etna will be able to live two minutes in the cockpit, and I cannot help you, sir, to throw your life away. The ship’s on fire somewhere forward, and what we’ve got to do is to pump the water over it, and try and put it out. If we can’t do that, we must shut down the hatches, and see if we can’t smother it.”

Rayner was not inclined to listen to this well-meant and really judicious advice, but rushing forward, was attempting to make his way down the ladder. Scarcely, however, had he descended three or four steps, when the smoke filling his mouth and nostrils, he would have fallen headlong down had not Ben and Jack hauled him up again, almost in the same condition as Mr Saltwell had been.

“I told you so, sir,” said Ben, as he carried him out of the way of the hose, which now began to play over the spot, under the direction of Mr Saltwell. The water, however, seemed to make no impression on the fire, or in any way to lessen the volumes of smoke, which, on the contrary, became thicker and thicker.

The men who were directing the hose were compelled to retire. The carpenters had, in the meantime, been engaged in scuttling the orlop deck, so that water might be poured down in great quantities. All their efforts were of no avail, however.

In a short time the first lieutenant was heard issuing his orders to cover in the hatchways, and to close the ports, so as to prevent the circulation of air.

With a sad heart Mr Saltwell now went on deck to report to the captain what had been done. He spoke in a low and earnest tone.

“I am afraid, Captain Martin, that we cannot hope to save the ship,” he said; “the fire may be kept under for an hour or perhaps two hours, but if it once makes its way through the hatchways and gets to the lower decks, there is nothing to stop it. I would strongly advise that the boats should at once be got ready, so that as many lives as possible may be preserved.”

“Were we to do that, the people would immediately fancy that the destruction of the ship is certain, and abandon themselves to despair,” said the captain.

“I know our men, and can answer for their doing their duty,” replied Mr Saltwell, with confidence. “If we delay getting out the boats, we may find it impossible to do so at last, and the lives of all on board may be sacrificed. We can trust to the marines, and give them directions to prevent any of the men getting into the boats until you issue the order for them to do so.”

“You are right, Saltwell; send the sergeant of marines here,” said the captain.

The sergeant quickly appeared and stood bolt upright, with his hand to the peak of his hat, as if on parade, ready to receive any orders which might be given.

“Call out your men, and understand that they are to load with ball and shoot any of the seamen who get into the boats without orders.”

The sergeant, saluting, faced about, as if going to perform some ordinary routine of duty, and, quickly mustering his marines, stationed them as directed. The first lieutenant now gave orders to the boatswain to turn the hands up, and as soon as they appeared on deck, he shouted, “Out boats! but understand, my lads, that not one of you is to enter them without leave. The marines have received orders to shoot the first man who attempts to do so, though you do not require to be told that.”

The crew hastened to the tackles and falls, and with the most perfect regularity the boats were lowered into the water when they were veered astern and secured for towing. The helm was now put down, the yards braced up, and the ship’s head directed to the north-west, in which direction the land lay, though not visible from the deck.

The crew knew by this that the captain and officers considered the ship to be in great danger, and at the same time it encouraged them to persevere in their attempts to keep the fire under. They had some hopes also of falling in with the Ione or by firing the guns to attract her attention, should she be within hearing of them.

As the boats, however, would not carry the whole ship’s company, the captain directed the carpenter and his mates to get the booms overboard for the purpose of constructing a raft large enough to support those whom the boats could not carry.

As it was now evident, from the increasing volumes of smoke which ascended through the hatchways, that the fire was working its way aft, although the flames had not yet burst out, it became of the greatest importance to get the powder out of the magazine. For this purpose the second lieutenant descended with a party of men, and succeeded in bringing up a considerable quantity, which was stowed in the stern gallery. All the other hands, not otherwise employed, were engaged under the different officers in heaving water down the hatchways; but the smoke increased to such a degree that they were compelled to desist, several who persevered falling senseless on the deck. The powder which had been got up being hove into the sea, the captain gave the order to drown the magazine. The difficulty of accomplishing this task was, however, very great, and the second lieutenant and gunner, with several of the men, were drawn up, apparently lifeless, after making the attempt. Lieutenant Saltwell now again descended to the after cockpit, where he found one man alone still persevering in the hazardous duty—Ben Twinch, boatswain’s mate.

“A few more buckets, and we’ll do it, sir!” cried Ben; but almost immediately afterwards he sank down exhausted.

The lieutenant, singing out for a rope, fastened it round him, though feeling that he himself would be overpowered before the gallant seaman could be drawn up. He succeeded, however, and once more returned to the deck above. Still, he knew that a large quantity of powder remained dry, and that should the fire reach the magazine, the destruction of all on board would be inevitable. Although gasping for breath, he was about again to descend, when a light, active figure, with a rope round his waist, darted passed him, and he recognised Rayner. He was about to follow, when he heard the voice of the midshipman shouting, “Haul me up, quick!”

The next instant Rayner was drawn up, too much exhausted to speak. He had succeeded in drowning a portion of the powder; but a quantity remained, sufficient at any moment to blow the ship into the air.

Although no human being could exist between the decks forward, the after-part of the lower deck remained free from smoke. In the hopes of getting at the magazine, the carpenter was directed to cut scuttles through the ward-room, and gun-room, so as to get down right above it. By keeping all the doors closed, the smoke was prevented from entering, and at length it was found that the powder could be drawn, up and hove overboard out of the gallery windows. Several of the officers volunteered for this dangerous duty. Rayner, notwithstanding that he had just before escaped suffocation, again twice descended, and was each time drawn up more dead than alive. Several hours had now gone by, and the wind providentially holding fair, the ship was nearing the land. Meantime, the fire was fast gaining on them, and might at any moment triumph over all the heroic efforts of the crew to subdue it. The heat below was intense. The first lieutenant, going forward, found that the hatches had been blown off, as also the tarpaulins placed over the gratings. As it was of the greatest importance to keep them on, he directed the carpenter, with as many men as could be obtained, to replace them, while he returned once more aft, to superintend the operation of getting up the powder.

Although hitherto none of the men had attempted to shirk their duty, greatly to his annoyance he saw, on looking out of the ward-room windows, the stern ladders covered with people, who fancied that they would there be more secure, and escape discovery.

At once bursting open a window he ordered them all up, and directed Rayner to go and see that they made their appearance on deck. Among one of the first who came creeping up, our hero discovered his former messmate Tom Fletcher.

“You people have disgraced yourselves. Fletcher, I am sorry to have to say the same to you,” he exclaimed.

It was the first time he had ever openly found fault with his former companion, but his feelings compelled him to utter the words.

Tom, and the whole of the men who had been on the ladders, sneaked away on either side, ashamed, at all events, of being found out, and still looking with longing eyes at the boats astern. Every now and then a seaman was brought aft and placed under the doctor’s care, but of the number four were found to be past recovery, and it seemed doubtful whether several others would revive.

The greater portion of the crew, under the direction of the officers, were vieing with each other, trying to keep down the flames.

The wind shifted a point or two more in their favour. The captain immediately ordered the hands aloft, to set the topgallant sails and royals.

Seven anxious hours had passed, when while the men were still aloft, the cry arose, “Land, land, on the weather bow!”

The men on deck cheered at the announcement. In a short time it could be observed through the haze right ahead. The sight, though the land was still five leagues distant, revived the sinking spirits of the crew, and spurred them on to greater exertions. Still, notwithstanding all their efforts, the fire rapidly increased. Again and again efforts were made to clear the magazine, but the smoke as often drove the men back. By this time the whole of the fore part of the lower deck was on fire, but owing to the ports being closed and all circulation of air prevented, the flames did not rise with the rapidity which would otherwise have been the case. The fear was that, the heels of the masts being consumed by the fire, the masts themselves might fall.

Still they stood right gallantly, carrying their widespread canvas, and urging on the ship to the wished-for shore.

By this time all communication with the fore part of the ship was cut off. The crew were gathered aft, still actively employed in fighting the flames by heaving down water. But foot by foot they were driven towards the stern.

At length the devouring element burst through all control, and rushed up the fore-hatchway, rising triumphantly as high as the foreyard. Yet the ship kept on her way.

The men remained firm to their duty. Now, not only from the fore, but from the main hatchway, the flames were seen to ascend, but for some time, the courses having been thoroughly wetted, they stood still urging on the ship towards the land.

Time went on. The fire had commenced at seven in the morning, it was now several hours past noon. For all that period the crew had been fighting desperately with the fiery element for their lives. Anxiously, with straining eyes, they gazed at the land. On either side a dark mass of smoke ascended before them, and blew away to leeward, while the lurid flames rose beneath it, striving furiously for victory over the masts and spars, sails and rigging. It seemed like a miracle that the masts should stand in the midst of the hot furnace which glowed far down the depths of the ship. All were aware that at any moment one of several fearful events might occur. The wind might shift and prevent the ship reaching the land ahead, or a gale might spring up and cast the ship helplessly upon the rocks, or a calm might come on and delay her progress, or the masts, burnt through, might fall and crush those on deck, or, still more dreadful, a spark might reach the magazine, and her immediate destruction must follow.

Still the officers and crew strove on, though they well knew that no human power could extinguish the raging flames, which with sullen roar came nearer and nearer to where they stood.

An alarm was given that the mizenmast was on fire in the captain’s cabin, and as Rayner looked over the side, he could see the flames burst out of the lee ports. The guns had not been loaded, but there was no necessity to fire signals of distress. The condition of the ship could be seen from far along the shore, and it was hoped that boats would, as she drew near, put off to her assistance.

The master, some time before, had brought up a chart on deck, and now pointed out to his brother officers the exact spot towards which the ship was steering. It was the Bay of Rosas. Already the ship was entering between two capes which formed its northern and southern sides. The captain stood in the midst of his officers and men, gathered on deck, for every place below was filled with smoke, and, except in the after-part of the ship, the raging flames had gained full mastery.

His wish had been to reach the shore before any one quitted the ship; he now saw that to do this was impossible.

“My lads,” he said, “I am about to order up the boats. You have hitherto maintained your discipline; let me see that you are ready to obey orders to the last. And now we’ll have the raft overboard, which will carry every man who cannot be stowed in the boats, even if the Spaniards don’t come out to help us. Lower away.”

It was no easy matter to perform this operation, with the fire raging uncontrolled not many feet off, almost scorching the backs of the men standing nearest it.

A cheer announced that it had safely reached the water, when the carpenter and his crew, with a few additional hands, were ordered on to it, to secure the booms on either side, so as to increase its power of supporting a heavy weight.

Scarcely had this been done, and the launch ordered up under the stern, than the ship struck and remained immovable, though nearly a mile from the shore. Then the tall masts seemed to sway to and fro as if they were about to fall, though it might only have been fancy.

The marines, who had faithfully performed their duty, were stationed on either side, while the sick and several of the wounded were lowered into the launch. The boys and younger midshipmen were next directed to go down the ladder, and the other men were told off. The two yawls and jolly-boat being hauled up, were then loaded with as many as they could carry.

“May I stay by you, sir?” asked Rayner of Mr Saltwell.

“No, Rayner,” answered the first lieutenant; “you have done your duty well this day, and I cannot allow you to risk your life by remaining a moment longer than is necessary. We cannot tell when the ship may blow up. It may be before the captain and I quit her. I order you to go.”

Rayner obeyed and descended into one of the yawls. Looking towards the shore he saw several boats coming off. He pointed them out to the officer in command of the launch. “Tell them to come under the stern of the ship and take off the remainder of the crew,” said the lieutenant.

While the yawl was pulling towards the Spanish boats, he looked round to the ship. Already it appeared as if the flames were rushing from every port, while they were rising higher and higher, forming a vast pyramid of fire, as circling round and round the masts they caught hold of the canvas and rigging, and seized the spars in their embrace.

He urged the crew to pull with all their strength, that they might the sooner return to the assistance of their friends. The Spanish boats were reached, but in vain he endeavoured to persuade their crews to come near the burning ship. They were ready enough to receive on board the people in the yawl, but not to risk their lives by approaching her.

One of the officers could speak a little Spanish, and Rayner tried his French upon them, endeavouring to persuade them, and at length threatening condign punishment if they refused. But nothing that could be said had any effect. Time was precious, so, putting the men from the crowded yawl into one of the boats, Rayner, who took charge of her, urging the men to pull with all their might steered back for the ship. From the position in which the boat was, between her head and the shore, she appeared already to be one mass of flame. It seemed impossible indeed that any human being could still be alive on board. Pulling round, however, so as to approach the stern, Rayner saw that the after portion still remained free from flame, though the crew, as if they knew that there was no time to be lost, were not only descending the ladders, but sliding rapidly down the ropes hanging over the taffrail on to the raft. They had good reason for doing so, for he could see the ruddy light even through the stern windows, and from every port, except the extreme after ones, the flames were rushing out.

Three figures alone stood on the poop; they were those of the captain, the first lieutenant, and master, who had maintained their perilous position until every living man was out of the ship.

Remembering the remark Mr Saltwell had made just before he had quitted the ship, Rayner again urged on his well-nigh exhausted crew to pull up and rescue their brave officers. The raft was crowded with men. The shout rose, “Shove off! shove off!” and with broken spars and pieces of board, those on it were endeavouring to make their way to a distance from the side of the ship.

Rayner steered his boat under the stern. The master was the first to descend, Mr Saltwell came next, and the captain was the last to leave her.

“Pull away, Rayner,” he said, in a calm voice. “We have reason to be thankful to Providence that she has not blown up yet, for at any moment the fire may reach the magazine, and there is still powder enough, I understand, to send the fragments far around.”

The first yawl having received on board several people from the land, took the raft in tow. In a short time the other boats returned, having placed the people they carried in the Spanish boats, several of which also arrived, though they lost not a moment in pulling again towards the shore, as far as they could from the burning ship.

The captain directed Rayner to keep astern of the other boats. His eye rested on his ship as if he desired to see her as long as she existed. The moment of her destruction came at last. The rest of the crew having landed, the yawl was nearing the shore, when a loud roar was heard as if a whole broadside had been fired. The flames rose high in the air; the masts shot upwards surrounded by burning fragments of planks and timbers; the stout sides, rent asunder, rushed outwards, and in another minute a few blackened fragments of the gallant ship, which had that morning floated trim and proudly on the ocean, were alone visible.

Captain Martin looked sad and grave as he stepped on shore; but he felt that he, as well as his officers, had done their duty, and had made every possible effort to preserve the ship. Neither he nor they could discover the cause of the fire.

Fortunately, England had not then declared war against Spain, and the authorities received the British officers and men in a friendly manner, while many of the inhabitants of the neighbouring town vied with each other in rendering them all the service in their power.

Chapter Twenty Seven.

A narrow escape—Home—An action suddenly ended.

The morning after the day they landed in Spain, Rayner had gone down to the beach with Mr Saltwell, who wanted, he said, to have another look at the remains of the old barkie. The midshipman was examining the black ribs of the wreck appearing above water through the telescope which the lieutenant had lent him, when the latter exclaimed, “Do you see a sail away to the south-east?”

The sun glanced for a moment on her canvas.

“Yes, sir,” answered Rayner. “She’s a large craft, too, for I can only just see her royals rising above the horizon. She’s standing in this direction.”

“Hand me the glass,” said Mr Saltwell. “You are right, youngster,” he continued, looking through it. “I only hope that she may be one of our own cruisers, but it will be some time before that point can be decided.”

After watching the approaching stranger for some time the lieutenant and midshipman returned with the intelligence to the farm-house where the captain and several of the other officers were quartered.

Hoping that she might be the Ione, Captain Martin ordered the first yawl to be got ready to go off to her. The crew were then mustered. Eight did not answer to their names. It was known how five had died, but what had become of the other three? At length it was whispered among the men that they had managed to get drinking the previous night, and had fallen below, stupefied by the smoke.

The men having breakfasted, the greater number hurried down to the shore to have a look at the stranger, now approaching under all sail.

Three cheers were uttered as the flag of England flew out at her peak. The captain immediately ordered Mr Sterling to pull off to her, and to request that his officers and ship’s company might be received on board.

“You will make sure before you get near that she is English,” he whispered. “The Frenchman may have a fancy to take some Spaniards prisoners, and would be better pleased to get hold of you.”

Rayner went as midshipman of the boat, which made good way towards the frigate now lying hove-to about three miles from the shore.

“What do you think of her, Noakes?” asked the lieutenant of the coxswain, as they got nearer.

The old seaman took a steady glance at the stranger, surveying her from truck to water-line.

“If she doesn’t carry a British crew, the Frenchmen must have got hold of her since we parted company three days ago, and I don’t think that’s likely, or there would be not a few shot-holes in her canvas, and a pretty good sprinkling in her hull, too,” he answered, in a confident tone. “She’s the Ione, sir, or I don’t know a frigate from a Dutch dogger.”

Now certain that there was no mistake, Mr Sterling steered for the frigate. Pulling alongside, he and Rayner stepped on board. Captain Dickson, with most of his officers, were on deck.

“Where is your ship?” was the first question the captain asked of the lieutenant.

“There is all that remains of her,” answered Mr Sterling, pointing to the blackened ribs of the ship, which could be distinguished through a telescope near the shore; and he gave an account of what had happened.

Due regrets at the occurrence having been expressed, Captain Dickson saying that he had been induced to stand into the bay in consequence of hearing the sound of the explosion, at once ordered out all the boats, and in a few minutes they were pulling for the shore, accompanied by the yawl.

The Ione, meantime, was standing in somewhat nearer, to be ready to receive the crew of the store-ship on board.

No time was lost in embarking, and it was with intense satisfaction that Captain Martin and those under him found themselves again on the deck of an English frigate.

Sail was at once made for Gibraltar, Malta not having at that time been taken possession of by the English. As the two ships’ companies had to be stowed away below, they were compelled to pack pretty closely, but no one minded that, as they expected a speedy passage to the Rock, while the officers and crew of the store-ship hoped immediately to be sent back to England.

It is too true a saying that “There’s many a slip ’twixt the cup and the lip.” The Ione was about midway between the Spanish coast and Majorca, when, as morning broke, a number of ships were seen standing out from the direction of Minorca. At first it was supposed that they were part of the English fleet, but after two of the lieutenants had taken a careful survey of them from aloft, it was decided that they were French.

“They have seen us, and guess what we are,” observed Captain Dickson to his brother captain. “See, here come two frigates in chase. Turn the hands up and make sail!” he added, addressing the first lieutenant.

The crew were quickly aloft, and every stitch of canvas the Ione could set was packed upon her. There was no disgrace in running from so superior a force. The Ione was considered a good sailer, but the Frenchmen showed that they were still faster. Captain Dickson, however, had no intention of yielding his ship as long as he had a stick standing to escape with. Full of men as he now was, he hoped to beat off both his foes, though he could not expect to capture them in sight of an enemy’s squadron. As they got nearer, a couple of guns were trained aft to serve as stern chasers, and every preparation was made to fight for life and liberty.

Another frigate and two line-of-battle ships were seen standing after the first, but they were so far astern, that should the Ione keep ahead, without having her masts and spars shot away, there might still be hopes of her escaping.

British seamen seldom wish to avoid a fight, but on the present occasion few on board were such fire-eaters as not to hope that they might keep well ahead of their foes.

The two frigates were rapidly gaining on the Ione; another half-hour, or even less, and she would be within range of their guns. To hit her, however, they would have to yaw, and this would enable her to gain on them, while she could fire without altering her course.

Jack and Tom every now and then got a glimpse of the enemy through the ports.

“I say, Jack, it isn’t fair of those two fellows out there to be chasing us after all we have gone through. I was hoping to go home and see my father, and ask him to get me placed on the quarter-deck. I shouldn’t like to be killed till I’ve been made a midshipman—not that I should like it then.”

“Don’t you be talking nonsense about being made a midshipman. You’ve about as much chance as you have of being made port-admiral off-hand,” answered Jack, with more temper than he generally showed. “Of course you don’t want to be killed—no more do I; but we must both be ready should it be God’s will to call us in the way of duty.”

At length the drum beat to quarters, by which the men knew that the captain expected before long to be engaged in a fierce fight.

Rayner was at his station forward, but he could still see what was taking place astern. Presently the frigates yawed. Two flashes were seen, and the low, booming sound of a couple of guns came across the ocean.

“We’re not quite within range of the mounseers’ popguns yet,” observed the boatswain, with a laugh. “They must come closer before they can harm us.”

“Do you think we can beat them off?” asked Rayner.

“You may be very sure that we’ll try pretty hard to do so,” answered the boatswain, in a confident tone. “I’ve heard of your doings aboard the Thisbe. We’ll show you that the crew of the Ione are made of the same stuff.”

As the two Frenchmen drew nearer, the desire of the British sailors to fight increased, and it was with a feeling of almost bitter disappointment, just as the Ione had fired her stern chasers, that the enemy were seen to haul their tacks aboard, in answer, apparently, to the signals made by the ships astern.

The general opinion was that the British fleet had appeared to the eastward. Whether or not this was the case it was impossible to say.

The Ione continued her course, and in a short time ran the enemy out of sight. On her arrival at Gibraltar, the first intelligence Mr Saltwell received was that he had been promoted to the rank of commander.

The very next day two ships came in from the fleet with despatches, which the Ione was directed to carry immediately to England.

As they were both short of hands, much to Captain Martin’s annoyance, a considerable number of his men were drafted on board them. Had other ships come in, he would probably have lost many more. The Ione sailed immediately with the remainder, and he hoped that they would form the nucleus of a new crew for the Thisbe.

The Ione had a quick passage to Plymouth. On his arrival there, much to his disappointment, Captain Martin found that the Thisbe was not yet ready for sea.

Rayner was considering how to dispose of himself during the intermediate time. He did not expect that Mrs Crofton would offer him a room, but he wished, at all events, to pay her and Mary a visit, as they had always shown so friendly a feeling towards him. When, however, she heard how he was situated, she insisted that he should take up his quarters with them.

“I do not require any payment, as I have no other lodger at present, and I am only too glad to have you,” she said, in a kind tone.

Rayner thanked her very warmly, and accepted her offer.

“I daresay Captain Saltwell will come and see us as soon as he has time. I was delighted to hear that he had obtained his promotion, and I hope, Mr Rayner, that you will soon get yours. You have surely served long enough to pass for a mate, and I would advise you to apply at once, that you may be ready for your lieutenancy.”

“I am afraid that I should have but little chance of passing, but I’ll try,” said Rayner. “I am told the examinations are very stiff. If a midshipman doesn’t answer every question put to him, he is turned back immediately.”

“At all events, go in and try, and take a testimonial from Captain Saltwell,” said Mrs Crofton, who had heard something of the way examinations were conducted in those days.

Rayner found, on inquiry, that, fortunately, a board was to sit the very next day, and, meeting Captain Saltwell, he mentioned his intention.

“The very thing I was going to advise,” was the answer. “I’ll write a letter to Captain Cranston, and you can take it with you.”

Next morning Rayner presented himself on board the flagship, where he found several other midshipmen ready to go up. First one, and then another, was sent for, and came back with smiling faces. At last one, who certainly did not look as if he would set the Thames on fire, went in. In a short time he reappeared, grumbling and complaining that it was very hard a fellow who had been at sea six years should be turned back.

Rayner’s turn came next. Comparatively but a few questions were asked in navigation. He had no difficulty in answering those put to him in seamanship. At last, Captain Cranston, knitting his brow, and looking very serious, said—

“Now, Mr Rayner, supposing the ship you are in charge of is caught on a lee shore with a hurricane blowing, and you find yourself embayed; what would you do?”

“If there was holding ground, I should let go the best bower, and make all snug aloft.”

“But suppose the best bower is carried away?”

“I should let go the second bower, sir.”

“But suppose you lose that?” asked the captain, looking still more serious.

“I should cut away the masts and bring up with my sheet anchor.”

“But in the event of losing that, Mr Rayner, how would you next proceed?”

“I should have done all that a man can do, and should look out for the most suitable place for running the ship ashore.”

“But, suppose you could find no suitable place, Mr Rayner?”

“Then, sir, I should let her find one for herself, and make the best preparations time would allow for saving the lives of her people, when she struck.”

“I have the pleasure to inform you, Mr Rayner, that you have passed your examination very creditably,” said Captain Cranston, handing him his papers.

Rayner, thanking the captain, and bowing, made his exit. On afterwards comparing notes with the midshipman who had been turned back, he mentioned the question which had been put to him.

“Why, that’s the very one he asked me,” said his companion. “I told him I would club-haul the ship, and try all sorts of manoeuvres to beat out of the bay, and would not on any account let her go ashore.”

“I’m not surprised that you were turned back, old fellow,” observed Rayner, with a laugh.

On returning on shore he met Commander Saltwell. “I congratulate you, Rayner,” he said. “I have just received orders to commission the Lily sloop-of-war, and I will apply to have you with me. By-the-bye, where are you going to put up?”

“Mrs Crofton has asked me to go to her house, and as I thought that you would have no objection, I accepted her offer, sir,” answered Rayner.

“I am glad to hear it; the very best thing you could do,” said Commander Saltwell. “Though many would prefer the freedom of an inn, I admire your good taste in taking advantage of the opportunity offered you to pass your time in the society of refined, right-minded persons like Mrs Crofton and her daughter.”

Our hero spent a few happy days with the kind widow and Mary, who both evidently took a warm interest in his welfare. It was the first time he had been living on shore, except during his sojourn in France, since he first went to sea. He was introduced to some of the few friends they possessed, and he made several pleasant excursions with them to visit some of the beautiful scenery in the neighbourhood of Plymouth. His observation, unknown to himself, enabled him rapidly to adapt himself to the manners of people of education, and no one would have recognised in the gentlemanly young midshipman the powder monkey of a short time back. It was with more regret than he supposed he could possibly have felt that he received a summons to join the Lily, now fitting out with all despatch for the West Indies. Though he no longer belonged to the Thisbe, it was with much sorrow that he heard she was pronounced unfit for sea, and that her crew had been dispersed. He made inquiries for Jack and Tom. The former, he discovered, had gone to pay his mother a visit; but, though he searched for Tom, he could nowhere hear of him.

The day after he had joined the Lily, he was well pleased to see Jack come on board.

“I found out, sir, that you belonged to the corvette, as I thought you would when I heard that Mr Saltwell was appointed to command her,” said Jack; “so, sir, I made up my mind to volunteer for her, if I could escape being pressed before I got back to Plymouth.”

“I am glad to see you, Peek,” said our hero. “Have you heard anything of Tom Fletcher?”

“Well, sir, I’m sorry to say I have,” answered Jack. “He has been knocking about Plymouth, hiding away from the press-gangs in all sorts of places, instead of going home to his father, as he said he would. I only found him last night, and tried to persuade him to join the Lily with me, but he’d still a shiner or two in his locker, and he couldn’t make up his mind to come till the last had gone. I know where to find him, and I’ll try again after I have entered on board the Lily.”

“Do so,” said Rayner. “He may be better off with a friend like you to look after him than left to himself.”

Rayner had the satisfaction of seeing Jack rated as an A.B. Several of the Thisbe’s crew had joined the Lily, and besides them Ben Twinch, who, owing to Captain Martin’s recommendation, had been raised to the rank of warrant officer, was appointed to her as boatswain.

“Very glad to be with you again, Mr Rayner,” said honest Ben; “and I hope before the ship is paid off to see you one of her lieutenants. We are likely to have a good ship’s company; and I am glad to say my brother warrant officers, Mr Coles the gunner, and Mr Jenks the carpenter, are men who can be trusted.”

Rayner’s own messmates were all strangers. The first lieutenant, Mr Horrocks, a red-faced man, with curly whiskers, and as stiff as a poker, had not much the cut of a naval officer; while the second lieutenant, Mr Lascelles, who was delicate, refined, young, and good-looking, offered a great contrast to him.

They were both not only civil but kind to Rayner, of whom Commander Saltwell had spoken highly to them.

Jack had been twice on shore to look out for Tom, and had returned saying that he could not persuade him to come on board.

At last, when the ship was almost ready for sea, being still some hands short of her complement, Rayner obtained leave for Jack, with two other men who could be trusted to try and bring him off, and any others they could pick up.

Late in the evening a shore boat came off with several men in her, and Jack made his appearance on deck, where Rayner was doing duty as mate of the watch.

“I have brought him, sir, though he does not exactly know where he is coming to,” said Jack.

“I found him with his pockets emptied and the landlady of the house where he was lodging about to turn him out of doors. We managed to bring him along, sir, however, and to-morrow morning, when he comes to his senses, I have no doubt he’ll be thankful to enter.”

“I’m glad to hear you’ve got him safe at last, and I know you’ll look after him,” said Rayner.

Next morning Tom, not knowing that Rayner was on board, or how he himself came there, entered as an ordinary seaman, which placed him in an inferior position to Jack Peek, who might soon, from his activity and good conduct, be raised to the rank of a petty officer.

Our hero paid a last visit to Mrs Crofton and Mary, promising, as they asked him to do, to write whenever he could obtain an opportunity.

At length the Lily, a fine corvette, carrying twenty guns on a flush deck and a complement of one hundred and twenty men, was ready for sea.

On going down the Sound she found the Latona, which ship she was to assist in convoying a fleet of merchantmen brought up in Cawsand Bay.

As the men-of-war approached, the merchant vessels, to the number of nearly fifty, got under way and stood down Channel. It was pretty hard work to keep them together, and the corvette was employed in continually firing signals to urge on the laggers, or to prevent the faster craft from running out of sight. What with shortening and making sail and signalling, together with getting a newly commissioned ship into trim, the time of all on board was pretty well occupied, and Rayner had no opportunity of learning anything about Tom Fletcher. A bright look-out was kept on every side, for an enemy might at any moment appear, especially at night, when it was possible some daring privateer might pounce down and attempt to carry off one of the merchantmen, just as a hawk picks off a hapless chicken from a brood watched over so carefully by the hen.

The wind was fair, the sea calm, and the traders bound for Jamaica safely reached Port Royal harbour, the remainder being convoyed to the other islands by the Latona and Lily, which were afterwards to be sent to cruise in search of the enemy’s privateers. Our hero had not forgotten Tom Fletcher, but watched in the hopes of doing him a service Jack’s report of him had not been favourable. He had talked of going home to his father, and had plenty of money in his pocket to do so, but instead of that he had gone to dancing-houses and similar places resorted to by seamen, where his money rapidly disappeared. He might have fallen into the docks, or died in the streets, had not Jack found him and brought him on board the Lily. For some neglect of duty his leave had been stopped, and, fortunately for himself, he was not allowed to go on shore at Port Royal when the ship put in there. Tom, however, still avoided Rayner, who had no opportunity, unless he expressly sent to speak to him, to give him a word of advice or encouragement.

Jack, who was really the best friend he had in the ship, did his utmost to keep him out of mischief.

“It’s all very fine for you to talk that way,” answered Tom, when one day Jack had been giving him a lecture. “You got rated as an able seaman, and now have been made captain of the mizen-top, too, and will, I suppose, before long, get another step; and here am I sticking where I was. It’s no fault of mine, that I can see. I’ll cut and run if I have the chance, for I cannot bear to see others placed over my head, as you and Bill Rayner have been, and to see him walking the quarter-deck in a brand new uniform, and talking to the officers as friendly and easy as if he had been born among them, while I, a gentleman’s son, remain a foremast man, with every chance of being one to the end of my days.”

“There’s no use grumbling, Tom; all you have to think about is to do your duty with smartness, keep sober, and to avoid doing anything wrong, and with your education, which I wish I had, you are sure to get on.”

There is an old saying that it is useless to try and make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear. It is to be seen whether Tom Fletcher was like the sow’s ear.

Soon after the Lily left Jamaica she fell in with the Ariel. As a calm came on while they were in company, the officers of the two ships paid visits to each other. Rayner, recollecting that Mary Crofton’s brother Oliver was serving in her, got leave to go on board, for the purpose of making his acquaintance. He was much disappointed, on inquiring for him, to learn that he had been sent away a few days before, in charge of a prize, a brig called the Clerie, with orders to take her to Jamaica.

“She ought to have arrived before you left there,” observed the midshipman who told him this.

“How provoking that I should have missed him, though I do not think any such vessel came in while we were there,” answered Rayner. “His mother and sister are great friends of mine.”

“They must be nice people if they are like him, for Oliver Crofton is a capital fellow. He is as kind-hearted and even-tempered as he is brave and good-looking, and he is a favourite with all on board.”

“I am glad to hear that, though it makes me the more sorry that we should have missed each other, but I hope before long to fall in with him,” observed Rayner.

A breeze springing up, the officers retired to their respective vessels, and the Lily and Ariel parted company, the former rejoining the frigate. While off Antigua, the wind being from the eastward, the frigate made the signal of three strange sail to the south-west, and directly afterwards to give chase.

All the canvas they could carry was set. In a short time one of the strangers was seen to haul up to the northward, and the Lily was ordered to go in pursuit of her. She was apparently the smallest of the three, but was still likely to prove no mean antagonist. As the Lily appeared to be gaining on her, the commander gave the order to prepare for action. The frigate meantime was standing after the other two vessels. Before long her topsails, and finally her royals, disappeared beneath the horizon.

“We shall have her all to ourselves, and we’ll see how soon we can take her,” observed Mr Horrocks to the second lieutenant. “It is some time since you smelt powder, Lascelles.”

“Last time I smelt a good deal of it, when we were beating off a ship twice our size, and should have taken her, too, had she not gone down in the night,” answered the second lieutenant, in his usual quiet tone. “I got my promotion in consequence.”

“And wrote an ode to victory, eh?” said Mr Horrocks, who was fond of bantering his brother lieutenant on his fondness for poetry.

“And it was considered good,” responded the young officer.

“You will have an opportunity of exercising your poetical talents before long on the same subject, I hope,” observed the first lieutenant. “We are gaining fast on the chase.”

Just then the look-out from the mast-head shouted, “Sail on the starboard bow!”

“Go and see what she is like,” said the commander to Rayner.

Our hero hurried aloft, his telescope hanging by a strap at his back. He was quickly joined by the second lieutenant. They were of opinion that she was a large craft, and that the object of the chase was to draw the Lily away from the frigate, so that the corvette might have two opponents to contend with.

“We must manage to take her before she reaches the other, then we shall have time to prepare for a second action,” observed Mr Lascelles.

“Can she be the Ariel?” asked Rayner. “She’s very likely to be cruising hereabouts.”

Mr Lascelles took another look at her through his glass.

“I think not,” he answered. “The chase must have seen her, and must know her to be a friend, or she would not keep on as she is at present standing.”

The two officers descended to make their report.

The Lily was a fast craft, and now rapidly gained on the chase, which, as she drew within range, fired a couple of shot.

Captain Saltwell ordered the two foremost guns to be fired in return. The second lieutenant took charge of one and Rayner of the other. Both, looking along the sights, gave them the proper elevation, and fired at the same moment. The effect of the shot was beyond all expectation. Down came the foreyard, shot away in the slings, causing, it was very evident, considerable confusion on board.

“Bravo, Rayner! you did it!” cried Mr Lascelles. “My shot went through the mainsail.”

The enemy now opened fire from a broadside of ten guns, but not a shot damaged the Lily, which, ranging up on the weather side of her opponent, began blazing away as fast as the crews could run in and load their guns.

The stranger was a large flush-decked vessel, crowded with men, many of whom, stripped to the waist, were working away desperately at their guns, while others opened a heavy fire of musketry.

As Rayner, who had charge of the foremost guns, was watching her, he caught sight of a young man in the uniform of a midshipman, who sprang suddenly up through the companion-hatch, and, making his way aft, seemed to be addressing the captain with energetic action. Rayner got but a glimpse of him, for the next moment there came a fearful roaring sound. The deck of the enemy’s ship rose in the air, rent into a thousand fragments. Her masts and yards and sails shot upwards, and her dark hull seemed suddenly to melt away.

The Lily reeled with the shock, and the crew, astounded by the awful catastrophe, for a moment forgot their discipline. Several of the men were knocked down; indeed, it seemed surprising that any should have escaped. Rayner remained at his station, and although several pieces of burning plank fell close to him, he was uninjured.

The voice of the commander was soon heard recalling the men to their duty, and ordering them to fill the buckets with water, to prevent the blazing fragments which strewed the deck from setting the ship on fire.

Chapter Twenty Eight.

A rescue.

While some of the crew were engaged on deck, others, led by the second lieutenant, the boatswain, and Rayner, ascended the rigging with buckets of water to heave over the sails, which in several places had caught fire.

It was a work of extreme peril, but it was quickly accomplished, before much damage had been done. The ship all the time was standing on, her starboard tacks aboard.

Nearly a quarter of an hour had elapsed before any one could look in the direction where their late antagonist had floated.

A few dark fragments of wreck could alone be seen in the far distance, but no one supposed that any human beings could have escaped from the fearful catastrophe. The Lily was quickly put to rights and stood on in chase of the stranger, which was now seen, under a press of sail, standing away to the north-west.

Evening was approaching, and it was feared that if she wished to avoid the risk of an engagement, she might manage to escape in the night.

During the first part of it the atmosphere was tolerably clear, and the chase could dimly be seen in the distance. She was carrying all sail, evidently doing her best to escape. The Lily had all her canvas set, but as at night a squall cannot be seen, as in the daytime, coming across the ocean, all hands were kept on deck, ready to take it in at a moment’s notice.

“Are we gaining on the chase?” asked the commander, when the second lieutenant, who had just before gone forward, returned.

“I think so, sir; but unless the breeze freshens, it will be a long time before we can get her within range of our guns.”

Everything that could be thought of was done to make the corvette move through the water. The sails were wetted, the hammocks were piped down, and the watch were ordered to turn in, with a couple of round shot with each, under the idea that as the hammocks swung forward with the surge of the ship, her speed would be increased.

The privateers were at that time committing so much havoc among the English merchantmen, that it was of the greatest importance to stop their career.

As the night drew on, the crescent moon, which had before been affording some light, sank beneath the horizon, and the darkness increased, a mist gradually filling the atmosphere, and obscuring all objects around. The chase was thus shut out from view. Still the Lily continued standing in the direction she had last been seen.

Rayner was on the forecastle near Ben Twinch, both endeavouring to pierce the veil which surrounded the supposed privateer.

“We may at any moment run through this mist, and we shall then, I hope, see the chase again,” observed Ben. “It won’t do for a moment to shut our eyes, for maybe we shall find her much closer than before.”

“I fancy that I can even now see her, but my imagination may deceive me,” said Rayner. “Can that be her out there?”

“I can’t see anything,” said the boatswain, putting his hands on either side of his eyes.

“What is that on the lee bow?” suddenly exclaimed Rayner.

Before the boatswain could turn his eyes in the direction the midshipman was pointing, the latter added, “I must have been mistaken. It has disappeared, for I can see nothing. Still I must go aft and report to the commander what I saw, or fancied I saw.”

“It could only have been fancy,” remarked Captain Saltwell. “The imagination is easily deceived in an atmosphere like this. We’ll keep on as we were standing.”

Rayner accordingly went forward. He was not sorry at length to be relieved, as he was growing weary from having had so long to keep a strain on his eyes.

At last, awakened by the gruff voice of the boatswain turning up the hands, he went on deck, and found that it was already daylight; but not a sail was in sight, and it was pretty evident that the chase had altered her course.

The commander, thinking it likely that she had kept to the westward, steered in that direction.

The day wore on, but still no sail appeared, nor did it seem at all likely that the chase would again be sighted. The ship was therefore put about to rejoin the Ione.

Soon after noon the wind fell, and the Lily lay motionless on the glassy ocean; the sun shining forth with intense heat, making the pitch in the seams of the deck bubble up, and every piece of metal feel as if it had just come out of a furnace. The seamen sought every spot of shade which the sails afforded, and made frequent visits to the water-cask to quench their thirst.

A few hours thus passed by, when, away to the south-east, a few clouds could be seen floating across the sky.

“The calm can only be partial, for there’s wind out there,” observed the commander, pointing the clouds out to the first lieutenant. “I hope we shall soon get it.”

In this he was disappointed. The day went by; the ship still lay motionless on the waste of waters. Another night came on. It was not until the sun again rose that the sails were heard to give several loud flaps against the masts; a few cat’s-paws were seen playing over the surface of the water, and at length the canvas swelled out to an easterly breeze. The tacks were hauled aboard, and the Lily stood in the direction it was supposed the Ione would be found, over the course she had just come.

The wind was light, and she made but little progress. It freshened, however, in the evening, and during the night the log showed that she was going at a fair rate.

Rayner was in the morning watch, and was forward when the look-out from the mast-head shouted, “A piece of wreck away on the starboard bow.” As the ship would pass close by it, she was kept on her course. Rayner was examining the piece of wreck through his glass, when he saw what he supposed was a person moving on it.

He went aft, and reported this to the first lieutenant, who was on deck, and the ship was headed up towards it. “I can see four or five men!” exclaimed Rayner, “some are lying down. One man is kneeling up and waving.”

By this time the commander had come on deck, and as the ship drew near, he ordered a boat to be got ready.

Two of the men were seen to rise on their knees, and wave.

“They must have belonged to the crew of the ship which blew up the other day, though how they escaped seems a miracle,” observed the commander. “Poor fellows, they must have suffered fearfully! Put a beaker of water and some food in the boat. They’ll want nourishment as soon as possible.”

The corvette was hove-to. Rayner took charge of the boat, the crew pulling eagerly away to the rescue of the hapless men on the raft.

As they drew near, Rayner observed, to his surprise, as he stood up steering, that one of the persons kneeling on the raft was dressed in the uniform of an English midshipman.

“Give way, lads—give way!” he shouted.

The boat was quickly up to the raft, which was a portion apparently of the poop deck. Besides the young Englishman, there were five persons dressed as ordinary seamen, dark, swarthy fellows, their countenances haggard, and their whole appearance wretched in the extreme.

“Water, water! in mercy give us water!” cried the young Englishman; while the other men, who were scarcely able to move, pointed to their mouths. One lay stretched on the raft, apparently lifeless, and another seemed almost too far gone to recover.

Two of the Lily’s crew leapt on the raft, and, lifting up the English midshipman, carried him to the stern-sheets, where Rayner stood with a cup of water ready to give him.

He grasped it with both his hands, and eagerly drank the contents. A second mug had in the meantime been filled. One of the Frenchmen, in his eagerness to reach it, stretched out his arms, and fell flat on his face. The English seamen lifted him up, and gently poured the water down his throat. He and two more were lifted on board. They then took a cup to the rest, who were too weak to make the slightest exertion. They poured some water down the throat of one; he gave one gasp, and then sank back, apparently lifeless. A sixth person was already beyond human help. On raising his arm, it fell again at his side.

“Are we to take these two bodies with us?” asked one of the men. “They don’t seem to have any life in them.”

“Yes, by all means,” answered Rayner; “we must let the doctor judge about them—perhaps he may bring them round.”

The two bodies were placed in the bows, and the crew giving way, Rayner steered for the ship. As he looked at the countenance of the English midshipman, he thought he had seen him before. He did not trouble him with questions, however; indeed, although the latter had asked for water, it was very evident that he was unable to answer them.

The boat was soon alongside. The young midshipman was the first lifted on board.

“Why, who can this be?” exclaimed the commander. “How came he among the crew of the privateer?”

Rayner explained that he had seen him spring on deck the instant before the ship blew up, but more about him he could not say, as he had not spoken a word since he was taken on board the boat.

“Carry him at once into my cabin,” said the commander. “You’ll do all you can for him I know, doctor,” he added, addressing the surgeon, who, with the aid of the master and another officer, had already lifted up the young stranger.

“He wants nourishment more than doctoring,” answered the surgeon.

While the midshipman was being carried into the cabin, the assistant-surgeon was examining the other men. He ordered some broth to be given to the three who had first been taken into the boat, observing that it was the only thing they required; and he then at once turned his attention to a fourth man, whose pulse he felt with a serious countenance.

“There’s life in him still,” he observed; and ordering his head to be slightly raised, he hurried down to his dispensary, and quickly returned with a stimulant, which he poured down his throat. The effect was wonderful, for scarcely had it been swallowed than the patient gave signs of returning animation. The last poor fellow, after a careful examination, he pronounced beyond human aid.

“Had we arrived half an hour sooner, his life might have been saved,” he observed, “for even now he is scarcely cold.”

The surgeon soon came up.

“We’ll try what can be done,” he said, “for I never despair in a case of this sort.”

All his efforts, however, proved vain; and he at last had to acknowledge to the assistant-surgeon that the unfortunate man was beyond recovery. The yards had in the meantime been braced round, and the ship had been standing on her course.

Rayner was now sent for into the cabin, where he found the midshipman he had saved placed in the commander’s cot.

“Do you see a likeness to any one you know?” asked Commander Saltwell.

“Yes,” answered Rayner, looking at the countenance of the young stranger, who was sleeping calmly; “I thought so from the first; he reminds me of Mrs Crofton, or, rather, of her daughter.”

“So he does me. I have little doubt that he is Oliver Crofton, and I can fully account for his being on board the privateer,” said the commander. “She must have captured the prize of which he was in charge. I fear that the rest of the men who were prisoners on board have perished.”

“I am thankful that he has been saved,” said Rayner. “It would well-nigh have broken Mrs Crofton’s and her daughter’s hearts if they had heard that he had died in so dreadful a manner, though to be sure no one would have known of it unless we had fallen in with the raft.”

The doctor would not allow any questions to be asked his patient until he had several times taken a small quantity of nourishment, and had passed the intermediate time in sleep; and the commander also kindly directed that he should be allowed to remain in his cot, while he had a hammock slung in his cabin for himself.

The surgeon or assistant-surgeon was in constant attendance on him during the night.

Their unremitting care was rewarded, for soon after the hammocks were piped up the young stranger opened his eyes, and exclaimed in a faint voice, with a tone of astonishment, “Where am I? What has happened?”

“You are all right, and safe among friends,” said the commander, who had just turned out of his hammock, coming to his side. “You shall have some breakfast, and then I must get you to tell me all about yourself. Unless I am mistaken, we have met before. Are you not Oliver Crofton?”

“Yes, sir,” answered the midshipman. “How did you know that, sir?”

“I made a shrewd guess at it,” answered the commander, smiling, “and truly glad I am to have you on board my ship. However, do not exert yourself just now, but go to sleep again if you can till the steward brings you your breakfast, and you shall then, if the doctor thinks you are strong enough, tell me all that has happened.”

The commander, coming on deck, told Rayner that he was right in his conjectures, and invited him to breakfast with him.

The surgeon, however, would not allow Oliver to get up, but said that he might give an account of his adventures, provided he did not spin too long a yarn.

“Thank you, sir,” said Oliver. “I’ll try to collect my thoughts; for, to say the truth, I find them somewhat scattered at present.

“It must have been nearly ten days ago when the Ariel, to which I belonged, captured a French brig. Captain Matson sent me on board to take her to Port Royal. We were just in sight of the eastern end of Jamaica, when a large privateer bore down on us. We did our best to escape, but as she sailed two feet to our one, and carried twenty-two guns, we were compelled to yield, and I and my men were taken on board, while our prize was sent away to one of the French islands.

“The privateer continued her cruise in search of our merchantmen, or any prizes our ships might have taken. A more ruffianly set of fellows I never set eyes on. My poor men were robbed of everything they had about them, and I should have had my jacket taken off my back but for the interference of the officers, who allowed me to mess with them, and to go on deck whenever I wished. Considering the style of their conversation at table, however, I should have thankfully preferred living by myself.

“When they discovered that you were English, the officers took a fearful oath that nothing should compel them to yield. They, however, did their best to escape; but when they found that you had the heels of them, they made up their minds to fight, fully expecting, I believe, to take you. Nothing could exceed the savageness of the crew as, stripped to the waist, they went to their guns. Several of them, as they cast their eyes on me, vowed that they would shoot me through the head should the day go against them. Having no fancy to be so treated, I thought it prudent to go below, knowing very well that, in spite of their boasting, they would soon get the worst of it, and that you, at all events, would fight on until you had compelled them to strike their flag or sent them to the bottom. I felt the awful position in which I was placed. I might be killed by one of your shot, even should I escape the knives and bullets of my captors.

“I considered how I could best preserve my life, as I thought it very possible that you would send the privateer to the bottom should she not yield or try to escape. I determined, should I find her sinking, to leap out through one of the stern windows of the captain’s cabin. I accordingly made my way there, and was looking out for some instrument with which to force open the window when I saw smoke curling up through an opening in the deck below me. I at once knew that it must arise from a spot at no great distance from the magazine. In the hopes of inducing the commander to send some men down to try and extinguish the fire before it was too late, I sprang on deck. Scarcely had I reached it, and was telling the captain of our danger, when I felt a fearful concussion, and found myself lifted into the air, the next instant to be plunged overboard amidst the mangled crew, some few around me shrieking vainly for help, though the greater number had been killed by the explosion and sank immediately. Being a strong swimmer, I struck out, narrowly avoiding several who clutched at my legs, and swam towards a large piece of wreck which had been blown to some distance from where the ship went down. I scrambled upon it, and was soon joined by three other men, who had, they told me, been forward, and found themselves uninjured in the water.

“I saw soon afterwards two others floating at some distance from the raft. One of them shouted for help saying that he was exhausted, and could no longer support himself. The other, notwithstanding left him to his fate and swam towards us. I could not bear to see the poor fellow perish in our sight with the possibility of saving him, and as there was no time to be lost, I plunged in and made for him, picking up in my way a piece of plank. I placed it under his arms, and telling him to hold on to it, shoved it before me in the direction of the raft. The other fellow had in the meantime got hold of a piece of timber, on which he was resting, but was apparently almost exhausted. As I passed, I told him that if I could I would come to his help, and I at length managed to get back to the raft, on to which the three other men had hauled up their other shipmate.

“I was pretty well tired by this time, and had to rest two or three minutes before I could again venture into the water. While I was trying to recover my strength, the man clinging to the log, fancying that no one was coming, again shrieked out for help. Once more slipping into the water, at last by shoving the piece of plank before me, I contrived to reach him; then getting him to take hold of it, I made my way back to the raft, when we were both dragged nearly exhausted out of the water.

“At first I had hopes that you would discover us and put back to take us off; but when I perceived that you were on fire, I began to fear that we should not be observed, though I did not say so to my companions in misfortune, but endeavoured to keep up their spirits. I told them that if the ship with which they had been engaged should come back, my countrymen would not look upon them as enemies, but would treat them kindly, as people who had suffered a great misfortune. When, however, they saw you standing away, they began to abuse the English, declaring that we were a perfidious nation, never to be trusted; and I had some suspicion that they would wreak their ill-temper on my head.

“My position would have been very dreadful even had I been with well-disposed companions. The sun beat down upon our heads with terrific force; we had not a particle of food, nor a drop of water to quench our thirst. I was thankful when, the sun at length having set, the men, accustomed only to think of the present, and not suffering much as yet from the want of food or water, stretched themselves on the raft to sleep.

“I sat up, hoping against hope that you might come back to ascertain if any people had escaped, or that some other vessel might pass within hail. We had no means of making a signal, not even a spar on which to hoist our handkerchiefs or shirts. The only article which had by some means or other been thrown on the raft was a blanket. How it had fallen there I cannot tell. I secured it, and doubling it up, it served as a rest to my head. I constantly, however, got up to look about, but no vessel could I see, and at length, overpowered by weariness, I lay down and fell asleep.

“At daylight I awoke. The sea was calm. I gazed anxiously around. Not a speck was visible in the horizon. The sun rose, and its rays beat down upon us with even greater fury than on the previous day, or, at all events, I suffered more, as did my companions. They now cried out for water and food, and I saw them eye me with savage looks. I pretended not to observe this, and said that I hoped and thought that we might catch some fish or birds.

“‘It will be better for some of us if we do,’ muttered one of the men.

“Although I saw several coveys of flying-fish leaping out of the water in the distance, none came near us. Once I caught sight of the black fin of a shark gliding by; presently the creature turned, and as it passed it eyed us, I thought, with an evil look; but while the water was calm, there was no risk of its getting at us. Had the brute been smaller, we might have tried to catch it. I remembered having heard of several people who saved their lives, when nearly starved, by getting hold of a shark. One of the men stuck out his leg, and when the creature tried to grab it, a running bowline was slipped round its head, and it was hauled up. My companions, however, had not the spirits to make the attempt—indeed, we could not find rope sufficient for the purpose on our raft.

“The day wore on, and scarcely any of my companions spoke, but lay stretched at full length on the raft. Others sat with their arms round their knees, and their heads bent down, groaning and complaining, one or two swearing fearfully at the terrible fate which had overtaken them, regardless of that of their late shipmates, hurried into eternity. In vain I tried to arouse them. Now and then one would look at me with an ominous glance, and I confess I began to fear, as night drew on, that I should not be allowed to see another day dawn. I stood up, though it was with difficulty that I could steady myself, for my strength was already failing. Anxiously I looked round the horizon. The sky had hitherto been clear; but, as I cast my eye to the eastward, I observed a cloud rising rapidly. Another and another followed. They came on directly towards us, discharging heavy drops of rain. My fear was that they would empty themselves before they reached us. The looks of my companions brightened.

“‘Now, my friends,’ I said, ‘we must try and catch some of that rain. Here, spread out this blanket, for if a shower falls but for ten minutes we shall have water enough to quench our thirst.’

“We got the blanket ready. The first cloud passed by, nearly saturating the blanket. The men wrung it out into one of their hats, two or three sucking at the corners. They seemed inclined to fight for the small quantity they had obtained, but did not even offer to give me any. I got no water, though the blanket was somewhat cleansed, not that I felt inclined to be particular. In a few minutes another shower fell. Each of us got an ample supply of water. My spirits rose in a way I could not have expected. For some time I did not suffer from the pangs of hunger; but they presently returned with greater force than before, and I guessed how my companions were feeling. I encouraged them as well as I was able. ‘God, in His mercy, has sent us water, and He may, I trust, supply us with food.’

“Some of them stared at my remark, but others replied—

“‘Yes, yes, perhaps to-morrow we shall have an ample breakfast.’

“Still I did not trust them completely, and endeavoured to keep awake until they had all dropped off to sleep.

“Another heavy shower fell during the night, and I roused them up to obtain a further supply of water. We filled all our hats, for we had nothing else to put it in. The next day was but a repetition of the former. The water we had obtained during the night was quickly exhausted. My hopes of catching some fish appeared likely to be disappointed. Twice a shark came near us, but the brute was too large to give us a chance of catching it. It was far more likely to have caught us had we made the attempt. We shouted to drive it off. At last, smaller fish of some sort approached—albicores or bonitas. It was extraordinary with what eager looks we eyed the creatures.

“While we were watching the fish, trying to devise some means of snatching them, one of the men, who lay stretched on the raft apparently asleep or in a state of stupor, suddenly sat up, uttering an exclamation of delight. We turned our heads, and saw him eagerly gnawing at a flying-fish; but he snarled and growled, eating eagerly all the time, just as a dog does when a person attempts to take a bone from him. He had managed to gulp down the larger portion before the others could snatch the prize from him. The next moment he sank back, and never spoke again. I saw no violence used, except the force they exerted to take the fragments of the fish from his hands. It appeared to me as if one of them had stabbed him, so suddenly did he fall.

“The others gave me none of the fish: indeed, my portion would have been so small that I did not miss it, though for the moment I would have been thankful for the merest scrap of food.

“I still endeavoured to keep up my spirits, and prayed for strength from above. I am sure it was given me, or I should have sunk. I did not like even to think of the pain I suffered. The Frenchmen, too, were growing ravenous, and I heard them talking together, and looking at me as if meditating mischief.

“I thought over the means by which I could best preserve my life. I knew that it would not do to show the slightest fear, so arousing myself, I said, ‘My friends, you are hungry, so am I, but we can endure another day without eating. Now I want you to understand that we are more likely to be saved by an English vessel than by one of any other nation, as there are three times as many English cruisers in these seas as there are French, and ten times as many merchantmen. If we are picked up by an English vessel, you are sure to be well treated for my sake, but if any accident were to happen to me—if I were to fall overboard, for instance—there would be no one to say a word in your favour. Remember that I was the means of saving the lives of two of you, although, when I plunged into the water and swam to you at the risk of being caught by a shark, or sinking myself from fatigue, I did not expect any return. I suppose that you do not wish to be ungrateful.’

“This address seemed to have some effect on the men I had saved. Each of them uttered an exclamation of approval, while the two others, who still retained some little strength, turned aside their heads, not daring to look at me. I did not move until night came on, when I crawled from the place I had occupied, and lay down between the two men who seemed most disposed to befriend me. In the middle of the night I awoke, and finding that there was a light breeze. I endeavoured to kneel up and ascertain if providentially any vessel were approaching.

“I was raising myself on my elbow when I saw one of the men who had threatened me by their words creeping towards me. I instantly awoke my two friends, for so I will call them, by exclaiming, ‘There is a breeze. Perhaps a vessel is approaching us. We should not be sleeping;’ while the man whom I suspected of a design against my life drew back and lay perfectly still. I determined not again to fall asleep, if I could avoid it, until daylight. I believe, however, that I frequently dropped off, but I was preserved. When morning dawned, I discovered that the man who had, as I believed, intended to kill me was utterly unable to move. The other fellow, however, seemed to be the strongest of the party. He got up, and stretching out his arms, exclaimed, addressing his countrymen—

“‘Food we must have this day at every coast, or we shall perish.’

“I also rose, and found, to my surprise, that I could stand on my feet.

“‘I pray God that we may have food, and that some friendly vessel may bring it,’ I exclaimed.

“As I spoke I looked round the horizon, when I need not tell you how grateful I felt to Heaven at seeing a sail standing, as I judged, directly towards us. I pointed her out to my companions; but as they were sitting down, they could not for some time make her out. I, too, could no longer support myself, and once more sank on the raft. In a short time, however, we could all distinguish her. The Frenchmen began to weep. Now they expressed their fears that she would pass us; now they tried to shout for joy at the thoughts of being saved. I at times also dreaded lest we should not be observed, but all my doubts vanished when I made you out to be an English sloop-of-war, and saw you haul up towards us.”

Chapter Twenty Nine.

A shipwreck.

The Lily had been continuing her cruise in the Caribbean Sea for some days without falling in with the Ariel, or any other English ship-of-war, nor had she taken a prize. Oliver Crofton had completely recovered. As one of the midshipmen was ill, he took his duty. Our hero and Oliver soon became fast friends, and they were well able to appreciate each other’s good qualities.

Commander Saltwell, not looking upon the Frenchmen he had picked up in the light of prisoners, wished to put them on shore as soon as possible. He resolved, therefore, to stand in towards the coast of San Domingo, the western portion of which island belonged to France, and to land them at some settlement where they could obtain assistance.

The Lily was still off the east end of the island, belonging to Spain, when a schooner was sighted running along the shore, apparently endeavouring to escape observation. The wind, however, headed her, and she was compelled to tack off the land.

“She’s French, to a certainty, or she would have run in and brought up somewhere,” observed Mr Horrocks.

The commander agreed with him. The ship was steered so as to cut her off. On seeing this, the schooner wore, and, setting a large square sail, ran off before the wind to the westward. Though the stranger evidently possessed a fast pair of heels, the Lily, making all sail, soon got near enough to send a shot skipping over the water close under her counter. The schooner, notwithstanding, still held on, when another shot almost grazed her side. Her object was probably to run on until she could steer for some port where she could obtain shelter and protection.

“If she doesn’t shorten sail presently, send another shot through her canvas, Mr Coles,” said the commander.

The Lily carried a long gun which could be run out at either of her bow ports. It was the gunner’s favourite. He declared that he could shoot as true with it, and ten times as far, as he could with a tower musket. The gun was loaded and pointed through the larboard bow port.

Still the chase held on. It was time to bring her to, for the wind gave signs of dropping.

“Are you ready there, forward, with the gun?” asked the commander.

“Ay, ay, sir!” was the answer.

“Port the helm! Fire!” he shouted directly afterwards.

The gun was well aimed, for the shot went through the schooner’s large squaresail. The ship was again kept on her course, when the gun was hauled in and reloaded.

“Stand by to fire again, and this time pitch it into her. All ready there, forward?”

“Ay, ay, sir!”

Again the helm was ported, but before the commander had time to shout “Fire!” the schooner was seen to haul down her flag, at the same time to take in her squaresail and clew up her foretopsail.

The corvette was soon up, when she was found to be a fine little schooner, such as was employed in the carrying trade between the islands, or in bringing the produce of the plantations to some central depôt.

“Heave to!” cried the commander; “and if you attempt to escape I’ll sink you, remember that! Tell them in French what I mean,” he added, turning to Rayner.

“Oui, oui; je comprende,” answered one of the few white men on board—probably the master—and, the schooner’s helm being put down, she came up head to wind, with her foretopsail to the mast.

The corvette, which had by this time shot a little way ahead, also hove-to, and the commander directed Rayner, with a boat’s crew, to go on board the prize and take possession.

The master stood, hat in hand, at the gangway, ready to receive him.

He was bound, he said, for Martinique, in ballast, to obtain a cargo and other stores for Leogane, the principal settlement of the French in the island. The crew consisted of a Creole mate, two mulattos, and four blacks, one of the former calling himself the boatswain.

“Then you’ll do me the favour of accompanying the master and mate on board the ship,” said Rayner pointing to the boat.

The master seemed very unwilling to obey, but the crew soon tumbled him, with the mate and boatswain, into the boat, which returned to the corvette, while Rayner remained with two hands on board.

He now ordered the crew to haul round the fore yard, and, keeping the helm up, soon ran within speaking distance of the Lily.

“I intend to send you in to land the people picked up on the raft, with a flag of truce, and as soon as you put them on shore, come back and join me,” said the commander.

“Ay, ay, sir,” answered Rayner, very well pleased to have a separate command, although it might only last a few hours. He was still more pleased, however, when the boat came back, bringing Oliver Crofton, the four Frenchmen, and Jack and Tom, to form part of his crew. The blacks and the mulatto were kept on board to assist in working the schooner. The mulatto said he was the steward, and one of the blacks, with a low bow, introduced himself as the cook.

“Me talkee English, massa, well as French, and me cookee anyting dat buckra officer like to order,” he said, with a grimace which made the midshipman laugh.

“By-the-bye, before we part company with the corvette, we may as well ascertain what Sambo here has got to cook,” said Oliver.

It was fortunate that he had this forethought, for, except a supply of salt-fish, some yams and bananas, and a small cask of flour, with a half-empty case of claret, no other provisions were discovered for officers or men. Oliver accordingly returned, and obtained some beef and biscuit, and a few articles from the mess.

“And just bring five or six dollars with you, in case we want to purchase any fish or vegetables,” said Rayner, as he was shoving off.

No time was lost in procuring what was necessary, when Oliver returned to the Mouche, for such was the name of the prize. The corvette making sail, she and the schooner ran on in company until they came off the French part of the coast. The commander then ordered Rayner to stand in, directing him, should any people be seen on shore, to hoist a white flag, and land the four Frenchmen.

Scarcely, however, had they parted company for a couple of hours, when a dead calm came on, and Rayner and Oliver believed that there was no chance of being able to land the Frenchmen that night.

“I am very sorry for it,” remarked Oliver; “for from the experience I have had of them, I think it more than possible, if they can get the assistance of the black crew, they will try and play us some scurvy trick. I have not hitherto pointed out the fellow who tried to take my life, and who was so nearly dying himself; but I suspect his disposition has not altered for the better. You’ll fancy me somewhat suspicious, but I cannot help thinking that should he win over the blacks, they will try and take the schooner from us.”

“They’ll find that rather a tough job with you and me and our four men to oppose them,” answered Rayner. “However, after your warning, I’ll keep an eye on the gentlemen, and I’ll tell Jack Peek to let me know if he sees anything suspicious in their behaviour. He understands French almost as well as I do, and he’ll soon find out what they are about.”

“I do not like to think ill of other people, even though they are foreigners; but I cannot forget what a villain one of those men is,” remarked Oliver.

“Forewarned, forearmed,” said Rayner. “We need not, after all, be anxious about the matter; but it will be wise to keep our pistols in our belts and our swords by our sides, and not to let the Frenchmen and the black crew mix together more than is necessary.” The steward now came aft, hat in hand, and speaking in a jargon of French and Spanish, interlarded with a few words of English, of which he was evidently proud, requested to know what the officers would like for supper.

“We shall not find fault, provided that the cook supplies us with the best he can,” answered Rayner. “One of our men there,”—pointing to Jack Peek—“will give him the materials, unless he happens to have some ducks or fowls, or a fine fish, for which we will pay him.”

The steward shrugged his shoulders, regretting that the only fish he had on board were salted; but, notwithstanding, the cook would exercise his skill upon them, and would produce a dish which even an epicure would not disdain.

While waiting for the evening meal, the young officers walked the deck, whistling for a breeze, but there seemed no chance of its coming. The land lay blue, but still indistinct, away to the northward, its outline varied by hills of picturesque form, which rose here and there along the coast.

Rayner called up Jack Peek, and told him to keep a watch not only on the black crew, but on the Frenchmen. “Notwithstanding the kind way they have been treated, they may think it a fine opportunity for obtaining a vessel in which they can carry on their former calling,” he observed.

“They’ll be audaciously ungrateful wretches if they do, sir,” answered Jack. “To my mind they’ll deserve to be hove overboard to feed one of those sharks out there;” and he pointed to a black fin which was gliding just above the surface.

“I hope that they will not prove treacherous, and it is our business to take care that they have no opportunity of being so,” said Rayner. “Do you and Tom keep an eye upon them, that’s all.”

“Ay, ay, sir,” answered Jack.

The English seamen kept together. Though there were but four of them, they were sturdy fellows, well armed, and it was not likely that either the blacks or Frenchmen would venture to attack them.

At length the mulatto steward announced supper ready, and Rayner and Oliver descended to partake of it, leaving Tom in charge of the deck.

“Call me if you see the slightest sign of a breeze,” said the former, as he went below.

The cabin was not very large nor yet very clean; indeed, cockroaches and centipedes were crawling about in all directions, and every now and then dropped down on the white cloth from the beams above. The table, however, was covered with several dishes, which, from the fragrant odour ascending from them, promised to satisfy the hunger of a couple of midshipmen. It was difficult to make out the materials of which the dishes were composed, but on examination it was found that they consisted chiefly of salt beef and fish dressed in a variety of fashions, fricasséed, stewed, and grilled, and mixed with an abundance of vegetables, with some delicious fruit, such as the West Indies can alone produce.

“Me tinkee better keep on de cobers, massa,” observed the steward, “or de cockroaches fall in an’ drown demselves.”

“By all means,” said Rayner, laughing. Indeed, he and Oliver had to examine each mouthful before they raised it to their lips, lest they should find one of the nauseous creatures between their teeth.

As soon as the midshipmen had finished supper, they returned on deck.

The sun had sunk beneath the ocean in a refulgence of glory, its parting rays throwing a ruddy glow over the surface, unbroken by a single ripple.

“We must make up our minds to spend the night where we are,” observed Rayner. “It will be as well for you and me to take watch and watch, and not to trust to any of the men, for although I have every confidence in Peek, I cannot say the same for the rest.”

Oliver, of course, agreed to this, and took the first watch. At midnight he aroused Rayner, who had stretched himself on one of the lockers, not feeling inclined to turn into either of the doubtful-looking bunks at the side of the vessel.

“I suspect that we are going to have a change of weather,” said Oliver, as he came on deck. “The air feels unusually oppressive for this time of night. There is a mist rising to the southward, though the stars overhead shine as bright as usual.”

“I don’t know what to think of it, having had but little experience in these seas,” answered Rayner; “I must ask the oldest of the Frenchmen, but I don’t see any of them on deck.”

“No, they and the blacks have all turned in,” said Oliver. “They did not ask my leave, but I thought it useless to rouse them up again, as there seemed no chance of their being wanted.”

“Well, go and lie down and take a caulk, if the centipedes and cockroaches will let you,” laughed Rayner. “They have been crawling all over me during the time I have been below, but I knew there was no use attempting to keep them off, so I let them crawl, without interfering with their pleasure. If I see any further change in the appearance of the sky, I will rouse you up, and we’ll make the black fellows turn out to be ready to shorten sail.”

Rayner for some time walked the deck of the little vessel alone. Jack was at the helm, and one of the men forward. The watch was very nearly out, and he determined not to call up Oliver until daylight. On looking to the southward he saw that the mist which had before remained only a few feet above the horizon was rapidly covering the sky, while beneath it he distinguished a long line of white foam.

“Turn out, Oliver!” he shouted through the cabin skylight; “I’ll take the helm. Peek, run forward and rouse up the blacks and Frenchmen to shorten sail. Not a moment to be lost!”

Jack as he went forward shouted down the main hatchway, where Tom and the other men were sleeping, and then in a stentorian voice called, in French, to shorten sail.

The Englishmen were on deck in a moment, but the blacks came up stretching their arms and yawning.

“Lower away with the throat and peak halyards!” shouted Rayner.

Oliver and the two English sailors hastened to obey the order.

“Brail up the foresail. Be smart, lads! Aloft with you and furl the foretopsail, or it will be blown out of the bolt-ropes!”

The mainsail was quickly got down. The black crew were pulling and hauling at the brails of the headsails, when a fierce blast struck the vessel. She heeled over to it.

Rayner immediately put up the helm; but before the vessel had answered to it, she heeled over till the water rushed over the deck. Then there came a clap like thunder, and the main-topsail, split across, was blown out of the bolt-ropes.

“Square away the foreyard!” shouted Rayner.

The vessel, righting, flew off before the fierce gale, the water rushing and foaming round her sides. Astern, the whole ocean seemed a mass of tumultuous foam-covered waves.

The sky was as black as ink. To bring the vessel to the wind was impossible. All that could be done was to run directly before the gale, and even then it seemed that at any moment the fast rising seas might break over her stern and sweep her decks.

The schooner, however, by continuing her course, was running on destruction, unless some port could be found under her lee to afford her shelter; but even then there was a great risk of being captured by the enemy, who would not pay much attention to a flag of truce, or believe that she came for the object of landing the Frenchmen. Besides which, as the vessel was a prize, it would be thought perfectly right to detain her.

Dawn broke; for an instant a fiery-red line appeared in the eastern horizon, but was quickly obscured. The increasing light, however, enabled the crew to carry on work which could not otherwise have been performed.

Rayner and Oliver resolved that they must, at all risks, try to heave the schooner to while there was yet sea-room; and, should the weather moderate, beat off shore until the gale was over and a boat could land the people with safety on the beach. The first thing to be done was to strike the maintopmast. Peek took the helm, while the rest went aloft.

It was no easy matter to get out the fid—the pin which secured the heel of the topmast in the cross-trees—but after considerable exertions, with a fearful risk of being jerked overboard, they succeeded in lowering down the mast.

They had next to get fore and main-trysails ready to set, should it be found possible to beat to windward, though at present it was evident that the schooner could not bear even that amount of canvas.

The foretopsail had stood, being a new stout sail, and it being closely reefed, Rayner hoped that the little vessel would lay to under it. It was a dangerous experiment he was about to try, but he had to choose between two evils—that of being driven on shore, or the risk of having the decks swept by the tremendous seas rolling up from the southward before the schooner could be hove-to. She had already run a considerable distance nearer the land.

Stationing the men in readiness to brace round the yard, he looked out for a favourable opportunity to put down the helm and bring the vessel up to the wind.

That favourable opportunity, however, did not come; every sea that rolled up astern threatened to overwhelm her should he make the attempt.

The land appeared closer and closer. If the vessel was to be hove-to it must be done at once, in spite of all risks.

“Hold on, lads, for your lives!” cried Rayner, in English and French, setting the example by clinging to the larboard main rigging. “Now starboard the helm. Haul away on the larboard headbrace. Ease off the starboard.”

Oliver and Jack, who were at the helm, as they put it down prepared to lash it to starboard; but as the vessel came up to the wind, a fearful sea struck her, sweeping over her deck, carrying away the caboose and the whole of the bulwarks forward; at the same moment the foretopsail split as the other had done, and the canvas, after fluttering wildly in the blast, was whisked round and round the yard.

“Up with the helm!” cried Rayner.

Oliver and Jack, knowing what was necessary, were already putting it up. Before another sea struck the vessel she was again before the gale. Her only resource was now to anchor, should no port be discovered into which they could run.

The cable was accordingly ranged ready to let go at a moment’s notice; but Rayner and Oliver well knew that there was little hope of the anchor holding, or if it did, of the vessel living through the seas which would break over her as soon as her course was stopped. Still, desperate as was the chance, it must be tried. There might be time to set the foresail yet, and she might lay to under it.

The order was given to get the sail ready for setting as soon as she could be brought up to the wind. Again the helm was put down.

“Hoist away!” shouted Rayner.

But scarcely had the sail felt the wind than it was blown away to leeward, and another sea, even heavier than the first, struck the vessel, sweeping fore and aft over her deck.

Rayner, who was clinging on to the rigging, thought that she would never rise again. A fearful shriek reached his ear, and looking to leeward, he saw two of his people in the embraces of the relentless sea.

In vain the poor fellows attempted to regain the schooner, farther and farther they were borne away, until, throwing up their arms, they disappeared beneath the foaming waters.

At first he thought they were his own men, but on looking round he saw Oliver and Jack clinging to the companion-hatch, and the rest holding on to the main rigging. One of the Frenchmen had been lost, and the coloured steward.

Ere long the rest on board might have to share the same fate. Still Rayner resolved to struggle to the last.

Another attempt was made. The main-trysail was shifted to the foremast; if that would stand, the vessel might possibly be kept off shore; but scarcely had it been set, than the hurricane came down on the hapless vessel with redoubled fury. The weather rigging gave way, and down came the mast itself, killing one of the blacks, and fearfully crushing another; and, to Rayner’s dismay striking down Jack Peek. He sprang forward to drag Jack out from beneath the tangled rigging and spars, calling Tom Fletcher to assist him. They ran a fearful risk of being washed away, but he could not leave Jack to perish.

“Are you much hurt?” he shouted, as he saw Jack struggling to free himself.

“Can’t say, sir; but my shoulder and leg don’t feel of much use,” answered Jack.

Tom, with evident reluctance, had to let go his hold, but could not refuse to run the same risk as his officer.

By lifting the spars they got Jack out, and dragged him to the after-part of the vessel, where, as he did not seem able to help himself, Rayner secured him by a lashing to a stanchion.

“I’ll stand by you, Peek, and, if it becomes necessary, I’ll cast you off, so that you may have a chance of saving yourself,” he said.

As it was now evidently hopeless to attempt heaving the vessel to, she was once more kept before the wind, while Rayner and his men, armed with two axes, which they found hanging up in the companion-hatch, and their knives cut away the rigging, and allowed the foremast, which hung over the side, to float clear of the vessel.

“We must now cut away the mainmast. We shall have to bring up presently, and it will enable her to ride more easily,” cried Rayner. The standing rigging was first cut through, then that on the other side, when a few strokes sent the mast overboard. Still the schooner ran on before the wind. Had she been laden, she must have foundered. The hatches had been got on and battened down. They now, as far as practicable, secured the companion-hatch, for they all well knew that the moment they should bring up, the seas would come rolling on board, and sweep the decks fore and aft. By Rayner’s advice, each man got lashings ready to secure himself to the stanchions or stumps of the masts. Nearer and nearer the vessel drew to the shore. Looking ahead, the line of breakers were seen dashing wildly on a reef parallel with the shore, beyond which there appeared to be a narrow lagoon.

Rayner, observing that the surf did not roll up the beach to any considerable height, looked out for a passage through which the vessel might be steered. The continuous line of breakers ran as far as the eye could reach along the shore. There was only one spot where they seemed to break with less fury. Towards it Rayner determined to steer the schooner. He and Oliver soon came to the conclusion that it would be useless to attempt anchoring. The water, probably, was far too deep outside the reef for their range of cable, and even if it were not, the anchor was not likely to hold.

They accordingly steered for the spot they had discovered, the only one which afforded them the slightest hope of escaping instant destruction.

On rushed the vessel, now rising on the top of a sea, now plunging into a deep hollow. Rayner and Oliver held their breaths.

“I say, what’s going to happen?” asked Tom of one of the other men. “Shall we get safe on shore? I shouldn’t mind if we could, although the Frenchmen made us prisoners.”

“As to that, it seems to me doubtful,” was the answer. “Maybe, in a few minutes we shall be floating about among those breakers there, with no more life in us than those poor fellows who were washed away just now; or it may be that this little craft will be carried clear over the reef into smooth water.”

“Oh dear, oh dear!” exclaimed Tom, “I have often wished that I had stayed at home; I wish it more than ever now.”

“No use wishing. It won’t undo what has been done. But, see, we are getting very close. We shall know all about it presently.”

The schooner was farther off than Rayner had at first supposed; and as they got nearer he saw, to his relief, that the spot for which he was steering was wider than he had fancied.

There seemed just a chance that the vessel might be thrown through without striking; at the same time, tossed about as she was, it was impossible to steer her as might be wished. He commended himself and his followers, as every wise men would do, to the care of the Almighty, and nerved himself up for whatever might happen.

The roar of the breakers sounded louder and louder. On the vessel drove, until there was a crash. She had struck, but, contrary to all expectation, another sea lifted her and flung her completely through the breakers, when, swinging round, she grounded on a sandbank just within them, heeling over with her head to the eastward, and her deck towards the shore.

Though the sea, which washed over the reef, still beat against her, she might possibly hold together for some time.

Chapter Thirty.

Rayner proves that he is a true hero.

The sea dashing over the reef, though spent of its fury, still broke with great force against the hull of the schooner. Her timbers shook and quivered as wave after wave, striking them, rolled on towards the beach, and then came hissing back, covering the surface of the lagoon with a mass of creaming foam. The coast, as far as could be seen through the masses of spray, looked barren and uninviting.

The Frenchmen and blacks, recovering from the alarm which had well-nigh paralysed them, rushed to the boat stowed amidships, and began casting adrift the lashings, and preparing to launch her.

“Keep all fast there!” cried Rayner, as he saw what they were about. “It will be best to wait till the sea goes down, when we shall be able to get the boat into the water with less risk of her being swamped than at present.”

They, however, paid no attention to his orders, and continued their preparations for launching the boat.

When he found that they persisted in their attempts, he urged them to wait till they had collected a supply of provisions, and obtained some fresh water, as it was probable that they might find neither the one nor the other on shore. Calling Fletcher aft to attend to Peek, he and Oliver went into the cabin to collect all the eatables they could find, as also their carpet bags and such other articles as might be useful.

“We must get up some water before the boat shoves off,” said Rayner. “I’ll send one of the men to help you, while I go into the hold to search for casks.”

The boat was still on the deck, and there seemed no probability that the Frenchmen and blacks would succeed in launching her.

He was some time below, hunting about for the casks of water.

He had just found a couple, and was about to return on deck to obtain some slings for hoisting them up, when he heard Jack Peek shout out, “Quick, Mr Rayner—quick! the fellows are shoving off in the boat.”

Springing on deck, what was his surprise and indignation to see the boat in the water, and all the men in her, including Tom Fletcher!

“What treachery is this?” he exclaimed. “If go you must, wait until we can get our injured shipmate into the boat, and Mr Crofton will be on deck in a moment.”

While he was speaking, the man named Brown, who had gone with him below, rushing on deck, leapt into the boat, intending to prevent them from shoving off. Rayner, for the same object, followed him, with a rope in his hand, which he was in the act of making fast, when one of the Frenchmen cut it through, and the boat rapidly drifted away from the side of the vessel.

In vain Rayner urged the people to pull back, and take off Oliver and Jack; but, regardless of his entreaties, one of them, seizing the helm, turned the boat’s head towards the beach. They pulled rapidly away, endeavouring to keep her from being swamped by the heavy seas which rolled up astern. Now she rose, now she sank, as she neared the shore.

“Oliver will fancy that I have deserted him; but Jack Peek knows me too well to suppose that I could have acted so basely,” thought Rayner. “If, however, the boat is knocked to pieces, it will be a hard matter to get back to the wreck. All I can do is to pray to Heaven that the schooner may hold together till I can manage to return on board.”

These thoughts passed through his mind as the boat approached the beach. He saw that it would be utterly useless to try and induce the men to return. Indeed, the attempt at present would be dangerous. He again urged the crew to be careful how they beached the boat.

“The moment she touches jump out and try to run her up, for should another sea follow quickly on the first, she will be driven broadside on the beach, and before you can get free of her, you may be carried away by the reflux.”

The Frenchmen and blacks, eager to save themselves, paid no attention to what he said. On flew the boat on the summit of a sea, and carried forward, the next instant her keel struck the sand. Regardless of his advice, they all at the same moment sprang forward, each man trying to be the first to get out of the boat. He and Tom Fletcher held on to the thwarts.

On came the sea. Before the men had got out of its influence, two of them were carried off their legs, and swept back by the boiling surf, while the boat, broaching to, was hove high up on the beach, on which she fell with a loud crash, her side stove in. Rayner, fearing that she might be carried off, leaped out on the beach, Tom scrambling after him. His first thought was to try and rescue the two men who had been carried off by the receding wave. Looking round to see who was missing, he discovered that one of them was a British seaman, the other a Frenchman. He sprang back to the boat to secure a coil of rope which had been thrown into her, and calling on his companions to hold on to one end, he fastened the other round his waist, intending to plunge in, and hoping to seize hold of the poor fellows, who could be seen struggling frantically in the hissing foam. The Frenchmen and blacks, however, terror-stricken, and thinking only of their own safety, rushed up the beach, as if fancying that the sea might still overtake them. Tom and his messmate alone remained, and held on to the rope. Rayner swam off towards the Frenchman, who was nearest to the shore. Grasping him by the shirt, he ordered Tom and Brown to haul him in, and in a few seconds they succeeded in getting the Frenchman on shore.

Ward, the other seaman, could still be seen floating, apparently lifeless, in the surf—now driven nearer the beach, now carried off again, far beyond the reach of the rope. The moment the Frenchman had been deposited on the sands, Rayner sprang back again, telling Tom and Brown to advance as far as possible into the water.

Rayner, however, did not feel very confident that they would obey his orders, but trusted to his powers as a swimmer to make his way back to the beach. A sea rolled in. He swam on bravely, surmounting its foaming crest. He had got to the end of the rope, and Ward was still beyond his reach. Still he struggled. Perhaps another sea might bring the man to him. He was not disappointed, and grasping the collar of Ward’s jacket, he shouted to Brown and Tom to haul away; but the sea which had brought Ward in rolled on, and Tom, fancying that he should be lifted off his legs, let go the rope and sprang back. Happily, Brown held on, but his strength was not sufficient to drag in the rope. In vain he called on Tom to come back to his assistance. While tugging manfully away, he kept his feet on the ground, although the water rose above his waist. The next instant the sea bore Rayner and his now lifeless burden close up to where he stood. Rayner himself was almost exhausted, but with the help of Brown, and such aid as Tom was at length, from very shame, induced to give, they got beyond the influence of the angry seas Rayner lost no time in trying to restore the seaman, but with sorrow he found that it was a corpse alone he had brought on shore.

The Frenchman, Jacques Le Duc, having been less time in the water, quickly recovered, and expressed his gratitude to Rayner for having saved him.

“Mais, ma foi! those poltroons who ran off, afraid that the sea would swallow them up, should be ashamed of themselves,” he exclaimed. “You had best show your gratitude, my friend, by getting them to assist us in bringing off my brother officer and the seaman from the wreck,” answered Rayner. “I fear that she will not hold together many hours, and unless they are soon rescued they may lose their lives.”

“I will try and persuade them to act like men,” answered Jacques. “You have twice saved my life, and I feel bound to help you.”

Saying this, Jacques, who had been assisted on his legs by Tom and Brown, staggered after his companions, shouting to them to stop.

On seeing him, they only ran the faster.

“Do you take me for a ghost?” he cried out, “Come back, come back, you cowards, and help the brave Englishman!”

At last they stopped, and Jacques was seen talking to them. In a short time he came back, saying that they declared nothing would induce them to return to the wreck; that the boat, they knew, could no longer float, and that there was no other means of getting off; that if they remained on the shore they should be starved, and that they must hurry away in search of food and shelter before night, which was fast approaching.

“Then we must see what we can do by ourselves,” said Rayner. “We cannot allow Mr Crofton and Peek to perish while we have any means of going to their assistance. I must first see if we can patch up the boat so as to enable her to keep afloat.”

On examining her, however, it was discovered that several of the planks on one side were stove in, and that they could not repair her sufficiently to keep out the water. At first Rayner thought of making a raft out of the materials of the boat; but he soon came to the conclusion that he should never be able to paddle it against the seas which came rolling in.

“It must be done,” he said to himself. “I have swum as far in smooth water, with no object in view; but strength will be given me. I trust, when I am making an effort to save my fellow-creatures. Crofton might perhaps swim to the shore, but nothing would induce him to leave a shipmate alone to perish.”

All this time Oliver and Jack could be seen seated on the deck, holding on to the stanchions to save themselves from being washed away by the seas which, occasionally breaking over her side, poured down upon them.

It of course occurred to Rayner that if Oliver could manage to float a cask, or even a piece of plank secured to the end of a rope, a communication might be established between the wreck and the shore; but as far as he could see, the running rigging and all the ropes had gone overboard with the masts, and the only coil saved was that which had been brought in the boat.

“Go off again I must,” he said; “and I want you, my lads, to promise me, should I perish, that you will use every exertion to save the people on the wreck. Fletcher, you know our object in coming on the coast. You must go to the authorities and explain that we had no hostile intentions—that our wish was to land the Frenchmen whose lives we had saved; and if you explain this, I hope that you will all be well treated.”

Even Tom was struck by his officer’s courage and thoughtfulness; and he and his messmate promised to obey his orders.

Rayner, having now committed himself to the care of Heaven, prepared to swim off to the wreck. He knew that Oliver would see him coming, and would be ready to help him get on board. Waiting until a sea had broken on the beach, he followed it out, and darting through the next which rolled forward, he was soon a long way from the shore. He found he could swim much better than before, now that he had no rope to carry. Boldly he struck forward. Happily he did not recollect that those seas swarmed with sharks. On and on he went. Now and again, as a sea rushed over the reef, he was thrown back, but exerting all his strength, he struggled forward. He was nearing the wreck, and could see that Oliver, who was eagerly watching him, had got hold of a short length of rope, with which he stood ready to heave when he should be near enough. But he felt his own strength failing. It seemed almost beyond his power to reach the wreck. Still, it was not in his nature to give in, and making a desperate effort, striking out through the surging waters, he clutched the rope which Oliver hove-to him, and the next instant was clambering on board. Throwing himself down on the deck, he endeavoured to regain his strength, Oliver grasping him tightly with one hand, while he held to the stanchion with the other.

“I knew you would not desert us, Rayner,” he said. “But now you have come, how are we to get this poor fellow to the shore? I could not leave him, or I would not have allowed you to risk your life by returning on board. We must try and knock a raft together sufficient to carry Peek, and you and I will swim alongside it, if we cannot make it large enough to hold us all three. There’s no time to be lost, though.”

Providentially the wind had by this time decreased, and the tide having fallen, the seas struck with less fury against the wreck, and enabled the two midshipmen to work far more effectually than they could otherwise have done.

Jack begged that he might try and help them, but they insisted on his remaining where he was, lest a sea should carry him off, and he might not have the strength to regain the wreck.

Fortunately the two axes had been preserved, and going below, they found several lengths of rope, though not of sufficient strength to form a safe communication with the shore. They would serve, however, for lashing the raft together.

They quickly cutaway some of the bulkheads. They also discovered below several spars and a grating. By lashing these together they in a short time formed a raft of sufficient size to carry all three. They next made a couple of paddles with which to guide the raft. They were very rough, but they would serve their purpose. It was almost dark by the time the raft was finished.

“I say, I feel desperately hungry, and I daresay so do you, Rayner, after all you have gone through,” said Oliver. “I propose that we should have some of the contents of the basket we packed. I left it in the steward’s pantry on the weather side.”

“A very good idea,” answered Rayner. “Pray get it up. Some food will do Peek good, and enable us all to exert ourselves. I’ll finish this lashing in the meantime.”

They were not long in discussing some of the sausages and bread which Oliver produced.

“I feel much more hearty, sir,” said Jack, when he had swallowed the food. “I don’t fancy there’s so much the matter with me after all, only my leg and back do feel somewhat curious.”

“Come,” said Rayner, “we must make the attempt, for we cannot tell what sort of weather we shall have during the night.”

With forethought, they had fixed some lashings to the raft with which to secure both Jack and themselves. It floated with sufficient quietness to enable them to place Jack upon it.

“We must not forget the food, though,” said Oliver.

“Do you, Peek, hold the basket, and do not let it go if you can help it.”

They took their seats, and lashing themselves to the raft, cast off the rope which held it to the wreck, and began paddling away with might and main. The seas rolled in with much less force than before, though there was still considerable risk of the raft capsizing.

While under the lee of the wreck they proceeded smoothly enough, but the seas which passed her ahead and astern meeting, several times washed over them. As they approached the shores they could see through the gloom three figures standing ready to receive them.

“I am glad those fellows have not deserted us, for after the way they before behaved I did not feel quite sure about the matter,” said Rayner.

While he was speaking, a sea higher than the rest came rolling along in, and lifting the raft on its summit, went hissing and roaring forward.

“Be ready to cast off the lashings, and to spring clear of the raft, or it may be thrown over upon us,” cried Rayner. He gave the warning not a moment too soon, for the sea, carrying on the raft, almost immediately dashed it on the beach. Springing up and seizing Jack Peek by the arm, he leapt clear of it. They would both have fallen, however, had not Tom and Brown dashed into the water and assisted them, while Le Duc rendered the same assistance on the other side to Oliver.

Before the raft could be secured the reflux carried it away, together with the basket of provisions, and it soon disappeared in the darkness. “What shall we do next?” asked Oliver. “We cannot stop on the beach all night.”

Wet to the skin as they were, although the wind was not cold, it blew through their thin clothing, and made them feel very chilly.

“We must look out for food and shelter,” observed Rayner. “Perhaps we shall fall in with some of the huts of the black people where we can obtain both, though the country did not look very inviting when there was light enough to see it. I, however, don’t like to leave the body of that poor fellow on the beach.”

“Fletcher and I will try and bury him, sir,” said Jack.

“I don’t see much use in doing that,” growled Tom. “He can’t feel the cold. It will keep us here all the night, seeing we have no spades, nor anything else to dig a grave.”

“We might do it if we could find some boards,” said Jack. “How would you like to be left on shore just like a dead dog?”

His good intentions, however, were frustrated, as no pieces of board could be found, and they were compelled at length to be satisfied with placing the body on a dry bank out of the reach of the water. This done, they commenced their march in search of some human habitations, Tom and Brown supporting poor Jack, who was unable to walk without help, between them.

The country, from the glimpse they had had of it, appeared more inviting to the west, but Rayner reflected that by going in that direction they would get farther and farther from the Spanish territory, but were they once to reach it, they might claim assistance from the inhabitants. How many miles they were from the border neither Rayner nor Oliver was certain; it might be a dozen or it might be twenty or thirty. Le Duc could give them no information. It was difficult to find the way in the darkness; they could indeed only guide themselves by listening to the roar of the breakers, with an occasional glimpse of the dark ocean to the right. The two officers agreed that it would be of great advantage to get into Spanish territory before daylight, as they would thus avoid being taken prisoners. Though their object in coming on the coast was a peaceable one, it would be difficult to induce the authorities to believe that this was the case. Le Duc promised that he would bear testimony to the truth of the account they intended to give of themselves; but, he observed, “My word may not be believed, and I myself may be accused of being a deserter. The people hereabouts do not set much value on human life, and they may shoot us all to save themselves the trouble of making further inquiries.”

These observations, which Rayner translated to his companions, made them still more anxious to push on. He and Oliver led the way with Le Duc, whom they desired to answer should they come suddenly on any of the inhabitants.

They went on and on, stumbling among rocks, now forcing their way through a wood, now ascending a rugged slope, until they found themselves at what appeared to have been a sugar plantation, but evidently abandoned for the fences were thrown down, though the shrubs and bushes formed an almost impenetrable barrier. They discovered, however, at last, a path. Even that was much overgrown, though they managed to force their way through it.

When once out of the plantation they found the road less obstructed. Reaching a rising ground, they eagerly looked round, hoping to see a light streaming from the windows of some house, where they could obtain the rest and food they so much required.

“I think I caught sight of a glimmer among the trees. Look there!” said Oliver.

They took the bearings of the light, and descending the hill, endeavoured to direct their course towards it. At last they reached a road, which they concluded must lead towards the house where the light had been seen. They went on some way farther in darkness.

“We are all right,” cried Oliver. “I caught sight of three lights from as many different windows. That shows that it is a house of some size.”

“I don’t know whether that would be an advantage,” observed Rayner. “The owner may dislike the English, and refuse to receive us, or send off to the authorities and have us carried away to prison.”

“But you and Le Duc and Peek, as you speak French, may pass for Frenchmen; and a man must be a curmudgeon if he refuses to afford assistance to sailors in distress,” observed Oliver.

“I can’t say much for Peek’s French, or for my own either. I would rather state at once who we are,” said Rayner. “Le Duc is an honest fellow, and he will explain why we came on the coast, and will tell them how we saved his life.”

Le Duc, being asked, replied that he would gladly undertake whatever the English officers wished, and it was arranged that as soon as they got near the house he should go on and ascertain the disposition of the inhabitants. Should they be ill-disposed towards the English he was to return, and they would go on rather than run the risk of being detained and sent to prison.

Sooner than they had expected they got close up to what was evidently a house of considerable size, as the lights came from windows some distance above the ground. While Le Duc went forward, the rest of the party remained concealed under shelter of some thick bushes. He had not got far when a loud barking showed that several dogs were on the watch.

He advanced, however, boldly, calling to the dogs, and shouting for some one to come and receive him.

The animals, though satisfied that he was not a thief, seemed to suspect that there were other persons not far off.

“I say, here the brutes come,” whispered Tom. “They’ll be tearing us to pieces. The people in these parts, I have read, have great big bloodhounds to hunt the Indians with. If they come near us we must knock them over.”

“That won’t make the people inclined to treat us more kindly,” answered Jack. “When the dogs find we are quiet, they’ll let us alone.”

Just then the voice of some one was heard calling the dogs, who went back to the house.

Some time passed. At last Le Duc’s voice was heard. It was too dark to see him.

“It’s all arranged, messieurs,” he said. “There’s an old lady and two young ladies in the house. I told them all about you, when they said that they were fond of the English, and would be very happy to give you shelter and food, but that you must come quietly so that no one but their old brown maître d’hôtel, and black girls who wait on them, should know that you are in the house. Follow me, then, and just have the goodness to tell the men that they must behave themselves or they may be getting into trouble.”

“I’ll tell them what you say,” observed Rayner; and turning to the three seamen, he said—

“Remember that though you are on shore you belong to the Lily, and are, therefore, as much under discipline as if you were on board.”

They now proceeded towards the house, led by Le Duc. The two officers going first, they mounted the steps, and getting inside the house, they saw an old mulatto carrying a couple of wax candles. He beckoned them with his head to follow, and led the way to an inner room, when an old lady advanced to meet them. Behind her came two young ladies, whom the midshipmen thought very handsome, with dark flashing eyes and black tresses, their costumes being light and elegant, and suited to that warm clime. The old lady introduced them as her daughters, Sophie and Virginie. The midshipmen advanced bowing, and Rayner, who was spokesman, apologised for appearing in their wet and somewhat torn clothes.

“We have received the invitation madame has been so kind as to afford us, and we throw ourselves on her hospitality.” He then repeated what he had told Le Duc to say.

“You shall have your necessities supplied, and I will gladly do all I can to protect and help you regain your ship,” she said. “I was once with my daughters taken prisoner when on a voyage from France by an English ship-of-war, and we were treated by the English officers as if we had been princesses. Ah! they were indeed true gentlemen! They won our hearts;” and she sighed. “I thought two of them would have become husbands of my daughters, but stern duty compelled them to sail away after they had landed us, and we have never heard of them since.”

“We will gladly convey any message to them, if you will tell us their names, and the ships to which they belonged,” said Rayner, “should we be fortunate enough to fall in with them.”

“My daughters will tell you by-and-by,” answered the old lady. “You, I see, require to change your dresses, which you can do while supper is preparing. My maître d’hôtel will look to your men with the help of the French sailor whom you sent up with your message.”

“One of them was hurt on board the wreck, and requires some doctoring, I fear,” said Rayner; “he managed to drag himself, with the assistance of his shipmates, thus far, but he must be suffering.”

“Be sure that I will attend to him,” answered Madame La Roche. “I have some skill in surgery, and it will be a satisfaction to exercise it on one of your countrymen; but now François will conduct you to a room, and supply you with such garments as he can collect. Your men in the meantime will be attended to.”

François on this stepped forward with his candles, and, with an inimitable bow, requested the young officers to follow him. They bowing again to madame and her daughters, followed the maître d’hôtel, who led the way to a large room with two beds in it, as also a couple of cane sofas, several chairs, a table, and, what was of no small consequence, a washhand-stand.

“De best ting messieurs can do will be to get into de bed while I bring dem some dry clothes,” said François.

Rayner and Oliver requested, however, that they might be allowed, in the first place, to wash their hands and faces.

This done, they jumped into their respective beds, and when once there they agreed that, if they were not so hungry, they would infinitely prefer going to sleep to having to get up again and make themselves agreeable to the ladies. As soon as François got possession of their clothes he hurried away, but shortly returned, bringing with him a supply of linen and silk stockings, and two antiquated court suits. They were, he said, the only costumes which he considered worthy of the English officers, and he begged that they would put them on without ceremony.

Though not much inclined for merriment just then, they could not help laughing as they got into the white satin small clothes offered them. They then put on the richly-embroidered waistcoats, which, being very long, came down over their hips. Their frilled shirts stuck out in front to a considerable distance, but when they came to the coats, Rayner, who had the broadest pair of shoulders, felt considerable fear lest he should split his across, while his hands projected some way beyond the ruffles which adorned the wrists.

François assisted them in the operation of dressing, and after they had tied their neckcloths, he begged, with a low bow, to fasten on their swords. When their costumes were complete he stepped back, and surveyed them with evident satisfaction.

Oliver could not keep his countenance, but laughed heartily for some time.

“It’s just as well to get it over, Rayner,” he said; “for otherwise I could not help bursting out every time I looked at you.”

The maître d’hôtel, however, did not appear to think there was anything laughable in the appearance of the two Englishmen.

“Oh, messieurs! you are admirable. Let me have the honour of conducting you to the saloon.” Saying this he took up the candles, and with stately step marched before them, until they reached a large room, in the centre of which was a table spread with a handsome repast.

Madame La Roche, coming in, took the head of the table, and the young ladies, sailing like swans into the room, placed themselves by the side of their guests, on the strangeness of whose costumes they made not the slightest remark. Rayner and Oliver had become somewhat faint from long fasting, but their spirits quickly revived after they had eaten some of the viands placed before them. At first they supposed that the repast was served up solely on their account, but from the way the girls and their mother kept them in countenance, they were satisfied that they had simply come in for the family supper.

Rayner talked away, now to the old lady, now to the young one at his side, while Oliver found that he could converse much more fluently than he had supposed.

After a time, however, they found it very difficult to keep their eyes open, and Rayner heard the old lady remark to her daughters, in pitying accents, that “Les pauvres garçons much required rest, and that it would be cruel to keep them up longer than was necessary.”

She accordingly summoned François, who appeared with his huge candlesticks. Wishing them good-night, the old lady advised them to follow the maître d’hôtel to their chamber.

They bowed as well as they could, and staggered off, more asleep than awake.

“We are certainly in clover here,” remarked Oliver, as they reached their room; “I question whether we shall be as well treated when we reach Spanish territory; and I propose, if Madame La Roche is willing to keep us, that we take up our quarters here until Peek is better able to travel than he is now.”

“Certainly,” answered Rayner, taking off his silk coat and placing his sword on the table. “We’ll talk of that to-morrow.”

They had not placed their heads on their pillows many seconds before they both were fast asleep.

Chapter Thirty One.

Captured.

The shipwrecked midshipmen would probably have slept far into the next day had not François appeared with their clothes, nicely brushed and carefully mended, so that they were able to make a presentable appearance in their own characters before their hostesses.

He had also brought them a cup of café-au-lait, informing them that breakfast would be ready as soon as they were dressed in the salle-à-manger.

They found an abundant meal spread out, as François had promised. The old lady and her daughters welcomed them kindly—the latter with wreathed smiles, the elder with a host of questions to which she did not wait for a reply.

They were all three thorough Frenchwomen, talking, as Oliver observed, “thirteen to the dozen.”

Madame La Roche told them that she had been attending to the English sailor, who, she hoped, would, under her care, be quite well in a day or two. “I ought to warn you not to go out. People in these parts are not well affected towards the English, and should it be discovered that I am harbouring British officers I may get into trouble,” she added.

The morning passed very pleasantly. The young ladies produced their guitars, and sang with good voices several French airs. Rayner and Oliver thought them charming girls, and had they not felt it was their duty to get back to their ship as soon as possible, would gladly have remained in their society for an indefinite period.

At last they begged leave to go down to see their men. They were guided to their rooms by sounds of music and uproarious laughter. They found Le Duc seated on a three-legged stool on the top of a table fiddling away, while old François, three black women, Tom and Brown, were dancing in the strangest possible fashion, whirling round and round, kicking up their heels, and joining hands, while Jack lay on a bed at the farther end of the room, looking as if he longed to get up and take a part in the dance.

On seeing the strangers, François became as grave as a judge, and hurrying up to them, observed, “I thought it as well, messieurs, just to join in for one minute to set the young people going. The poor sailors needed encouragement, and I like to make people happy.”

“You succeeded well, Monsieur François,” remarked Rayner. “I will not interrupt them, but I have a few words to speak to my men.”

He then told Tom and Brown that it was the wish of Madame La Roche that they should remain in the house, and not show themselves by any chance to the people outside.

“In course, sir,” said Brown. “We are as happy as princes here. They feed us with as much as we can eat, and give us a right good welcome too.”

“Take care that you don’t indulge too much,” said Rayner. “We are obliged to you, Le Duc, for finding us such good quarters, and we shall be still more grateful if you will accompany us to the Spanish border. I conclude you will then desire to return home.”

“I am very much at home where I am,” replied Le Duc, with a grin. “If madame will accept my services, I shall be very happy to remain here. Perhaps one of the young ladies will fall in love with me, and I should prefer settling down to knocking about at sea.”

Rayner and Oliver were horrified at the Frenchman’s impudence.

“Pray do not be troubled at what I say, messieurs,” said Le Duc, with perfect coolness. “Such things have happened before, and one Frenchman here is as good as another.”

They saw that it would not do to discuss the matter with the seaman, who, it was evident, from the dishes and glasses standing on the table by the window, had been making himself merry with his companions.

The afternoon was spent very much as the morning had been. The young ladies possessed no other accomplishment than that of playing the guitar and dancing. They read when they could get books, but these were mostly French novels, certainly not of an improving character.

Rayner and Oliver could not help comparing them with Mary Crofton, and the comparison was greatly to her advantage.

The next day, François, who had been out to market returned with a troubled countenance. He hurried in to his mistress, who soon afterwards came into the room where her daughters and the young officers were seated.

“I am sorry to say that the authorities have heard of your being in the neighbourhood, and have sent the gendarmes to search for you!” she exclaimed, in an anxious tone. “I did not wish to drive you away, and am willing to try and conceal you. At present, no one knows you are in the house. You may remain in a loft between the ceiling of this room and the roof, where you are not likely to be found; but the place is low, and will, I fear, be hot in the daytime, and far from pleasant. François might manage to conduct you to a hut in the woods at no great distance from this, to which we could send you food; but there is the risk of the person who goes being seen, and your retreat being discovered.”

“We are very sorry to cause you so much trouble, madame,” said Rayner. “It will, I think, be safest to leave this place to-night, and to try and make our way, as we intended, into Spanish territory.”

“Ah! but the distance is long—fully twenty leagues,” answered Madame La Roche. “You would be recognised as strangers, and probably detained by the mayor of a large village you must pass through.”

“But we must take care and not pass through any village,” said Rayner. “We will try to make our way along bypaths. What we should be most thankful for is a trustworthy guide. Perhaps our good friend François here will find one for us.”

“That I will try to do,” said the old mulatto. “It is not, however, very easy, as few of them know much of the country to the east.”

“But how was it discovered that these English officers and their men were in the country?” asked Mademoiselle Sophie, the eldest of the young ladies, turning to François.

“It appears that yesterday morning there was found on the beach the dead body of a seaman, who was supposed from his appearance and dress to be English, while the marks of numerous feet were perceived on the sand, some going to the west, others coming in this direction. Those going to the west were traced until a party of French and black sailors were discovered asleep in a wood. They stated that the vessel was French, captured by an English man-of-war; that she had been driven by the hurricane on the reef, and that it was their belief the English officers and crew had escaped as well as themselves, but they could not tell what had become of them. The mayor, on hearing this, had despatched a party of gendarmes in search of the missing people. How soon they may be here it is impossible to say.”

“But they will not be so barbarous as to carry off to prison English officers who come with a flag of truce, and had no hostile intentions!” exclaimed Virginie.

“The authorities would be only too glad to get some Englishmen to exhibit as prisoners,” said François. “We must not trust them; and I propose that we hide away the officers and men.”

Just as François had finished giving this account, Le Duc ran into the room.

“Oh, madame, oh messieurs!” he exclaimed, “I have seen those gendarmes coming along the road towards the house; they will be here presently.”

“Here, come this way, my friends!” cried Madame La Roche. “François, run and get the ladder. There may be time for you all to mount up before the gendarmes appear. Call the other sailors. The sick man is strong enough to move, or some one must help him. Vite, vite!”

The old lady hurried about in a state of great agitation. Rayner and Oliver had serious fears that she would betray herself.

François soon came with the ladder, which he placed in a dark corner of a passage, and, ascending, opened a trapdoor, and urged the party to mount without delay. Oliver went up first. Jack was able to get up without assistance. Le Duc was unwilling to go until the old lady seized him by the arm.

“Go up, my son, go up,” she said. “You will not be worse off than the rest.”

He at length unwillingly obeyed.

As soon as Rayner got up, by François’ directions he shut down the trapdoor. There was just light sufficient, through a pane of glass in the roof, to see that the loft extended over a considerable portion of the building. Part only was covered with boards, on which, according to the instructions given them, they laid down. François had charged them on no account to move about, lest they should be heard by the people below. The planks, however, were not placed very close together, and after they had been there a minute or so, Rayner discovered a glimmer of light coming through a broadish chink.

Putting his face near it, he perceived that the old lady and her daughters had seated themselves at a table with their work before them, endeavouring to look as unconcerned as possible.

He had not been in this position many minutes, when he heard some heavy steps coming along the passage; they entered the room, and a gruff voice demanded if any Englishmen had been, or still were, in the house.

The old lady started to her feet with an exclamation of well-feigned astonishment.

“What can monsieur mean?” she asked. “Englishmen in my house! Where can they have come from? My character is well known as a true patriot. The enemies of France are my enemies. Pray explain yourself more clearly.”

On this the sergeant of gendarmes began to apologise in more courteous language than he had at first used, explaining why he had been sent to look for the Englishmen who, it had been ascertained, were in that part of the country.

“Suppose you find them, what would you do with them?” asked Madame La Roche.

“No doubt send them to prison. They are enemies of France, and it would not be wise when we can catch them to allow such to wander at large and commit mischief.”

“Very true, very true, Monsieur Sergeant,” said the old lady. “But that does not excuse you for accusing me of harbouring them, and coming to my house as if I were a traitress.”

The sergeant, however, was evidently persuaded, notwithstanding Madame La Roche’s evasion, that the fugitives had been at the house, if they were not there still, and he insisted, with due respect to her, that it was his duty to make a thorough search.

“As you desire it, pray obey your orders,” said Madame La Roche. “My maître d’hôtel will show you round the house and outbuildings, and wherever you wish to go. You must excuse me on account of my age, as also my daughters from their youth and delicate nerves from accompanying you.”

The sergeant bowed, and said something with a laugh which Rayner did not hear, and the old lady, calling François, bade him conduct the sergeant and his gendarmes through the house. “And take care that he looks into every corner, under the beds and in them, if he likes, so that he may be thoroughly satisfied,” she added.

“Oui, madame,” answered François with perfect gravity. “Come along, Monsieur Sergeant. If you do not find these Englishmen of whom you speak, do not blame me.”

Rayner heard them retire from the room. He now began to breathe more freely, hoping, for the sake especially of Madame La Roche, that the sergeant would be satisfied when they were not found in the house.

The ladies went on working and talking as if nothing were happening, though their countenances betrayed their anxiety. The gendarmes had been absent a sufficient time to make a thorough search through the whole of the building when Rayner heard them coming back. Suddenly the sergeant stopped, and asked, in a loud voice, “What is the object of this ladder, my friend?”

“To reach the roof from the verandah, or to enable the inmates to descend should the house be on fire,” answered François, promptly.

“The roof everywhere overlaps the verandah,” answered the sergeant, “and no ladder is necessary to get out of these windows to the ground. It appears to me of a length suited to reach the ceiling. Come, show me any trapdoor through which I can reach the loft over the rooms. You forgot, my friend, that part of the house.”

“A trapdoor in the ceiling! What a strange thought of yours!” exclaimed François. “However, perhaps you will find it, should one exist, that you may be satisfied on that point, and let one of your men take the ladder, for I am old, and it would fatigue me to carry it.”

One of the gendarmes took up the ladder, and he could be heard knocking at the ceiling in various directions. Still Rayner hoped that they would not discover the dark corner, which François evidently had no intention to show them.

“It must be found somewhere or other,” he heard the sergeant say. “This ladder is exactly suited to reach it.”

At last he entered the room where the ladies were seated.

“Will madame have the goodness to tell me whereabouts the trapdoor is that leads to the roof?” he asked.

“The trapdoor leading to the roof!” repeated Madame La Roche. “It is not likely that an old woman, as I am, would have scrambled up there, or my delicate daughters either. Surely, Monsieur Sergeant, you are laughing at me.”

The sergeant turned away, but presently one of the men exclaimed, “I have found it! I have found it—here, up in this corner!”

Rayner heard the men ascending, the trap was lifted, but he and his companions lay perfectly still, hoping that in the darkness they might not be perceived.

But the gendarme, after waiting a few seconds to accustom his eyes to the dim light, began groping about until he caught hold of Tom’s leg. Tom, dreadfully frightened, cried out in English, “Oh, dear; he’s got me!”

“Come down, messieurs, come down!” exclaimed the sergeant. “Oh, Madame La Roche, you would have deceived me.”

Rayner and his companions were compelled to descend. He truly felt more for his kind hostess and her daughters than he did for himself. They might be heavily fined, if not more severely punished. He and his companions had only to look forward to a prison, from which they might escape.

With the exception of Le Duc they were all soon collected in the room below. He had managed by some means to escape detection. They were allowed but a short time to take leave of Madame La Roche and her daughters. The sergeant having received no orders respecting the ladies, and satisfied at having secured his prisoners, seemed disposed to allow the former to remain unmolested. They looked very melancholy, however. The young ladies, as they shook hands, burst into tears. In vain Madame La Roche begged that their guests might be allowed to partake of some refreshment before commencing their journey. The sergeant would not hear of it. He had caught the spies, and he intended to keep them. If he allowed them to remain, some trick might be played, and they might make their escape.

He at once, therefore, ordered his men to lead his prisoners to the courtyard of the house.

“Hands off; I won’t be manacled by a French jackanapes,” cried Brown, turning round as one of the men seized his arm. “We are five to seven, mayn’t we knock the fellows over, sir? We could do it easily enough, and get off before they came to themselves again.”

“I’ll join you with all my heart,” said Jack, “though I can’t fight as well as I could before my ribs were stove in.”

“I’ll tackle one of the fellows if I may take the smallest,” said Tom, though he looked rather pale at the thought of the impending struggle.

“What do you advise, Rayner?” asked Oliver.

“I can advise no violence,” said Rayner. “We may succeed in mastering the Frenchmen, but if we did, the kind old lady here and her daughters would certainly suffer in consequence. We must submit with a good grace, and we may possibly afterwards have an opportunity of making our escape without fighting.”

Though the Frenchmen did not understand what was said, they evidently, from the looks of the seamen, suspected their intentions, and drawing their pistols presented them at the heads of their prisoners.

The ladies shrieked, fancying they were about to fire, and Tom turned pale.

“Pray don’t be alarmed,” said Rayner. “We yield to the sergeant, and before we go I wish, in the name of my companions and myself, to express to you the deep gratitude we feel for your kindness. Farewell!”

He and Oliver kissed their hands, and the sergeant made significant signs to them to go through the doorway.

“Have I the word of you two officers and your men that you will commit no violence?” he asked. “If you refuse it, I shall be under the necessity of binding your arms behind you.”

“What shall I say, Oliver?” asked Rayner. “If we give the promise we lose the chance of attempting to make our escape; but then again, if our arms are bound no opportunity can occur.”

“Say then that we will attempt no violence, and submit to any directions he may give us,” answered Oliver.

Rayner spoke as Oliver advised, and the sergeant appeared satisfied, as he imposed no other promise.

Chapter Thirty Two.

In prison, and out again.

The order to march was given. The two officers went first, followed by Brown and Tom supporting Jack, and the gendarmes marched on either side of them with their bayonets fixed.

Rayner and Oliver took the bearings of the house and remarked the country as they went along. They found that they were proceeding inland, and on inquiring of the sergeant he said that they were going to a place called Le Trou, where other English prisoners were confined.

“Are there many of them?” inquired Rayner.

“Yes,” answered the Frenchman, “some hundreds, I believe; for one of our frigates captured a ship of yours not long ago, and most of the officers and men who escaped death were sent there.”

Rayner in vain endeavoured to ascertain what English ship was spoken of, for he had heard of none taken by the French of late years. The sergeant, however, was positive, though he did not know either the name of the ship or the exact time of the capture.

“I suspect he has heard some old story, and he repeats it for the sake of annoying us,” observed Oliver.

“We must not let him suppose that we are cast down. We’ll try to learn how far off this Le Trou is.”

Rayner questioned the sergeant.

“He says it is three days’ journey. We shall have to stop at different houses on the road. That he must first take us to the mayor, or some official, who may perhaps send us to the governor at Leogane, by whom we shall be examined, and if found to be spies, we shall be shot.”

“Then Le Trou is not our first destination, and much will depend upon the character of the mayor before whom we are taken,” observed Oliver.

As they still continued in a northerly direction, they knew that they were not going to Leogane, which lay to the westward, nor were they increasing their distance from the Spanish border.

Towards evening they reached a house of some size built, as are most of those in the country, on one storey, raised on a platform, with a broad veranda and wide projecting eaves. At one end, however, was a circular tower of considerable height.

“Here we shall stop, and there will be your lodging after you have been examined by Monsieur le Maire,” said the sergeant, pointing to the tower.

They conducted them up the steps to a hall, at one end of which was a baize-covered table, with a large chair and several smaller chairs on either side.

After some time a little old gentleman in a red nightcap and flowered dressing-gown, with slippered feet, and spectacles on nose, entered the hall, followed by another in black, apparently his clerk. Two other persons also came in, and took their seats at the table, while the clerk began to nibble his pen and shuffle his papers.

The old gentleman, in a squeaky voice, inquired who were the prisoners now brought before him, and of what crime they were accused.

The sergeant at once stepped up to the table, and giving a military salute, informed Monsieur le Maire how he had heard of spies being in the country, and how he had captured them at the house of Madame La Roche.

“But if they are Englishmen, they cannot speak French, and we require an interpreter,” said the mayor. “Do any of you, my friends, understand the language of those detestable islanders?”

No one replied. After the remark of the mayor, it might seem a disgrace even to speak English.

Rayner, anxious not to prolong the business, on hearing what was said, stepped up to the table, and observed that, as he spoke French, he should be happy to explain how he and his companions came into the country.

He then gave a brief account of the circumstances which led to the shipwreck, and what had since occurred. He was sorry anybody present should entertain ill-feelings towards the English, as for his part he liked France, and had a warm regard for many Frenchmen.

Even the mayor was impressed, and a pleased smile came over his weazened features.

“I am ready to believe the account you give me, and that you certainly are not spies,” he said. “The body of your countryman found on the beach proves that you were shipwrecked. Still, as you are in the country, we must consider you as prisoners of war, and treat you as such. For this night you must remain here, and to-morrow I will consider whether I will send you to Leogane or Le Trou, where you will wait with others of your countrymen to be exchanged.”

After some further remarks the examination terminated, and Rayner and Oliver, with the three seamen, were marched off under a guard to the tower.

It was nearly dark, and they were conducted by the light of a lantern up two flights of steps to a room in an upper storey. As far as they could judge, it was furnished with several pallet beds, a table, some chairs, and stools.

“You are to remain here until to-morrow morning, messieurs, when I shall know in what direction to proceed. Monsieur le Maire has ordered you some food, and you will, I hope, not complain of your treatment,” said the sergeant, as he closed the door, which he locked and bolted. They heard him descending.

“We are better off than I should have expected,” remarked Rayner, surveying the room by the light of the lantern which the sergeant had left.

“The point is, Are we able to escape?” said Oliver.

“You mind, sir, how we got out of the prison in France, and I don’t see why we shouldn’t get out of this place,” observed Jack, going to one of the two narrow windows which the room contained, and looking forth. They were strongly-barred. The night was dark, and he could only see the glimmer of a light here and there in the distance. It was impossible also to ascertain the height of the window from the ground.

“We will certainly try to get out,” said Rayner, joining Jack at the window. “Though I fear that you with your bruises and battered ribs will be unable to make your way on foot across the country.”

“Don’t mind me, sir,” answered Jack. “I have no pain to speak of. If the worst comes to the worst, I can but remain behind. I shall be content if you and Mr Crofton and Tom and Brown make your escape.”

“No, no, my brave fellow,” said Rayner, “we will not leave you behind. But before we talk of what we will do, we must try what we can do. These bars seem very strongly fixed into the stone, and may resist our attempts to get them out.”

“There’s nothing like trying, however,” observed Oliver. “We must get away to-night, for if the mayor decides on sending us either to Leogane or Le Trou we shall have a very poor chance afterwards.”

They tried the bars, but all of them were deeply imbedded in the stone.

“Where there’s a will there’s a way,” observed Jack. “We may dig out the lead with our knives, and if we can get one bar loose we shall soon wrench off the ends of the others, or bend them back enough to let us creep through. Brown wouldn’t make much of bending one of these iron bars, would you, Sam?”

“I’ll try what I can do,” said the seaman, “especially if it’s to get us our liberty.”

“Then, not to lose time, I’ll make a beginning, if you’ll let me, sir,” said Jack; and he got out his knife, but just as he had commenced operations, steps were heard ascending the stairs. The door opened, and one of the gendarmes appeared, followed by a negro carrying a basket of provisions.

“Monsieur le Maire does not want to starve you, and so from his bountiful kindness has sent you some supper,” said the former.

“We are much obliged to Monsieur the Mayor, but we should be still more so if he would set us at liberty,” said Rayner.

Meanwhile the black boy was spreading the table with the contents of the basket.

The gendarme laughed. “No, no, we are not apt to let our caged birds fly,” he answered. “I hope, messieurs, you will enjoy your suppers, and I would advise you then to take some sleep to be ready to start early in the morning, as soon as it is decided in what direction you are to go.”

Rayner thanked the gendarme, who, followed by the black boy, went out of the room, bolting and barring the door behind him.

The men now drew their benches to the table, and Rayner and Oliver, taking their places, fell to with the rest, there being no necessity, under such circumstances, for keeping up official ceremony.

Supper was quickly got through, and each man stowed away the remainder of the provisions in his pockets. While they went to work with their knives at the bars, Rayner and Oliver examined the beds. They were thankful to find that the canvas at the bottom was lashed by pieces of tolerably stout rope. These, with the aid of the ticking cut into strips, would form a line of sufficient length and strength to enable them to descend, should they succeed in getting out the bars. This, however, was not easily to be accomplished. When the officers went to the window, they found that Jack and his companions had made little progress. The bars fitted so closely into the holes that there was but a small quantity of lead, and without a hammer and chisel it seemed impossible to make the hole sufficiently large to move the bars so as to allow Brown to exert his strength upon them. If the two centre perpendicular bars could be got out, the lowest horizontal bar might be sent up. This would afford ample room for the stoutest of the party to get through.

“We’ve got out of a French prison before, sir, and we’ll get out now,” said Jack, working away.

“Yes, but we were small boys then, and you, Jack, and I, would find it a hard matter to get through the same sized hole now that we could then,” observed Rayner.

“That’s just it, sir. If two small boys could get out of a French prison, I am thinking that five well-nigh grown men can manage the job. We’ll do it, sir, never fear. If this stone was granite it might puzzle us, but it’s softer than that by a long way, and I have already cut out some of it with my knife, though, to be sure, it does blunt it considerably.”

The progress Jack and his companions made was very small, and it was evident that unless they could work faster they would be unable to remove the bar before daylight. Rayner and Oliver searched round the room for any pieces of iron which might serve the purpose of a chisel. They examined the bedsteads—they were formed entirely of wood. There was, of course, no fireplace, or a poker might have assisted them. They had just returned to the window when their ears caught the sounds of a few low notes from a violin, played almost directly beneath them.

“Why! I do believe that’s the tune Le Duc was playing to us last evening,” exclaimed Jack.

All was again silent. Rayner and Oliver tried to look through the bars, but could see nothing; all was still. Again the notes were heard. Jack whistled a few bars of the same air. A voice from below, in a suppressed tone asked in French, “Have you a thin line? Let it down.”

“It is Le Duc. He has got something for us. Maybe just what we want,” cried Jack.

“Oui, oui,” he answered. “It will quickly be ready.”

The ticking of one of the mattresses was quickly cut up and formed into a line, which was lowered. Rayner, who held it, felt a gentle tug, and as he hauled it up, what was the delight of the party to find two strong files! There could be no doubt that Le Duc had formed some plan to assist them in escaping, or he would not have come thus furnished. Probably they had to thank Madame La Roche for suggesting it. They did not stop, however, to discuss the matter, but set to work immediately to file away the bars, making as little noise as possible. While two of them were thus employed, the rest walked about the room, and talked and laughed and sang, so as to drown the sound of the files. Presently they heard from the other side of the building the loud tones of a fiddle, the player evidently keeping his bow going at a rapid rate. Then came the sounds of laughter and the stamping of feet, as if people were dancing.

“Why, our guards will be kept awake and we shall have no chance of getting off, I fear,” said Oliver.

“If our guards dance they will drink, and sleep afterwards, never fear,” answered Rayner. “Our friend Le Duc knows what he is about. I’m sure that we can trust him, or he would not have taken the trouble to bring us these files.”

The fiddle was kept going, and Brown and Jack kept time to the tunes with the files as they worked, laughing heartily as they did so.

“Hurrah!” cried Jack, “there’s one bar through. Take a spell here, Tom. You’ve helped the armourer sometimes, and know how to use a file.”

Tom, being as eager to get out as the rest, worked away better than he did on most occasions.

Jack, however, soon again took the file, and in a short time announced that both the centre bars were cut through at the bottom. They had next to file the upper bars sufficiently to enable Brown to bend them back. Losing patience, however, he at last seized one of them, when, placing his feet against the window, he bent back with all his strength. He was more successful than he expected, for the iron giving way, down he fell on the floor with a tremendous crash, which would certainly have been heard by the guards below, had not their attention been drawn off by the fiddle of Le Duc, who was scraping away with more vehemence than ever. Rayner and Oliver had in the meantime been manufacturing the rope by which they hoped to descend to the ground. They could measure the necessary length by the small line with which the files had been drawn up, and they had the satisfaction of finding that it was amply long enough for their purpose. They now secured it to one of the remaining bars. Rayner and Oliver agreed that it would be wise to descend while the fiddle was going.

“Let me go first,” said Brown. “I am the heaviest, and if it bears me, it will bear any of you.”

Tom said nothing. His modesty or something else prevented him from putting himself forward when any danger was to be encountered.

Rayner himself had intended to descend first, but the rest of the party begged him to let some one else go, and at last Oliver led the way.

Judging by the still louder scraping of Le Duc’s fiddle, he must have suspected what they were about. Oliver could hear the notes coming round from the other side of the building. All, however, below him was silence and darkness. He could not judge, as he looked down, whether he was to alight on hard or soft ground, whether into a ditch or stream, or whether they should have a fence to climb. His chief fear was that some of the dogs allowed to go loose in every country house might discover him and his companions before they could effect their escape.

All this passed through his mind as he was letting himself down the rope, to which he clung with arms and feet as a sailor only can cling with security. He soon reached the bottom. The ground appeared to be firm, and was, as far as he could judge, perfectly level. The tower threw a dark shadow, in which he stood listening for any sounds which might indicate danger. It had been agreed, even should one or two of the gendarmes come round, to spring upon them, seize their arms, and gag them. As soon as his feet touched the ground, he pulled out his handkerchief, ready for the latter object. Presently another came down. It was Brown, the best man to tackle an enemy, as his muscular strength was equal to any two of the rest. No enemy appeared, however, and at length Rayner, who came last, reached the bottom in safety.

Chapter Thirty Three.

Travelling under difficulties.

They waited and waited. Le Duc kept fiddling away with as much vehemence as at first. But they could not ascertain whether their guards were still dancing—the scraping of the fiddle-strings drowning all other sounds.

At length the music became slower and slower, until only a low, moaning wail reached their ears. It was of a remarkably somniferous character,—the cunning Le Duc had evidently some object in playing thus. Presently the music ceased altogether. Not a sound was heard, except the soughing of the wind round the tower. Still their patience had to be tried. Something was keeping Le Duc.

At last they saw a figure coming towards the tower. Perhaps it was not Le Duc. If a stranger, they must stop his mouth. Perhaps they might have to bind him. They could cut off a sufficient length of rope for the purpose.

He appeared to be a peasant wearing a broad-brimmed hat and a shirt, with a long stick or ox-goad in his hand. They were so well concealed, crouching down against the wall, that he did not perceive them.

Rayner and Brown were on the point of springing out to seize him, when he said, in a low whisper, “Don’t you know me, friends? Follow me, but bend down as low as you can, that if seen from the house you may be taken for my dogs or sheep. Pardon me for saying so.”

“No necessity for that; lead on, we will follow,” said Rayner.

Walking upright, staff in hand, he proceeded at a good rate across the open space at the back of the village. They could see the lights glimmering from several houses on its borders.

They soon reached a stream with a long wooden bridge thrown over it. Here, as they would be exposed to view, the sooner they could get across it the better. They hurried over, still stooping down, Le Duc walking erect. At last their backs began to ache from remaining so long in a bent position.

They were thankful when they reached the edge of a plantation, and Le Duc, stopping, said, “You have acted admirably, my friends. Come on a little farther to a spot where we shall find some clothes in which you can disguise yourselves. We can get over some leagues before daylight, and the inhabitants we shall then meet with are all blacks, and being very stupid will not discover that you are English, provided those who do not speak French hold their tongues.”

“A very right precaution,” said Rayner. After he had thanked Le Duc for his exertions, he added, “Remember, Brown and Fletcher, neither of you attempt to open your mouths except to put food into them. If you are spoken to, make off, or pretend that you are deaf and dumb.”

After proceeding another mile or so, they reached a solitary hut, partially in ruins. Le Duc here produced five bundles from behind a heap of rubbish, covered over with bushes.

“These I brought by the desire of Madame La Roche,” he said. “She and her daughters, and their black girls, and old François, worked away very hard to get them finished. They began the very moment you and the gendarmes left the house. It was Mademoiselle Sophie’s idea, she’s a clever young lady. Directly the dresses were completed, François and I started off on horseback, as we knew the road you had taken, I dressed as you see me, and carrying my fiddle in a bag hung round my neck. I was a strolling player once, and belonged to a circus before I became a sailor, so I was at home on horseback, and I was at home also when playing my tricks off on the gendarmes. I have keen wits and strong nerves, messieurs. One without the other is of small value. United, wonders can be worked. How I did bamboozle those stupid fellows! It was fortunate, however, that none of the black crew of the schooner or my late shipmates appeared, or I should have been discovered. Now, put on these dresses, they are such as are worn by the planters of this country, and you can pretend you are going to a fair at Goave to buy mules, that is what François advises, and he has got a good head on his shoulders. I wish that he could have come with us, but as soon as he had deposited these clothes he had to ride back as fast as he could to attend to his mistress, and I undertook the rest.”

“You have indeed done your part well,” said Rayner. “What shall we do with our own clothes?”

“Do your jackets and trousers up in bundles, and carry them with you. You must take care, however, not to let them out of your hands,” answered Le Duc.

As they were in a solitary place, with no chance of being overheard, the men, as they looked at themselves by the light of a lantern Le Duc had carried, though he had not until now lit it, indulged in hearty laughter.

“You do look like an overseer, Brown,” said Jack, “and I should be precious sorry to be a black slave when you had your whip lifted above my shoulders. You’d hit mighty hard, I’ve a notion.”

As Rayner and Oliver surveyed each other, they expressed strong doubts whether their disguise was sufficient to enable them to pass undetected, and they agreed that it would be necessary to keep as much as possible out of the way of the inhabitants. Still, the risk must be run. The consequences of being caught would be very serious to them, yet more so to Le Duc, who would almost to a certainty be shot for having assisted in their escape.

Having done up their clothes in the handkerchiefs which had contained the dresses they now had on, they pushed forward.

Le Duc had never before been in that part of the country, but he had received minute directions from François, which helped greatly to guide them.

At length they came to a dense jungle. François had told Le Duc of this, and that he would find a path through it. They hunted about for some time in vain.

“Come this way, messieurs!” exclaimed Le Duc, at length. “This must be the path François told me of.” He had gone a short distance to the southward, and now led on, feeling the way with his long stick. The others followed. The path was narrow, and the trees met overhead, so that they were in complete darkness. On they went, keeping close behind each other, for there was no room for two to walk abreast.

Le Duc walked at a good pace. The jungle seemed interminable. They must have gone on, they fancied, for two or three miles, when they found their feet splashing in water.

“I am afraid we are getting into a swamp, messieurs,” said Le Duc. “It cannot be helped; we must scramble through it somehow or other. If we had daylight it would be an advantage. It won’t do to stop here, however.”

The water grew deeper. The ground had now become very soft, and they were often up to their knees in mud, so that their progress was greatly delayed.

“We shall cut but a sorry appearance, messieurs, if we meet any one when morning breaks,” observed Le Duc. “As soon as we get to dry ground we must stop and put ourselves to rights.”

“Perhaps we shall, and it would be as well if we can wash the mud off our legs,” said Rayner. “But go on, my fine fellow; if this path is in general use it cannot be much worse than it is.”

Rayner was right. In a short time the water became shallower, and soon afterwards they got on to firm ground. To their very great satisfaction they at last found themselves out of the jungle. Before them rose a hill, over which they had to climb.

At the foot of the hill they came to a clear, broad stream, passing over a shingly bed. Le Duc, feeling the depth with his staff, walked in. It was sufficiently shallow to enable them to ford it without difficulty; and they took the opportunity of washing off the mud which had stuck to their legs in the swamp.

All this time poor Jack never once complained, but he was suffering no small amount of pain. His great fear was that he might have to give in and delay the rest.

On the other side of the stream the country showed signs of cultivation. They passed outside several plantations, but what they were they could not tell; still, as they could manage to make their way to the eastward they went on.

“We must be near the large village François spoke of,” said Le Duc. “He advised that we should go to the southward of it, as the country on that side is more easily traversed, and we may hope thus to get by without being discovered if we can pass it before daybreak.”

They accordingly took the direction as advised. After going some way they heard the barking of dogs and saw a light gleaming, they supposed, from the window of a cottage, whose inmates were up early, or, perhaps, where some one lay dying or dead.

At length the bright streaks of early dawn appeared in the sky ahead.

Jack at last had to acknowledge that he could go no farther.

“If we could but reach some hut or other where the blacks would take care of me, I would be ready to stop sooner than let you be caught, sir,” he said, addressing Rayner.

“No, I will never allow that,” was the answer. “We’ll get you along a little farther, until we can find some place to rest in. There’s a wood I see ahead, and we must conceal ourselves in it until you are able to go on again. If Mr Crofton likes to lead on the rest and try to get across the frontier, he may do so, but I’ll stick by you, Jack. Don’t be afraid.”

“Thank you, Bill, thank you!” said Jack, pressing his old messmate’s hand, scarcely knowing what he was saying, but thinking somehow that they were again boys together. “You were always a brave, generous chap, and I know you’d never desert a shipmate.”

Poor Jack was getting worse every moment. Rayner made no reply, but calling Brown, they helped him along between them, lifting him over the rough places as they made their way towards the wood. They reached it just as daylight burst on the world, as it does in the tropics, the hot sun rushing up immediately afterwards to blaze away with intense heat.

Oliver, with Le Duc and Tom, hurried on ahead to look for some place where they might have a chance of effectually concealing themselves. In a short time Oliver came back.

“We have discovered just the sort of place we want,” he said. “The sooner we can stow ourselves away in it the better. Let me take your place and help Peek along.”

Rayner would not allow this.

“I can support him a mile farther if necessary,” he answered.

In a short time, making their way through the jungle, and crossing a small stream which would afford them water, they saw before them a huge tree, upturned from the roots, forming beneath it a cavern of considerable size, which Le Duc and Tom were engaged in clearing out. There was a risk of being bitten by snakes, which might have made it their abode, but that could not be avoided. Le Duc was running his stick into every hole he could see to drive out any which might be concealed. In other respects, no better place could be found.

Rayner and Brown lifted in Jack and placed him on the ground, and Rayner gave him some of the food they had brought from the tower. They had only enough, unfortunately, for one meal. Meantime it was better than nothing, and resolved to give Jack his share.

The rest of the party had collected some branches and brushwood to conceal the entrance. This done, they all crept in.

Le Duc, who had surveyed their place of concealment from the outside, declared that no person not actually searching for them would suspect that any one was there. No sooner had they swallowed their food than they all fell asleep.

Rayner was the first to awaken. He listened, but could hear no sound except the buzz of insects, and he knew, by the light which came in from the upper part of the entrance, that the sun was shining brightly.

Jack was still asleep. He was breathing easily, and appeared to be better; but still it was not probable that he would be able to continue the journey. It would be necessary, therefore, at all events, to remain in the cavern all the day, but should he be well enough they might continue their journey at nightfall. Their chief difficulty would be to procure food from the neighbouring village without exciting suspicion.

Rayner was unwilling to arouse his companions. At length, however, Oliver awoke; then Le Duc sat up rubbing his eyes.

They consulted as to what was to be done. Oliver agreed with Rayner that they must remain where they were, but Le Duc was for pushing on. When, however, Rayner reminded him that Jack could not possibly move as fast as necessary, if at all, he consented to remain.

“But should the gendarmes come in this direction to look for us, we shall probably be discovered,” he observed.

“We must hope, then, that they will not come in this direction,” said Oliver.

“But what about food, monsieur?” asked Le Duc.

“We must try to go without it for a few hours,” answered Rayner. “We shall be well rested, and must tie our handkerchiefs tightly round our stomachs. I have got enough for the sick man, who requires it more than we do; but we must not let him know that we have none, or he will probably refuse to touch it.”

“We can at all events procure some water,” said Le Duc. “Give me your hats, gentlemen; they will hold as much as we want.”

Though Rayner and Oliver would have preferred some other means of obtaining the water, they willingly gave their hats to Le Duc, who crept out with them, and soon returned with both full to the brim.

The thirst of the party being quenched, for a short time they suffered much less than before from the pangs of hunger.

Tom and Brown were ready to do what their officers wished, only Tom groaned at having nothing to eat.

Jack slept on while the rest again lay down. The light which came through the bushes began somewhat to decrease, and Rayner saw that the sun was sinking behind the trees in the west. He was watching Jack, who at length awoke. The moment he opened his eyes, Rayner offered him the food he had kept ready in his pocket.

“Come, Jack, stow this away in your inside as fast as you can, that you may have strength to go on as soon as it is time to start. We don’t intend to spend our lives here, like mice in a hole.” Jack did as he was bid, without asking questions. Just as he had finished, Tom groaned out, “I shall die soon if I don’t get something to eat.”

“Nonsense lad; you can hold out for a few hours longer,” replied Brown. “I’m just as bad as you are, for that matter.”

Le Duc guessed what they were talking about. He himself felt desperately hungry.

“I tell you what, messieurs, without food we shall make slow progress. I’ll go into the village and try to procure some. I shall easily learn from some person, before I venture to enter, whether the gendarmes are there, and if they are not, we shall be safe for the present. They will, I hope, fancying that you made your way back to the house of Madame La Roche, have gone off there. We must hope for the best, and I will try and invent some reason for wishing to purchase food. The kind lady supplied me with money, so that I shall have no difficulty on that score.”

Rayner, who in reality suffered more than any one, as he had had less to eat, at last consented to the proposal of Le Duc, who set off.

As soon as he had gone the bushes were drawn close again. The party sat in silence, anxiously waiting his return.

They waited and waited. Again it became dark.

Jack declared that he felt strong enough to go on.

“Yes, you may; but I could not budge an inch until I have had some food,” growled Tom. “I wish that that Frenchman would come back.”

“Shut up there, mate, and don’t be grumbling. You’re not worse than the rest of us,” said Brown.

Time wore on; it was now perfectly dark. They listened eagerly for the sound of Le Duc’s footsteps.

Rayner had made up his mind to go out and try to ascertain what had become of him, or at all events to obtain some food, for he felt that neither he nor the rest of the party could get through the night when travelling without it. Later on it would be still more difficult to obtain, as the inhabitants would be in bed. He thought he should be able to find his way back to their place of concealment; so, desiring the party to keep perfectly silent, he set out. He had not gone far in the wood, when he heard footsteps. He crouched down behind a tree, when, looking out, he saw a man, with something on his back, approaching. He hoped that it was Le Duc, but it might be a stranger. He kept quiet.

The person came nearer, now stopping, now turning on one side, now on the other. It must be Le Duc, thought Rayner. He has lost his way, perhaps that may account for his long absence. Stepping from behind the tree, he advanced.

“What are you searching for, my friend?” he asked, in French.

The man stopped, and seemed inclined to run away.

“Le Duc, what’s the matter?” asked Rayner, in a suppressed tone.

“Ah, monsieur! is it you?” cried Le Duc. “I thought I should never find the place where I left you. I saw it only in daylight. Things look so different in the dark. I have had a narrow escape, but I have got some food now. If you follow my advice you will eat and set off immediately. Is the cave near?”

“No; but I can lead you to it,” answered Rayner.

As they went along, Le Duc said, “When I got near the village I met an old black, who told me there were no strangers in the place, and that I might easily procure what I wanted. I accordingly went on boldly, until I reached a cottage just in the outskirts. I entered and found the people ready enough to sell me some bread and sausages, charging me three times as much as they were worth. I also procured this straw bag to put them in. While I was there packing them up several persons who had come in were talking, and I heard them say that a party of soldiers had just arrived, on their way from Leogane to Port Saint Louis in the bay, and that they were ordered to look out for several English spies, and that some blacks, who knew the Englishmen, had accompanied the soldiers to assist in finding them. As soon as I heard this I hastily put some of the things into my bag, not waiting for the remainder, and hurried out of the hut. As I did so, what was my dismay to see three of the soldiers, accompanied by one of the black fellows who had escaped from the wreck! Were I to have run away they would have suspected me, so I walked on whistling, as if I had nothing to fear from them.

“As mischance would have it, they were proceeding in the same direction, and it is my belief that they were even then going in search of you. Thoughtless of the consequence, I happened to whistle an air which I sang that night on board the schooner when we were becalmed. The rogue of a black recognised it, for, turning my head, I saw him coming after me. I was silent directly, and began to walk very fast. Fortunately it was almost dusk, and, reaching some thick bushes, I dodged behind them. The black passed me and went on. I lay quiet, and after a time he came back, and I heard him tell the soldiers, who had followed him, that he must have been mistaken; so they then proposed going back to the village.

“I waited until they were out of hearing, and then set off to try and find my way to the cave, but I missed it, and have been wandering about ever since.”

No one troubled Le Duc with questions. They were too eager to dispose of the contents of his bag. They could not see what they were eating, but they were not inclined to be particular. As soon as they had finished their meal, being told by Rayner that soldiers were in the neighbourhood, they begged at once to continue their journey; but Rayner was very doubtful whether Jack could keep up, though he declared that he was ready.

When, however, he crept out of the cave, he was scarcely able to stand, much less to walk any distance.

“I must remain, then,” said Rayner, “and you, Oliver, go on with the other two men and Le Duc, and when he has seen you safely into Spanish territory he will, perhaps, come back and assist me and Jack Peek. If he cannot, we must do our best by ourselves. We have been in a more difficult position together before now, and managed to escape.”

Oliver, however, would not hear of this, and it was finally settled that the whole party should remain in their cave another night and day.

Jack was very unhappy at being the cause of their detention; but Rayner cheered him up by reminding him that it was not his fault, and perhaps, after all, it was the best thing they could do.

They accordingly all crept into the cave and went to sleep.

In the morning light enough found its way through the bushes to enable them to eat breakfast. They, of course, took care not to speak above a whisper, though listening all the time for the sound of footsteps; but as no one came near them, they hoped that their place of concealment was unknown to any of the villagers, who might otherwise have pointed it out to the soldiers.

The day went by. All the food Le Duc had brought was consumed, except a small portion kept for Jack. He offered to go for more, but Rayner judged it imprudent to let him return to the village, where he would be recognised as having come on the previous evening. They accordingly had to go supperless to sleep, Tom grumbling, as usual, at his hard fate.

When daylight streamed into the cavern, Le Duc declared that he could hold out no longer, and that, both for his own sake and that of others, he must go and get some food.

“The soldiers will have gone away by this time,” he observed, “and the black people in the village can have no object in detaining me. If they do, I will bribe them to let me off, and they know if they hand me over to the soldiers that they will get nothing.”

The hunger all were feeling and his arguments prevailed, and he set off, promising to be back as soon as possible, and to take care that no one followed him.

Rayner felt some misgiving as he disappeared. All they could do in the meantime was to keep close in their hole.

All day they waited, but Le Duc did not return.

Tom muttered, “The Frenchman has deserted us after all.”

Even Brown expressed some doubts about his honesty.

“You never can trust those mounseers,” he said in reply to Tom’s remark.

“Be silent there, men,” said Rayner. “Our good friend has probably thought it safer to hide himself, and will manage to get back at night.”

Night came, however, and still Le Duc did not appear. Rayner and Oliver became more anxious than ever.

“I must not let you fellows starve,” said Rayner at last. “I’ll go out and try and get provisions of some sort. Le Duc spoke of several cottages on the outskirts of the village, and I’ll call at one of them and try to bribe the inhabitants, or to move their compassion; perhaps I may get tidings of our friend.”

Though either Oliver or Brown would gladly have gone instead, they knew that Rayner was the best person to undertake the expedition.

“If I do not return before midnight, you must all set out and travel eastward as fast as you can. How do you feel, Peek? Can you manage to move along.”

“Yes, sir,” answered Jack. “I could if you were with us, but I am afraid if you were left behind in the grip of soldiers I shouldn’t do much.”

“Don’t let that idea weigh on your mind. If I am captured and sent to prison, there I must remain until I am exchanged for a French officer, though I don’t think there’s much chance of my being caught.”

Having given his final directions, Rayner set off.

He went on till he saw a light streaming through a cottage window. The better sort of people were alone likely to be sitting up at that hour, as the poorer blacks, he knew, went to bed at sundown and rose at daybreak.

He went up to the door and knocked.

“May I come in?” he asked in French; and without waiting for an answer he lifted the latch.

An old mulatto woman was seated spinning. Near her sat a young girl of much lighter complexion, with remarkably pretty features, engaged in working on some pieces of female finery. She rose as he entered, and the old woman uttered an exclamation of astonishment.

He at once explained his errand. He wanted food, and was ready to pay for it. They would not be so hard-hearted as to refuse it to starving men.

The girl looked at the old woman, who was apparently her grandmother.

“Mon père will soon be back. Will monsieur object to wait?” she asked.

“I have no time to wait; here, accept this,” said Rayner, holding out a dollar which he fortunately had in his pocket.

The old woman’s eyes glittered.

“Give monsieur what he wants, but keep enough for your father’s supper and breakfast to-morrow. It is strange that he should require food since he is so rich.”

“I want sufficient for several persons—anything you have got,” said Rayner.

The girl went to a shelf at the other end of the room and got down a couple of loaves of maize bread, some cakes, salt-fish, and fruit.

“You can take some of these,” she said, placing them on the table; “but how are you to carry them?”

He had a silk handkerchief, which he produced, intending to tie up the provisions in. The girl looked at it with admiration.

“Perhaps you will accept this, and give me a basket, or a matting bag instead?” he said.

She quickly produced a bag large enough to hold all the things.

“Now can you give me any news of anything happening in the village?”

“Yes, some soldiers have been there, and impudent fellows they were; some of them came to our house, and if my Pierre had been present there would have been a fight. I am glad that they have gone. It is said they were in search of deserters or spies, and that they had caught one of them, but could not find the rest. If monsieur dislikes the military as much as I do, he’ll keep out of their way.”

The girl said this in a significant manner. Rayner thanked her and the old woman, and advised them to say nothing about his visit.

“If we know nothing we can say nothing, eh, monsieur? Bon voyage, and keep out of the way of the soldiers,” whispered the girl as she let him out.

He could not help thinking, as he hurried back towards the cave, that she suspected he was one of the persons the soldiers were in search of. Although she wished to befriend him, her father might be in a different mood. There was the danger, too, that if poor Le Duc was caught, he might be tortured to make him confess where his companions were. Rayner considered, therefore, that it would be imprudent to remain longer in the cave, and that it would be safer even to carry Jack, should he be unable to walk, than to delay their journey.

He got back safely, and the food he brought soon restored the spirits of the party. Even Jack declared that he was strong enough to walk a dozen miles if necessary. They were in great hopes, therefore, of getting across the border before daybreak. They regretted greatly the loss of Le Duc, who had served them so faithfully, especially as they feared that he himself was in danger of suffering in consequence of the assistance he had given them.

Rayner led the way. The stars being as bright as on the previous night, he had no difficulty in directing his course. The country was much of the same character as that they had previously crossed. In some parts they came to plantations, and could distinguish the residences of the proprietors.

Now they had to make their way by narrow paths through jungles, now to wade through marshes.

Jack, helped by Brown and Tom, got on better than might have been expected. Rayner intended to halt for a short time at the first convenient spot they could reach.

He had for some distance observed no signs of cultivation, when he found that they were passing close to a plantation. Then there appeared a house on one side, then another and another. Barking dogs came rushing out, and they had some difficulty in keeping them at bay. The brutes followed them, however, joined by others. A voice from a gateway shouted, “Who goes there?”

“Friends!” answered Rayner.

“Advance, friends, and show yourselves, and give the countersign,” said a sentry, at the same time calling out the guard.

To run would have been useless, besides which it is not a movement British officers and seamen are wont to make, except after an enemy.

Rayner therefore determined to put a bold face upon the matter, advanced with his companions, and the next instant they found themselves surrounded by a body of French soldiers, whose looks, as they held up a couple of lanterns, were anything but satisfactory.

Chapter Thirty Four.

Recaptured—An unexpected rescue.

“Whence do you come and where are you going, mes amis?” asked the sergeant of the guard, addressing Tom, who was nearest him.

“What’s that you say, old chap?” said Tom, forgetting the strict orders he had received to hold his tongue.

“Ah, what language is that?” exclaimed the sergeant, holding up his lantern and examining the sailor’s countenance. “You are not a Frenchman, I’ll vow.” He turned from one to the other, looking in the faces of each. “Why, I believe these are the very men we were ordered to search for. Seize them all. Take care that none escape. There are five of them, the very number we were told of, and one, the traitor, we have already got. Can any of you speak French? though I doubt it.”

“Should you be satisfied, monsieur sergeant, if we do speak French, and better French than many of the people about here?” asked Rayner. “If so, will you let us go on our journey? do we look like English sailors?”

“I don’t know how English sailors generally look,” said the sergeant, gruffly, and rather taken aback at being suddenly addressed in his own language. “You certainly have the appearance of overseers, or people of that sort, but your countenances betray you. I am not to be deceived. Bring them along into the guard-room.”

In vain Rayner pleaded that he and his companions were in a hurry to proceed on their journey.

They were dragged into the building, and a guard with fixed bayonets was placed over them. For the remainder of the night they had to sit on a hard bench, with their backs against the wall, sleeping as well as they could in so uncomfortable a position. At daybreak the next morning Sergeant Gabot, by whom they had been captured, entering the room, ordered the guard to bring them along into the presence of Captain Dupuis. The seamen, imitating their officers, quietly followed the sergeant, who led the way to a room in the same building. Here Captain Dupuis, a fierce-looking gentleman wearing a huge pair of moustaches, and a long sword by his side, was found seated at a table with two other officers.

He cast his eye over the prisoners and inquired their names. Here was a puzzle, for neither Rayner nor Oliver had thought of assuming French ones. They, therefore, without hesitation, gave their own, as did Jack.

“Please, sir, what does the chap say?” asked Brown, when the officer addressed him.

“He wishes to know your name,” said Oliver.

Captain Dupuis, twirling his moustaches, took them down as well as he could.

“These names do not sound like those of Frenchmen,” he said.

“And such we do not pretend to be,” replied Rayner, stepping forward. “We found it necessary to assume these disguises for the sake of escaping from prison. We are not spies, and have no desire to injure France or Frenchmen except in open warfare.”

He then gave an account of their object in approaching the coast and the way in which they had been so unwillingly compelled to land.

“I am inclined to believe you, monsieur,” said Captain Dupuis, more politely than at first. “But my duty is to convey you to Port Louis, where my regiment is stationed, and the colonel will decide on your case. We will march directly.”

Captain Dupuis appeared not to be ill-disposed, for he ordered some breakfast to be brought to them in the hall.

“Thank you for your kindness, monsieur,” said Rayner. “With your permission we will put on our proper dresses, which are contained in these bundles.”

“Assuredly you have my leave. It will show the people that we have two English officers in captivity, as well as some of their men, and probably the report will be spread that an English frigate and her crew have been taken,” observed the captain, laughing.

“Well, I do feel more like myself now,” exclaimed Brown, as he put on his shirt and jacket, and tied his black handkerchief in a lover’s knot round his throat.

Rayner and Oliver, though they did not say so, felt very much as their men did, thankful to throw off their disguises.

As soon as they had finished breakfast, the soldiers fell in, the prisoners being placed in the centre, and with the captain at their head they commenced their march to the southward.

It was not until late in the evening that they arrived at their destination. There were three old-fashioned forts, one intended to support the other, commanding the entrance of the bay.

Rayner and Oliver, as they approached, took note of their position, and they remarked that the water appeared to be deep close up to the heights on which the forts were situated. In the largest were several buildings, the residence of the commandant, the barracks, and a small edifice with strongly-barred windows, which they soon discovered to be a prison.

They were halted in front of these buildings, while the captain went in to make his report to the commandant. After waiting some time they were marched in between guards with fixed bayonets.

Their examination was very similar to that which they had before gone through. Rayner and Oliver, however, hoped that their account of themselves would be believed, and that they would, even at the worst, only be detained as prisoners-of-war. Still, they did not quite like the looks of the commandant, who was evidently of a more savage disposition than his subordinate. He glared at the English, and declared they he believed they were capable of the most abominable acts of treachery and deceit.

Rayner replied calmly, and pointed out how improbable it was that he and his companions should have landed for any sinister object.

“If you come not as spies yourselves, you come to land French spies. Miscreant traitors to their country!” exclaimed the commandant. “One of them has been caught. Death will be the penalty of his crime. Bring forward the witnesses.”

As he spoke the soldiers stepped aside and two black seamen were led forward. Rayner recognised them as the most ruffianly of the schooner’s crew. First one, and then the other, swore that the vessel had been sent to the coast for the purpose of landing some French spies, that the schooner was to wait for them, and then when they had gained information as to the strength of the forts and vessels in the harbours they were to return to the frigate.

In vain Rayner explained the truth. The commandant scornfully answered that he could not believe an English officer upon his oath, that he should send a report of their capture to Leogane, and that for his part he hoped that he should have orders to shoot them all forthwith.

The mock examination terminated, they were marched away to the prison on the other side of the fort. The door being opened, they were unceremoniously thrust in, one after the other, and it was closed behind them. As it was by this time growing dusk, and there were only small, narrow windows close under the roof, they were left in almost perfect obscurity, so that they could not venture to move from the spot where they stood. As, however, their eyes got accustomed to the gloom, they found that they were in a room about twelve or fourteen feet square, the floor and sides being of roughly hewn stone. Round it ran a stone bench, just above which they could see several massive iron rings fixed in the walls.

“While we have light we had better pick out the cleanest spots we can find,” said Oliver. “We shall be kept here to-night, at all events, and the surly commandant will not allow us any luxuries.”

As they moved a few paces forward, they saw three persons chained to the wall at the farther end of the room.

“Who are you?”

“Alas! alas!” exclaimed one of them, leaning eagerly forward; and they recognised Le Duc’s voice. “Ah, messieurs, you will understand the less said the better as to the past.”

Rayner took the hint, guessing that Le Duc was unwilling to have anything said in the presence of the two other prisoners which might implicate Madame La Roche or François.

“You have heard, messieurs, that they have condemned me to death,” continued Le Duc, “and the wonder is that they have not shot me already, but I know that at any moment I may be led out. I should wish to live that I may play the fiddle and make others happy as well as myself.”

“I am very sorry to hear this. If the commandant would believe us, we can prove your innocence, and, surely, our word ought to be taken instead of that of the two blacks,” said Rayner.

“So it would, according to law, for the evidence of the blacks is worth nothing, and is not received in a court of justice. It proves that the commandant has resolved, at all costs, to wreak his hatred of the English on your heads.”

Rayner and Oliver seated themselves on the stone bench near him. The men had drawn together on the opposite corner. Le Duc narrated how he had been captured just as he was quitting the village. His great fear had been lest he should be compelled to betray them; and he declared to Rayner, who believed him, that he would have undergone any torture rather than have done so.

Le Duc whispered that the two other prisoners had been condemned for murder.

“Pleasant sort of companions,” observed Oliver. “We may as well let them have their side of the prison to themselves.”

The men in the meantime had scraped the seat as clean as they could with their knives.

Tom, as usual, began to grumble.

“We must take the rough and the smooth together,” observed Jack. “I am hungry enough myself, and I hope the mounseers don’t intend to starve us, though maybe we shan’t get roast beef and plum pudding.”

“Don’t talk of it,” cried Brown; “I could eat half an ox if I had the chance.”

While they were talking the door opened, and a man appeared, carrying a lantern and a pitcher in one hand, and a basket in the other, which he placed on the bench near them.

The pitcher contained water, and the basket some very brown, heavy-looking bread, with a couple of tin mugs. Having allowed the other prisoners to drink, and given each of them a piece of bread, he handed the basket with its contents to the Englishmen.

“You Anglais like ros’ beef. Here you eat this. Good enough for you,” he said, in a surly tone.

They were all too hungry to refuse the bread or the water, which, in spite of its brackish taste, quenched the thirst from which they had long been suffering.

Their gaoler left them the lantern, in order that they might see how to divide the bread. It assisted them also to select places on which to stretch themselves round the room, and, in spite of the hardness of their couches, in a short time were all asleep.

Some more bread and water was brought them in the morning, and a similar unpalatable meal was provided in the afternoon. This was evidently to be their only food during their imprisonment. They had no one to complain to, no means of obtaining redress; so, like wise men, they made up their minds to bear it, though Tom grumbled and growled all day long at the way in which he was treated.

Rayner supposed that the commandant was waiting for a reply to the report he had sent to Leogane. Until that could arrive, no change either for the better or worse was likely to be made in their treatment.

Le Duc was still allowed to live; but, in spite of his high spirits, the feeling that he might at any moment be led out and shot was telling upon him. The two officers and Jack did their best to encourage him, and, under the circumstances, it was wonderful how he kept up. In the evening the gaoler appeared with their usual fare.

“There will be one less of you to feed to-morrow,” he growled out, looking at Le Duc, “and I can’t say but that you five others mayn’t have to join him company, for while the firing party are out it is as easy to shoot six as one.”

Le Duc made no answer, but bent his head down on his manacled hands. It was the first sign of deep emotion he had exhibited.

“I hope the fellow is only trying to alarm you for the purpose of exercising his own bad feelings,” said Rayner, after the surly gaoler had gone.

Again left in darkness, they prepared to pass another disagreeable night. Rayner felt that their position was critical in the extreme. He and his companions, accused as they were of being spies, might be led out at any moment and shot. He therefore considered it his duty to prepare his companions as best he could for the worst. Oliver he knew was as ready to die as he was himself. He spoke earnestly and faithfully to the others, pointing out the unspeakable importance of being prepared to stand in the presence of the Judge of all men. He was thankful to hear Jack’s reply, which expressed the simple hope of the Christian—faith in Christ as a Saviour; but the other two were silent.

After Rayner and his companions had talked for some time they stretched themselves on the bench to try and obtain some sleep. That was more easily sought for than found, for no sooner were they quiet than countless creatures began to sting, and bite, and crawl over them. Tom was continually slapping himself, and moaning and groaning.

But, in spite of their hard stone couches and the attacks of the insects, they did manage to drop off occasionally.

Rayner’s eyes had been closed some time when he was awakened by the dull roar of a gun fired from seaward. He started up, as did his companions.

“Where did that come from?” exclaimed Oliver.

Before Rayner could answer, the sound of eight or nine guns, a sloop’s whole broadside, was heard, followed by the crash of the shot as they struck the fortification.

In an instant the whole fort was in an uproar, the officers shouting their orders to the men, and the men calling to each other, as they rushed from their quarters to the ramparts. They had evidently been found napping, for before a single gun had been discharged from the fort, the shot from another broadside came plunging into it.

The game, however, was not to be all on one side. The Frenchmen’s guns were heard going off as fast as they could get their matches ready. They could easily be distinguished by the far louder noise they made. Those from the two other forts at the same time could be heard firing away. Cries and shrieks rose from wounded men, and a loud explosion, as if a gun had burst, rent the air.

“The vessel attacking is a corvette,” cried Rayner. “She must have run close in for her shot to strike in the way they are doing. It is a bold enterprise, and I pray she may be successful for her sake as well as ours.”

“Can she be the Ariel or Lily?” asked Oliver.

“Whichever she is, the attempt would not have been made without good hope of success,” remarked Rayner.

“I wish that we were out of this, and aboard her,” exclaimed Jack.

“So do I,” cried Brown. “I don’t like being boxed up here while such work is going on. Couldn’t we manage to break out?”

“We are safe here, and we’d better remain where we are,” said Tom; “only I hope none of those round shot will find their way into this place.”

On the impulse of the moment Jack and Brown made a rush at the door, but it was far too strongly bolted to allow them to break it open. The other prisoners sat with their hands before them, hoping probably, as Tom did, that no shot would find its way among them.

Rayner and Oliver looked up at the windows near the roof, but they were strongly-barred and too narrow to enable a grown man to squeeze through them. To sit down quietly seemed impossible. They stood therefore listening, and trying to make out by the sounds which reached their ears how the fight was going. Presently some more guns were heard coming from the sea.

“There must be another vessel!” exclaimed Rayner. “Hark! she must be engaging the upper fort. I thought that one would scarcely venture singly to attack the three forts.”

The roar of the artillery continued. Suddenly there burst forth a loud thundering sound. The ground beneath their feet shook, the walls trembled, and the roof seemed about to fall on their heads, while the glare of a vivid flame penetrating through the windows lighted up the whole interior of the building, shrieks, groans, and cries echoing through the fort.

The magazine had blown up. It was a wonder that the prison itself had not been hurled to the ground.

“Thank Heaven, we have escaped!” exclaimed Oliver.

The attacking vessels still continued firing, and after a short interval the fort once more replied, but evidently with fewer guns than before.

A crash was heard over their heads, and down fell a mass of timber, plank, and tiles just above the door. Looking up, the clear sky could be seen, from out of which a crescent moon shone brightly.

No one was injured, for the shot, having torn its way through the roof, had fallen outside.

“Hurrah! thanks to that shot, we may make our escape out of this, for the Frenchmen are too much engaged at the guns to see us!” cried Jack. “Let us get down to the shore, and when we are once there we may manage to find our way aboard the ship. The chances are we shall find some fishing boat or other on the beach. May we try, sir, what we can do?”

“What do you say, Oliver? Shall we make the attempt Jack proposes?” asked Rayner. “If we go we must take Le Duc with us, I wish that we could find something to knock off his chains, and we might set the other poor fellows at liberty.”

To climb out would be no difficult matter, as Brown found that by standing on Tom’s and Jack’s shoulders he could reach the lower part of the roof. But Rayner positively refused to go without first setting Le Duc at liberty. He told Brown to try and dislodge a piece of stone from the wall with which they might break the prisoners’ chains.

Suddenly Tom recollected that he had stowed away one of the files which Le Duc himself had brought in his pocket.

“Hand it here,” cried Rayner; and heat once began filing away.

In the meantime Brown managed to get hold of one of the upper stones of the wall. It was hard, and had a sharp side.

“Here it is, sir,” he said, clambering down and bringing it to Rayner. A few blows on the bench served to sever the link already partly filed through.

“Oh! set us free, monsieur?” cried the other prisoners.

“What does he say?” asked Brown.

“There won’t be time to set you both free, but I’ll see what I can do for one of you;” and he began filing away, and with the help of the stone he managed to liberate the arm of one of the men.

“Here, take the file and see what you can do for your comrade,” he said.

The rest of the party had in the meantime begun to mount the wall.

Chapter Thirty Five.

New adventures and successes.

As Oliver, who went first, had just got to the top, his attention was attracted by loud shouts coming from the rear of the fort. Above them quickly rose a hearty British cheer. Showers of bullets came flying through the air. The shouts and cries increased. Amid the clash of steel, and the sharp crack of pistols, the voices of the officers reached him calling the men to abandon the guns and defend the fort. But it was too late. Already a strong party of blue-jackets and marines were inside.

The gate in the rear, insufficiently protected, had evidently been taken by a rush. The Frenchmen, as they always do, fought bravely, but hurrying up without order, many of them without muskets, they were driven back.

Even had they been better disciplined, nothing could have withstood the fierce onslaught of the British. Numbers of the defenders were seen to fall, their officers being killed or made prisoners. Most of the remainder, taking to flight, crept through the embrasures or leapt over the parapet.

Directly Oliver announced what was going on, the rest of the party were more eager than ever to get out. Jack was the last drawn up, and they all, with Le Duc, dropped on the ground.

“Hullo! here’s a firelock, and a bayonet at the end of it,” said Brown, picking up a musket which the sentry had probably thrown down when making his escape. “Hurrah, boys! we’ll charge the mounseers, and make them wish they’d never set eyes on us.”

Brown, in his eagerness, would have set off without waiting for his companions. Three muskets were found piled close outside of the prison, and a little way off lay the body of an officer who had been shot while making his way to the rear.

Rayner took possession of his sword. The victorious assailants were now sweeping onwards towards the farther end of the fort, in which direction most of the garrison had fled.

At the other end Rayner observed a group of men, either undecided how to act or waiting an opportunity to attack the British in the rear, for they could now see by the increasing daylight that it was but a small party which had surprised the fort.

Brown had seen them also, and, excited at finding himself at liberty, rushed forward with his musket at the charge, without waiting for his companions.

They, however, coming out from behind the buildings, were following in the rear.

On seeing them approach, a French officer, stepping forward, shouted out that they surrendered. Brown, not understanding his object, still charged on, and whisking his sword out of his hand, would have run him through had he not slipped and fallen, while the rest of the party, supposing he had been killed, retreated out of the way of the bold seaman.

“Get up, old fellow, and defend yourself,” cried Brown. “I’m not the chap to strike a man when he’s down;” and as he spoke he picked up the officer’s sword, and, helping him to his feet, presented it to him. All this was done so rapidly that Rayner and his companions arrived only just in time to prevent Brown, who had stepped back a few paces, from making a lunge with his bayonet at the astonished Frenchman, who, now seeing an officer, though he did not recognise Rayner, again cried out that he surrendered, and skipping out of Brown’s way offered his sword.

The rest of the garrison, seeing the storming party, who had now swept round, coming towards them, threw down their arms, and cried for quarter, while the officers, amongst whom were Captain Dupuis and Sergeant Gabot, presented their swords to Rayner and Oliver. They, turning round, had the satisfaction of greeting Lieutenant Horrocks and other officers of the Lily and Ariel.

“Glad to see you, Rayner and Crofton. We all thought you were dead. No time to ask how you escaped. We’ve got to take those two other forts. If you like you can come with us. Crofton, you can take charge of the prisoners. I’ll leave Sergeant Maloney and a dozen men with you. The rest follow me.”

Saying this, the first lieutenant of the Lily led his men on to the attack of the other fort still engaged with the Ariel, Rushing on, they were up to the rear of it before the garrison were aware of the capture of the larger fort. By a sudden dash it was taken as the former had been, the British not losing a single man, though several of its defenders, attempting to stand their ground, were cut down. A rocket let off the moment they were in was the signal to the Ariel to cease firing.

The third fort higher up, towards which she had hitherto only occasionally fired a gun, now engaged her entire attention.

The increasing light showed the garrison the British flags flying above the ramparts of the two other forts, yet they showed no signs of giving in. Though the guns were well placed for defence on the west side, the rear offered a weak point.

Without halting, Lieutenant Horrocks led his men towards it.

“Lads, we must be over those ramparts in five minutes,” he said, pointing to them with his sword.

“In two, if you please, sir!” shouted the men.

Rayner, who was among those leading, cheered, and springing forward, leapt into the ditch and began climbing up the bank on the opposite side.

The blue-jackets of his own ship eagerly pressed after him. He was the first at the top, and with a dozen others who had followed him closely, leapt down among a number of the garrison who, leaving their guns, had hurriedly collected to oppose them. In vain the defenders attempted to resist the impetuous attack. Fresh assailants, among the first of whom was Lieutenant Horrocks, came on, and inch by inch driven back; and seeing that all further resistance was useless, the Frenchmen threw down their arms and cried for quarter.

It was now daylight, and there was still much to be done. The prisoners had to be collected, the forts blown up, and the men embarked.

Lieutenant Horrocks gave Rayner the satisfactory intelligence that two privateers had been captured at the entrance of the harbour by the boats without firing a shot. The crews, however, had resisted when boarded, and two officers, one of whom was Lieutenant Lascelles, had been badly wounded.

“Poor fellow! if he recovers I don’t think he will be fit for service for some time,” said the first lieutenant. “I shall have to report the gallant way in which you assisted in the capture of the fort.”

The prisoners being collected from the three forts, and assembled on the beach, Captain Saltwell came on shore and offered the officers their liberty and permission to carry away any of their private property on condition of their pledging their word of honour not to serve against the English again during the war. This they willingly gave.

The men also were to be dismissed, though it was useless to make terms which they would not have it in their power to keep. The wounded were collected, and the garrison were allowed to carry off such materials as could be easily removed for forming huts and tents to shelter them.

On going through the fort, Rayner and Oliver looked into the prison. The two captives had made their escape. Le Duc had hitherto remained with the English. He naturally feared that he should be considered a traitor should he venture among his own countrymen.

“But ah, messieurs, I love France as well as ever; and though I regard the English as brothers after the treatment I have received from them, I would not injure her or her people.”

Rayner therefore proposed that he should come on board the Lily and remain at Jamaica until he could return home.

The last scene had now to be enacted.

The marines and parties of seamen had been employed for some hours in digging holes under the fortifications, which were then filled with casks of powder, the whole being connected by carefully laid trains. The men were next embarked. One boat alone remained under each fort, the gunner and boatswain of the Lily and a warrant officer of the Ariel being ordered to fire the trains.

Rayner had taken command of one of the Lily’s boats. The men waited with their oars in their hands, ready to shove off at a moment’s notice. Mr Coles, the gunnel, who was in Rayner’s boat, ascended the bank match in hand. Presently he was seen rushing down again, faster probably than he had ever moved before.

“No time to lose, sir,” he shouted, as he leapt on board. “The fuse in this hot country burns faster than I calculated on.”

“Give way, lads!” cried Rayner.

The men bent to their oars. The other boats were seen pulling away at the same time. They had not got twenty fathoms from the shore, when a thundering report was heard, and up rose a portion of the large fort, filling the air with masses of stone and earth, and dust and smoke.

In another second or two the other forts followed suit. The whole atmosphere was filled with a dense black cloud and masses of lurid flame beneath, while thundering reports in rapid succession rent the air. A few seconds afterwards down came showers of stone and earth and pieces of burning timber, just astern of the boats. Had there been any delay they must have been overwhelmed. Fortunately they all escaped injury, and pulled away for their ships, which, with the prizes, had in the meantime got under way and were standing out of the harbour.

After a quick run the Ariel and Lily reached Port Royal to repair damages. Rayner was sent for on board the flagship.

“I have great pleasure in handing you your commission as lieutenant,” said the admiral. “You have won it by your general meritorious conduct, as also by the gallantry you displayed in the capture of Fort Louis. I have appointed you as second lieutenant of the Lily, and shall be very glad in another year or two to hear that you have obtained your commander’s rank.”

These remarks of the admiral were indeed encouraging. Rayner, of course, said what was proper in return, and pocketing his commission, bowed and took his departure for the shore, which he had to visit to obtain a new uniform and other articles.

Lascelles had been removed to the hospital, where he was to remain until he was sufficiently recovered to go home. Rayner’s only regret was being parted from Oliver, the dangers they had gone through together having united them like brothers.

While, however, their ships were refitting they were constantly in each other’s society.

“I wish that I had the chance of getting appointed to your ship,” said Oliver. “The Ariel will soon be going home, but for the sake of being with you I should be glad to remain out another year or two. I am well seasoned by this time, and have no fear of Yellow Jack.”

Not many days after this the senior mate of the Lily was taken very ill while on shore. His shipmates declared that it was in consequence of his chagrin at finding that Rayner had obtained his promotion before him. They were heartily sorry at having made so unkind a remark, when in two days news were received on board that the poor fellow had fallen a victim to yellow fever.

Rayner at once advised Oliver to make application for the vacancy. He did so; the admiral appointed him to the Lily, and Captain Saltwell was very glad to have him on board.

Le Duc, who had been landed at Kingston, came on board one day while the ship was fitting out and begged to speak to the second lieutenant, Monsieur Rayner.

“Ah, monsieur, the first thing I did on landing was to purchase a violin, and the next to play it, and I have fiddled with such good effect that I have played my way into the heart of a Creole young lady whose father is wonderfully rich, and as I can turn my hand to other things besides fiddling, he has accepted me as his daughter’s husband, and we are to be married soon. I propose settling at Kingston as professor of music and dancing, teacher of languages, and other polite arts; besides which I can make fiddles, harpsichords, and other instruments; I am also a first-rate cook. Indeed, monsieur lieutenant, I should blush were I to speak more of my accomplishments.”

“I congratulate you heartily,” said Rayner, “and I sincerely hope that you will be successful in your new condition. You will, I doubt not, be far happier living on shore with a charming young wife, than knocking about at sea with the chance of being shot or drowned.”

Le Duc having communicated his good fortune to Jack and his other friends, and invited them to pay him a visit whenever they could get on shore, took his leave.

Chapter Thirty Six.

Fresh successes and perils.

Our hero had now got the first step up the ratlines as an officer. As the Lily’s repairs were likely to occupy some time, Captain Saltwell had, by the admiral’s permission, fitted out one of the prizes, a fine and fast little schooner, to which the name of the Active had been given. He intended to man her from his own and the Ariel’s crews, and to send her cruising in search of the piratical craft which, under the guise of privateers, in vast numbers infested those seas.

The admiral had intended to send a protégé of his own in charge of the vessel, but that officer was taken ill, and both Lieutenant Horrocks and the first lieutenant of the Ariel were engaged in attending to their respective ships.

Rayner was sent for, and the command was offered to him. He accepted it with delight, and begged that Crofton might be allowed to accompany him. He took also Jack and Brown, and though he did not ask for Tom Fletcher, Tom was sent among the men drafted for the purpose.

The schooner was furnished with four carronades and two long six-pounders. Her crew mustered twenty men.

“We can dare and do anything in such a craft as this,” he exclaimed, enthusiastically, as he and Oliver were walking the deck together, while the schooner, under all sail, was steering a course for San Domingo.

Before long they both dared and did several gallant actions. Just as they had sighted the land they fell in with three piratical feluccas, either one of which was a match for the Active.

One, after a desperate resistance, was captured, another was sunk, and the third, while the British crew were securing their first prize, and endeavouring to save the drowning men, effected her escape. She was, however, shortly afterwards taken, and on the return of the Active to Port Royal with her prizes, the thanks of the merchants of Jamaica were offered to Lieutenant Rayner for the service he had rendered to commerce.

The admiral the next day sent for Rayner, and received him with more cordiality than is generally awarded to junior officers. Having listened to his report, and commended him for his gallantry.

“How soon will you be ready to sail again?” he asked.

“Directly our damages have been repaired, and they won’t take long, sir,” was the answer.

“That is right. I have received information that a desperate fellow in command of a craft somewhat larger than the Active has been pillaging vessels of all nations, and it will be a feather in your cap if you take her.”

“I’ll do my best, sir,” answered Rayner.

In two days the Active was again at sea. Within a fortnight, after a long chase, she had fought and driven on shore a large schooner, got her off again, and recaptured two of her prizes, returning in triumph with all three to Jamaica.

He and Oliver were highly complimented on their success. The admiral, who was still in the harbour, invited them to dine on board the flagship.

“Mr Horrocks has just obtained his promotion, and you are thus, Mr Rayner, first lieutenant of the Lily; and, Mr Crofton, I intend to give you an acting order as second lieutenant, and I hope that before long you will be confirmed in your rank.”

This was good news. With happy hearts the two friends went on board the Lily, which was now ready for sea. They found Lieutenant Horrocks packing up, ready to go on board a frigate just sailing for England.

“I expect to enjoy a few weeks’ hunting before I get a ship, and when I do get one I shall be very glad to have you, Rayner, with me, should you be unemployed,” he said as they parted.

Rayner would have preferred retaining the command of the Active, but an officer older than himself was appointed to her, and he could not complain.

Once more the Lily was at sea. She cruised for some months, during which she captured several prizes, and cut out two others in a very gallant manner under the guns of a strong battery. Oliver soon afterwards had the satisfaction of being confirmed in his rank as lieutenant.

Though Commander Saltwell made honourable mention of our hero on each occasion, he received no further recognition of his services. “I have no business to complain,” he observed. “My position is only that of many others who have done more than I have, but I should like to be wearing an epaulette on my right shoulder when we get home, and obtain a command with you, Oliver, as my first lieutenant.”

With this exception, Rayner never alluded to the subject.

The Lily’s cruise was nearly up. She had lately sent away in her prizes her master and several petty officers and seamen, so that out of her establishment she could scarcely muster more than a hundred men.

It was night, a light breeze blowing, the island of Desirade bearing south-east by south, distant six or seven leagues. The two lieutenants had been talking of home. In a few months they expected to be at Plymouth, and Rayner’s thoughts had been occupied, as they often were, with his brother officer’s sweet sister, Mary Crofton.

Rayner had just come on deck to relieve Oliver, who had the middle watch. He had been pacing the deck, waiting for daylight, to commence the morning operation of washing decks, and was looking to windward, when, as the light slowly increased, at some little distance off he made out the dim outline of a large ship. Whether she was a friend or foe he could not determine; if the latter, the position of the Lily was critical in the extreme. He instantly sent the midshipman of the watch to arouse the commander, who hurried on deck. After watching the stranger for a few seconds, they both came to the conclusion that she was a frigate, and, as they knew of no English vessel of her class likely to be thereabouts, that she was French.

“Turn the hands up and make sail,” said the commander. “We shall probably have to fight, but when the odds are so decidedly against us, it is my duty to avoid an action if I can.”

The crew at the boatswain’s summons came tumbling up from below. All sail was immediately made, and the Lily’s head directed to the north-west. She was seen, however, and quickly followed by the frigate, the freshening breeze giving an advantage to the larger vessel, which, having the weather-gauge, and sailing remarkably fast rapidly approached.

“We’ve caught a Tartar at last!” exclaimed Tom. “The sooner we go below and put on our best clothes he better; we shall be taken aboard her before the day’s much older.”

“How do you dare to say that!” cried Jack. “Look up there, you see our flag flying aloft, and I for one would sooner have our tight little craft sent to the bottom than be ordered to strike it. Our skipper hasn’t given in yet, and if he falls our first lieutenant will fight the ship as long as he has a plank to stand on.”

Some of the crew, however, appeared to side with Tom, and showed an inclination to desert their guns.

Rayner and Oliver went among them and cheered them up.

“Lads!” cried the commander, who had observed some of them wavering as they gazed with looks of alarm at their powerful enemy, “most of you have sailed in the Lily with me since she was first commissioned. You know that I have never exposed your lives unnecessarily, and that we have always succeeded in whatever we have undertaken. You have gained a name for yourselves and our ship, and I hope you will not sully that name by showing the white feather. Although yonder ship is twice as big as we are, still we must try to beat her off, and it will not be my fault if we don’t.”

The men cheered heartily, and went to their guns. Every preparation for battle being made—to the surprise of her own crew, and much more so to that of the Frenchman—the commandant ordered her to be hove-to.

“Don’t fire a shot until I tell you, lads!” he cried out.

Many looked at the stranger with anxious eyes; the flag of France was flying from her peak. Eighteen guns grinned out from her ports on either side—twice the number of those carried by the Lily, and of a far heavier calibre. As she got within range she opened fire, her shot flying through the Lily’s sails, cutting her rigging and injuring several of her spars, but her guns were so elevated that not a man was hit on deck.

“Steady, lads! We must wait until she gets near enough to make every one of our guns tell!” cried the commander.

Even when going into action a British seaman often indulges in jokes, but on this occasion every man maintained a grim silence.

“Now, lads!” shouted the commander, “give it them!”

At the short distance the enemy now was from them the broadside told with terrible effect, the shot crashing through her ports and sides, while the shrieks and groans of the wounded were clearly distinguished from the Lily’s deck.

The British crew, working with redoubled energy, hauled their guns in and out, and fired with wonderful rapidity, truly tossing them about as if they had been playthings. The French also fired, but far more slowly, sending hardly one shot to the Lily’s two. The officers went about the deck encouraging the men and laying hold of the tackles to assist them in their labours. At any moment a well-directed broadside from the frigate might leave the corvette a mere wreck on the ocean, or send her to the bottom. Every man on board knew this; but while their officers kept their flag flying at the peak, they were ready to work their guns and struggle to the last.

An hour and a half had passed since the French frigate had opened her fire, and still the little sloop held out. Commander Saltwell’s great object was to avoid being run down or boarded. This he managed to do by skilful manoeuvring. At length Rayner, through his glass, observed the crew of the frigate running about her deck as if in considerable confusion. Once more the Lily fired, but what was the astonishment of the British seamen to see her haul her main-tack aboard and begin to make all sail, putting her head to the northward. To follow was impossible, as the Lily had every brace and bowline, all her after backstays, several of her lower shrouds, and other parts of her rigging, shot away.

Her sails were also torn, her mainmast and main-topsail yard and foreyard a good deal injured. Yet though she had received these serious damages aloft, strange to say one man alone of her crew had been slightly injured.

“We must repair damages, lads, and then go and look after the enemy,” cried the commander.

The guns being run in and secured, every officer, man, and boy set to work, the commander with the rest. In a wonderfully short time the standing rigging was knotted or spliced, fresh running rigging rove, new sails bent, and the Lily was standing in the direction in which her late antagonist had some time before disappeared.

Not long after, however, the man at the mast-head discovered a large ship on the lee beam in the direction of Guadaloupe. The Lily at once steered towards the stranger, when in the afternoon she came up with a vessel under French colours, which endeavoured to escape. Several shots were fired. The stranger sailed on.

“She looks like an English ship,” observed the commander. “It will never do to let her get away. See what you can do, Crofton.”

Oliver went forward and trained the foremost gun. He fired, and down came the stranger’s main-topsail yard. On this she hauled down her colours and hove-to.

She proved to be, as the commander had supposed, a large English merchantman, a prize to the French frigate. The prisoners were at once removed, and the second lieutenant sent with a prize crew on board, when the Lily took her in tow. The wind was light, but a heavy swell sent the prize several times almost aboard the corvette, which was at length compelled to cast her adrift.

The next morning the look-out from the mast-head of the Lily announced a sail on the lee bow. In a short time, daylight increasing, she was seen to be a frigate, and no doubt her late antagonist. Captain Saltwell at once bore down on her, making a signal to the prize to do so likewise, and at the same time running up several signals as if speaking another ship to windward.

On this the frigate, making all sail, stood away, and as she had the heels both of the Lily and her prize, was soon out of sight.

Captain Saltwell, satisfied, as he had every reason to be, with his achievement, ordered the course to be shared for Jamaica.

On his arrival he found his commission as post-captain waiting for him. He had won it by constant and hard service.

“As I cannot reward you for the gallant way in which you beat off the French frigate and recaptured the merchant ship worth several thousand pounds, I must see what can be done for your first lieutenant,” said the admiral. “I will apply for his promotion, and in the meantime will give him an acting order to command the Lily, and to take her home.”

Captain Saltwell, thanking the admiral, expressed his intention to take a passage in his old ship.

The news quickly spread fore and aft that the Lily was to be sent home. Loud cheers rose from many a stout throat, the invalids, of which there were not a few, joining in the chorus from below. One-third of those who had come out had either fallen fighting in the many actions in which she had been engaged, or, struck down by yellow fever, lay in the graveyard of Port Royal. No time was lost in getting fresh water and provisions on board.

Never did crew work with more good-will than they did on this occasion.

The Lily was soon ready for sea, and with a fair breeze ran out of Port Royal harbour. The war was still raging as furiously as ever, and the officers and crew well knew that before they could reach the shores of old England they might have another battle or two to fight. Perhaps, in their heart of hearts, they would have preferred, for once in a way, a peaceful voyage. A look-out, however, was kept, but the Atlantic was crossed, and the chops of the Channel reached, without meeting a foe. Here the Lily encountered a strong easterly gale, and in vain for many days endeavoured to beat up to her destination.

Having sighted Scilly, she was standing off the land, from which she was at a considerable distance under close-reefed topsails, when the wind suddenly dropped, and soon afterwards shifted to the southwards. The helm was put down, and the crew flew aloft to shake out the reefs.

They were thus engaged when a sail was seen to the south-east. The Lily, standing on the opposite tack, rapidly neared her. Every glass on board was directed towards the stranger. She was a ship apparently of much the same size as the Lily, but whether an English cruiser or an enemy it was difficult to determine.

The Lily, by keeping away, might have weathered the Lizard and avoided her. Such an idea did not enter the young commander’s head. On the contrary, he kept the ship close to the wind, so that by again going about he might prevent the stranger from passing him.

His glass had never been off her. Suddenly he exclaimed, “Hurrah! she’s French. I caught sight of her flag as she luffed up! Hands about ship! We’ll fight her, Captain Saltwell?” he added, turning to his former commander.

“No doubt about it,” said Captain Saltwell, “I should if I were in your place.”

The drum beat to quarters, the crew hurried to their stations, and every preparation was made for the expected battle. The stranger, after standing on some way, hauled up, so as to keep the weather-gauge, and, at the same time; to draw the Lily farther away from the English coast.

Once more the latter tacked, and passing under the stranger’s stern, poured in a raking broadside.

The stranger, coming about, returned the fire; but as the shot flew from her guns down came her mizenmast, and she fell off before the wind.

The crew of the Lily cheered, and running in their guns, quickly fired a third broadside.

The two ships now ran on side by side, Rayner having shortened sail so as to avoid shooting ahead of his antagonist. Notwithstanding the loss of their mizenmast, the Frenchmen fought with spirit for some time, but their fire at length began to slacken, while the British seamen continued to work their guns with the same energy as at first.

Rayner now ordered the mizen-topsail and spanker to be set, and directed the crews of the starboard guns to refrain from firing until he should give the word; then putting down the helm, he suddenly luffed up, and stood across the bows of his opponent.

“Fire!” he cried; and gun after gun was fired in succession, the shot telling with fearful effect as they swept the deck of the French ship. The latter put down her helm in a vain attempt to avoid being raked, but her bowsprit catching in the mizen rigging of the Lily, Oliver, calling to Jack and several other men, securely lashed it there, in spite of the fire which the marines from the enemy’s forecastle opened on him and his companions.

The bullets from the Frenchmen’s muskets came rattling sharply on board. Two of the seamen were hit, and just at the same moment their young commander was seen to fall. A midshipman and the purser, who were standing by his side, caught him in their arms.

Chapter Thirty Seven.

Conclusion.

“Keep at it, my lads, until she strikes!” cried the young commander, as he fell.

Captain Saltwell had meantime, seeing what would occur, ordered two guns to be run out at the after ports. Scarcely had they been fired when an officer, springing into the forecastle of the French ship, waved his hat and shouted that they had struck.

Oliver and Jack, on looking round for Rayner, and seeing him bleeding on the deck, forgetful of everything else, sprang aft to his side. At that moment the crew raised a cheer of victory; Rayner feebly attempted to join in it. He was carried below. With anxious hearts his officers and crew waited to hear the report of the surgeon.

It was Oliver’s duty to go on board and take possession of the prize. Unwillingly he left his friend’s side. Of the Lily’s crew five had been killed, and many more beside her commander, wounded. But Oliver saw, as he stepped on board the prize, how much more severely she had suffered. Everywhere lay dead and dying men. How dread and terrible a fact is war! A lieutenant, coming forward, presented his sword.

“My captain lies there,” he said, pointing to a form covered by a flag. “The second lieutenant is wounded below; three other officers are among the dead. We did not yield while we had a chance of victory.”

“Yours is a brave nation, and I must compliment you on the gallant way in which you fought your ship,” answered Oliver, in the best French he could command.

To lose no time, the prisoners were removed, the prize taken in tow, and all sail made for Plymouth.

At length the surgeon come on deck.

“The commander will do well, I trust,” he said; “but I shall be glad to get him on shore as soon as possible. As soon as I had extracted the bullet, he sent me off to look after the other wounded men, saying that they wanted my care as well as he did.”

The crew on this gave a suppressed cheer. It would have been louder and more prolonged, but they were afraid of disturbing the commander and the other wounded men.

All were proud of their achievement as they sailed up Plymouth Sound with their prize in tow, but no one felt prouder than Jack Peek.

“I knew Captain would do something as soon as he had the chance,” he had remarked to Brown, who greatly shared his feelings.

Rayner was at once removed to the hospital. As he was unable to hold a pen, Captain Saltwell wrote the despatches, taking care to give due credit to the active commander of the corvette.

A short time afterwards Oliver carried to the hospital—to which he had never failed to pay a daily visit—an official-looking letter.

“Ah! that will do him more good than my doctoring,” said the surgeon, to whom he showed it.

Oliver opened it at Rayner’s request. It was from the Lords of the Admiralty, confirming him in his rank, and appointing him to command the Urania (the English name given to the prize), which, being a fine new corvette, a hundred tons larger than the Lily, had been bought into the service.

“It will take some time to refit her, and you will, I hope, be about again before she is ready for sea,” said Oliver. “I have brought a message from my mother, who begs, as soon as you are ready to be removed, that you will come and stay at our house. She is a good nurse, and you will enjoy more country air than you can here.”

Rayner very gladly accepted the invitation. Neither Oliver nor Mrs Crofton had thought about the result, but before many weeks were over Commander William Rayner was engaged to marry Mary Crofton, who had given him as loving and gentle a heart as ever beat in woman’s bosom. He told her how often he had talked about her when away at sea, and how often he had thought of her, although he had scarcely dared to hope that she would marry one who had been a London street boy and powder monkey.

“I love you, my dear Bill, for what you are, for being noble, true, and brave, and such you were when you were a powder monkey, as you call it, although you might not have discovered those qualities in yourself.”

He was now well able to marry, for his agents had in their hands several thousand pounds of prize-money, and he might reasonably hope to obtain much more before the war was over.

Our hero was well enough to assume the command of the Urania by the time she was ready for sea. Oliver, as his first lieutenant, had been busily engaged in obtaining hands, and had secured many of the Lily’s former crew. The commander had some time before sent for Jack Peek, and urged him to prepare himself for obtaining a boatswain’s warrant.

“Thank you, sir,” said Jack; “but, you see, to get it I must read and write, and that’s what I never could tackle. I have tried pothooks and hangers, but my fingers get all cramped up, and the pen splits open, and I have to let it drop, and make a great big splash of ink on the paper; and as for reading, I’ve tried that too. I know all the letters when I see them, but I can’t manage to put them together in the right fashion, and never could get beyond a, b, ab, b, o, bo. I might in time, if I was to stick to it, I know, and I’ll try when we are at sea if I can get a messmate to teach me. But while you’re afloat I’d rather be your coxswain, if you’ll give me that rating; then I can always be with you, and, mayhap, render you some service, which is just the thing I should be proud of doing. Now, sir, there’s Tom Fletcher; he’s got plenty of learning, and he ought to be a good seaman by this time. If you were to recommend him to be either a gunner or a boatswain, he’d pass fast enough.”

Rayner shook his head. “I should be happy to serve Tom Fletcher for old acquaintance’ sake, but I fear that although he may have the learning, as you say, he has not got the moral qualities necessary to make a good warrant officer. However, send him to me, and I’ll have a talk with him on the subject.”

Jack promised to look after Tom, whom he had not seen since the Lily was paid off. He returned in a few days, saying that he had long searched for him in vain, until at length he had found him in a low house in the lowest of the Plymouth slums, his prize-money, to the amount of nearly a hundred pounds, all gone, and he himself so drunk that he could not understand the message Jack brought him.

“I am truly sorry to hear it,” said Rayner. “But you must watch him and try to get him on board. If he is cast adrift he must inevitably be lost, but we will try what we can do to reform him.”

“I will gladly do my best, sir,” answered Jack. When the Urania was nearly ready for sea, Jack did contrive to get Tom aboard of her, but the commander’s good intentions were frustrated, for before the ship sailed he deserted with could not again be discovered.

Of this Rayner was thankful, as he must of necessity have done what would have gone greatly against his feelings—ordered Tom a flogging.

Honest Brown, however, who had gone to school as soon as the Lily was paid off; received what he well deserved, his warrant as boatswain of the corvette he had helped to win. He had shortly to go to sea in a dashing frigate, and from that he was transferred to a seventy-four, in which he was engaged in several of England’s greatest battles.

Some years passed, when after paying off the Urania, as Rayner was passing along a street in Exeter, he heard a stentorian voice singing a verse of a sea ditty. The singer, dressed as a seaman, carried on his head the model of a full-rigged ship, which he rocked to and fro, keeping time to the tune. He had two wooden legs in the shape of mopsticks, and was supporting himself with a crutch, while with the hand at liberty he held out a battered hat to receive the contributions of his audience. Occasionally, when numbers gathered round to listen to him, he exchanged his song for a yarn. As Rayner approached he was saying, “This is the way our government treats our brave seamen. Here was I fighting nobly for my king and country, when a Frenchman’s shot spoilt both my legs, and I was left to stump off as best I could on these here timber toes without a shiner in my pocket, robbed of all my hard-earned prize-money. But you good people will, I know, be kind to poor Jack, and fill this here hat of his with coppers to give him a crust of bread and a sup to comfort his old heart.

“‘Come all ye jolly sailors bold,

Whose hearts are cast in honour’s mould,

While England’s glory I unfold,

Huzza to the Arethusa!’”

Suddenly he recognised Captain Rayner, who, from being dressed in plain clothes, he had not at first observed. He started, and then began, with an impudent leer, “Now, mates, I’ll spin you another yarn about an English captain who now holds his head mighty high, and would not condescend to speak to poor Jack if he was to meet him. We was powder-monkeys together, that captain and I. But luck is everything. He went up, and I went down. That’s the way at sea. If all men had their deserts I should be where he is, in command of a fine frigate, in a fair way of becoming an admiral. But it’s no use complaining, and so I’ll sing on—

“‘The famed Belle Poule straight ahead did lie,

The Arethusa seemed to fly,

Not a brace, or a tack, or a sheet did we slack

On board of the Arethusa.’”

“No, no, mate, you was not aboard the Arethusa!” cried Jack Peek, who had followed his captain at a short distance, and looking Tom in the face. “You was not aboard the Arethusa. I’ll tell you what kept you down. It was conceit, idleness, drink, and cowardice; and I’ll tell you what gave our brave captain his first lift in the service. It was his truthfulness, his good sense, his obedience to the orders of his superiors. It was his soberness, his bravery; and if you, with your learning and advantages, had been like him, you too might have been in command of a dashing frigate, and not stumping about on one wooden leg, with the other tied up to deceive the people. It’s hard things I’m saying, I know, but I cannot stand by and hear a fellow who ought to know better running monstrous falsehoods off his reel as you have been doing. You might have borne up for Greenwich, and been looked after by a grateful country; or you might have saved money enough to have kept yourself in comfort to the end of your days; but it all went in drink and debauchery, and now you abuse the government for not looking after you. Howsumdever, Tom Fletcher, I’m very sorry for you, and if you’ll knock off this sort of vagabond life, which brings disgrace on the name of a British sailor, I’ll answer for it our good captain will exert his influence and get you a berth in Greenwich or elsewhere, for he has often spoken about you, and wondered where you were a-serving.”

Jack Peek had probably never made so long a speech in his life. It was perhaps too long, for it enabled the old sailor to recover his presence of mind, and looking at Jack with a brazen countenance, he declared that he had never seen him before, when off he went as fast as he could walk on his wooden stumps, and turning down a by-lane was lost to view.

Jack had to hurry on to overtake his captain. It was the last time he saw Tom Fletcher alive; but he afterwards heard that a man answering his description, who had been sent to prison as a rogue and a vagabond, had subsequently been killed in a drunken quarrel with another seaman of the same character.

Jack had followed his old friend and captain from ship to ship, and at length having overcome the difficulty not only of the alphabet, but of pothooks and hangers, he obtained his warrant, and for several years had charge of one of the ships in which he had fought and bled, now laid up in Portsmouth harbour.

In the course of years there was found in the list of English Admirals the names of Sir William Rayner, KCB, John Saltwell, and Oliver Crofton.

The End.

William H G Kingston

"The Ferryman of Brill"

Chapter One.

The Protestant Lovers—A Rival—Diedrich finds his Footsteps dogged—Finds a friend in the Ferryman—Threatened with the Inquisition—Flies to sea.

Not far from the broad and slow-flowing river Meuse stands the town of Brill. Flanders, in which it is found, formed at the period to which we refer a province of the dominions belonging to Philip of Spain. It was ruled with no very paternal hand by the Duke of Alva, who resided chiefly at Brussels. He had been employed for several years in burning, hanging, drowning, and cutting off the heads of his loving subjects, and torturing them in a variety of ways, in order to make them dutiful children of the Church of Rome, and of his master, Philip. Not with great success, for they still hated, with an unalterable deadly hatred, both one and the other. Brill at that time was not a populous city, nor did it possess much commercial importance; but it was well walled and fortified, however, and had a most commodious port. The inhabitants were peaceable, well-disposed people, who thought as much of themselves as the citizens of other cities of similar importance are apt to do. Among them was a young merchant—Diedrich Meghem. He had made several voyages of adventure, and was well accustomed to a seafaring life. Now prosperous, and hoping to become wealthy, he was about to settle down as a steady citizen on shore, with the expectation of some day, perhaps, becoming burgomaster of his native city. Diedrich, as young men are apt to do, looked about for a wife to share his good fortune, and had fixed his affections on Gretchen Hopper, a fair and very lovely girl, the daughter of a flourishing merchant. Hopper was supposed to be the possessor of considerable wealth—a dangerous distinction in those days. Duke Alva heard of the merchant Hopper’s reputed wealth, and had made a note to take an early opportunity of relieving him of a portion if not the whole of it. Hopper was known to hold the reformed principles, and though he was careful not to intrude his opinions in public, the duke’s advisers suggested that there would be no difficulty in bringing up an accusation of heresy against him. Diedrich was an ardent Protestant. His eye had long been fixed on William of Orange as the person best able to lift his country out of the present depressed condition in which she groaned.

Gretchen was a quiet, gentle girl, and she also held to the opinions of her father and her lover, in spite of her gentleness, with a determination in no way inferior to theirs. Gretchen soon found out that the honest, generous-hearted Diedrich loved her, and not long after this discovery she acknowledged to him that he possessed her entire heart. She had, however, other admirers, from whom she might have chosen a husband of a nobler family and of greater wealth than Diedrich. Among other pretenders to her hand was Caspar Gaill, a Fleming of good family, who, however, held to the Romish faith and supported the government of Alva. The merchant Hopper had a great regard for Diedrich, and was well pleased to find that he wished to become his daughter’s husband. He at once accepted him as a son-in-law, and gave the young couple his blessing.

“The times are not propitious for marriage, however,” he observed. “Matters may mend; they can scarcely grow worse. Gretchen is young, and can wait a little. You must have patience, then, my good friend Diedrich.”

Gretchen and her lover passed many pleasant evenings together, though it was considered prudent not to make their intended marriage public. One, however, had watched Diedrich’s constant visits to the house, and his heart burned with jealousy.

One evening Diedrich was returning to his home, when, looking over his shoulder on hearing footsteps, he discovered that he was followed. When he walked faster, the stranger proceeded also at the same rate; when he stopped, the stranger stopped; when he went at a slow pace, the stranger slackened his speed. At length, passing a shrine at the corner of a street, before which a bright lamp was kept burning, Diedrich turned sharply round, and found himself standing face to face with the person who had been following him.

“What object have you in dodging my steps?” asked Diedrich, placing his hand on his sword ready to draw.

“As you ask me a question, I will put another to you,” said the stranger, also drawing his sword half out of the scabbard. “For what purpose do you visit the house where you have been passing the evening?”

“You put a question to which I positively refuse to reply to any one, and still less to you, Caspar Gaill, for I know you well,” answered Diedrich, still further drawing out his sword.

“Then I refuse to answer the question you put to me,” said Caspar. “We understand each other, and you may know me henceforth as your enemy.”

“A matter of very little consequence,” answered Diedrich, in a scornful tone.

The young men parted, but from that day forward Diedrich was aware that his footsteps were constantly followed when he went abroad, especially on the Sabbath, when he was accustomed to attend the meetings of the Protestants held in the city. Still he was too proud and too fearless to alter his mode of proceeding on this account. At night often he saw in the distance a dim figure following him, but which, when he turned round, invariably disappeared.

On one occasion he resolved to pursue the spy, and punish him severely if he could overtake him. Scarcely had he left his home when he observed a figure as usual like a distant shadow coming after him. He walked on for some way, as if indifferent to the circumstance, by gentle degrees slackening his pace, till, as he supposed, his pursuer had approached nearer than usual. He then suddenly turned round, and, darting forward, was close up to the man before the latter made any attempt to escape.

“Why, Diedrich Meghem, you seem to be in a desperate hurry this evening,” said a voice he thought he recollected.

“What, Peter Kopplestock, are you my secret pursuer?” he asked, in a tone of surprise.

“It may be so, but I may be your guardian angel,” answered the person thus addressed, in a low voice. “I have been wishing to see you without witnesses for some days past, and now the matter brooks of no delay.”

“Come to my house, then,” said Diedrich; “we can speak there without fear of interruption.”

“That’s the very place it will not be wise for me to go to,” said Peter; “if I go there I shall be observed. Do you come to my house. You will find a porch a little to the right of it. Slip in there and remain quiet for a few minutes. Should you be followed at the time, your pursuer will pass by and lose sight of you. Come in an hour hence. It will be dangerous to put off the visit till to-morrow.”

Diedrich followed the advice of his friend. He had known Peter Kopplestock from his earliest days. Peter was of no very exalted rank, but he had numerous friends who, not without reason, put confidence in him. His chief occupation was that of a ferryman plying across the river Meuse. He also visited the ships which appeared at the mouth of the river when unable for want of wind to come up to the town, and took provisions off to them, and brought messages on shore. Peter Kopplestock took an especial interest in Diedrich; Diedrich had always been his generous employer, and was now going to marry his niece.

The wealthy merchant Hopper had once been a humble clerk, and he then had married the very beautiful sister of Peter the ferryman. She had died, and her young daughter had been educated as well as any young lady in the land. Diedrich was well aware of the relationship, and it increased the confidence he felt in Peter, who was also of his own way of thinking—indeed, a more thorough Protestant could not have been found.

Diedrich found his way, at the hour appointed, to Peter Kopplestock’s cottage down by the river-side. He saw, when leaving his own house, the usual figure following him, but he hoped, by hiding himself as Peter had advised him to do, to escape from his pursuer. The cottage door was ajar. He pushed it open and entered. Peter welcomed him cordially.

“I have sad news for you, my friend,” said the ferryman. “You have been denounced to the Inquisition as a heretic, and your enemies have resolved to take your life. Among them you may reckon Caspar Gaill. He thinks that by getting rid of you he may win the hand of my fair niece.”

“How do you know that?” asked Diedrich.

“He told me so himself,” said the ferryman. “He is not aware of our connection, and he takes me to be a Romanist. He confides to me his love for Gretchen, if such a fellow has a heart to love, and, in case she should continue to refuse his hand, he engaged me to assist him in carrying her off. A pretty proceeding that would be. However, I did not decline his offer, but told him that I was very sure he was premature in executing his plan; that he must wait patiently, and that by-and-by, should the young lady continue obdurate, he might put it into execution.”

“But what do you advise me to do?” asked Diedrich. “I cannot leave Gretchen—I cannot leave my business to ruin and destruction; I would rather remain and brave the worst.”

“Tell me, have any of those who have been denounced to the Inquisition escaped from their fangs?” said Peter. “I trow not; then how do you hope to escape death if you remain? Take my advice, my friend; fly while you can, before your wings are clipped. It is a hard thing, I know, for you to leave the girl you love, and it’s cruel to neglect a flourishing business which is affording you a handsome income. But you need not lead a life of indolence. You wear a sword, and you have an arm to wield it. You would be welcomed by those bold rovers of the sea, the ‘water beggars.’ If you offer your assistance to William de la Marck, he will gladly accept it. It would be a glorious thing to assist in liberating your country, and the only aid we can hope for is from the ocean. On shore we cannot withstand the cruel Spaniards, but at sea we may compete with them successfully.”

Diedrich sat silent for some time.

“You cast down my hopes just now, but you have again raised them,” he exclaimed. “I will go and consult Gretchen. If she urges me to go, I will follow your advice; I am sure that she will remain true to me till I return.”

“I wish that I could persuade you to go off at once,” said Peter; “your enemies are vigilant, and determined on your destruction, and any moment you may find yourself in their power.”

Diedrich promised to be cautious, and to keep as much as possible within the house during the next day, while he would make all the preparation in his power for his speedy departure, should Gretchen approve of his intention.

Peter told him that there was a vessel down the river on the point of sailing. He was acquainted with the captain, who was a warm partisan of the Prince of Orange, and would do his utmost to protect him should he go on board.

Diedrich Meghem was a brave man, but the Inquisition, he knew too well, was not an institution to be trifled with. Poor Gretchen was overwhelmed with grief when she heard of the dangerous position in which Diedrich was placed. She urged him to fly without delay, promising again and again to be faithful to him, and to welcome him as a husband whenever he should return. The merchant Hopper also advised him to leave the country. Diedrich Meghem had made all the arrangements possible with his head clerk and manager, and was still writing busily at his own house, having packed up such articles as he desired to take with him, when Peter Kopplestock hurried into his room.

“It’s time for you to be off at once, my friend,” he exclaimed; “this very night the Inquisitors’ officers will visit your house, and if they find you, will carry you off to an imprisonment from which, with life, you will never escape. Here, I have brought this large Spanish cloak; throw it over your shoulders and follow me. Your portmanteau and bags I will take care of.”

It was already too dark to distinguish people in the streets. Peter led the way down to the river, Diedrich following him. They were quickly on board the ferryboat, but Peter, instead of pulling over to the other bank of the river, rowed down the stream as fast as his arms could urge on the boat. Diedrich stepped on board the vessel, where he was welcomed cordially by the skipper. Peter threw his portmanteau and bag over the bulwarks, and giving him his blessing, pulled back to the town.

Chapter Two.

An unwelcome suitor—Gretchen refuses to accept Caspar Gaill—Caspar plots with Father Quixada to betray the Protestants—The Monk’s treachery.

Gretchen was seated in the parlour of her father’s house, busily employed in tapestry work—the constant occupation of young ladies in those days, as at present. The merchant Hopper came in; care and thought sat on his brow. His daughter affectionately inquired the cause of his anxiety.

“I cannot tell you, my child,” he answered. “It is enough to know that so many of my friends, in various parts of our unhappy land, have been put to death by fire, and sword, and drowning, through the mandates of the tyrant Alva, and who knows what may be our fate in this city? Hitherto we have escaped, but the priests are busy, and are even now trying to ferret out the Protestants. I am thankful that our friend Diedrich escaped; he would certainly otherwise have been seized.”

“Oh, Father! I wish you would try and escape too,” said Gretchen; “I will accompany you. We can go to England, that land of liberty. If you cannot take any of your wealth with you, I will labour for you there. Surely we shall find friends there, and need not have any fear of starving.”

Their conversation was interrupted by a knock at the door, and Caspar Gaill was announced. Both the merchant and his daughter received him coldly. He came dressed in gay attire, and seemed to consider himself in the light of a favoured suitor. Now he spoke to Gretchen, now he turned to her father. Again he turned to the young lady, and urged her to promise to be his.

“You know not the danger to which you are exposed,” he observed. “As the wife of a well-known Catholic you will be safe, and I may be able to protect your father. At present he is in great peril. I do not hesitate to tell him so.”

The merchant, thanking Caspar for his offer, assured him that he would not bias his daughter.

“My being in peril must not compel her to give her hand where she cannot also bestow her heart. You will not take amiss what I have said, as it arises from no personal ill-feeling towards you.”

In vain Caspar pleaded his cause, and at length, with a frown on his brow, and an angry glance in his eye, although honeyed words were on his lips, he took his departure.

Caspar Gaill left the house of the merchant Hopper in no enviable mood. He took his way through the street till he reached the door of a certain religious house or monastery, as it was called, and inquired for a Father Quixada. He was shown into a cell inhabited by a Spanish monk who acted as his father confessor.

“How fares your suit with the pretty Gretchen, my son?” asked the father, who at the same time, however, had observed Caspar’s angry look.

The young man shook his head, and replied briefly that he had been refused.

“No hope?” asked the father.

“None,” answered Caspar.

“You would have a better chance if the merchant was out of the way,” observed the priest.

“Very likely, but he is cautious. It may be no easy matter to get rid of him,” answered Caspar.

“Follow my advice, my son, and it can be managed. You have strong suspicions that he is a Protestant. Pretend that you have given up his daughter, but that you desire to be instructed in the new faith. In a short time he will trust you, and if he attends any place of meeting where the Protestants meet, you can introduce me among them. I can disguise myself so that they shall not know me, and I may then not only mark him, but all others who may be present, and inform against them as may be most convenient.”

Chapter Three.

Caspar professes the Protestant Faith—Attends a meeting—Effect of the Gospel on Caspar—Caspar, however, keeps his engagement with Father Quixada—Doubts and fears—The Monk attends the next meeting, and notes all present—Caspar’s remorse—The spy again in the little company—Caspar warns the intended victims—Too late—Father and daughter in the hands of the Inquisition—Condemned—Caspar despairs of the result of his work—Consults the ferryman—But new plans fail.

Caspar did not at first like this plan. It was treacherous and deceitful, and he must act the part of a spy and a hypocrite to carry it out; but as it was proposed to him by his father confessor, he came to the conclusion that he ought not to hesitate about it.

The merchant Hopper was surprised a few days after this to receive a visit from Caspar Gaill. The young man told him that he had abandoned all hopes of winning his daughter’s hand; indeed, he thought of quitting the country. He confessed that he had of late taken every opportunity of examining the new doctrines, and that he was acquainted enough with them to make him desire to go to England, where he might study them more freely, and with greater safety. “I know not what your opinions may be, Mr Hopper, but I am very sure that you will not mention mine to any one else.”

The merchant was generally cautious, but the young man’s apparent frankness threw him greatly off his guard. Caspar, urged on by Father Quixada, persevered, and at length fully persuaded the merchant Hopper that he was a convert to the Protestant faith. A private meeting of Protestants was to take place, and Caspar entreated that he might be allowed to be present. The merchant no longer hesitated. At the meeting prayers were offered up, hymns sung, and the simple Gospel plainly put before those present. The young man listened attentively in spite of himself. He there learned that all men are sinners and justly condemned; that “God so loved the world that He gave His only-begotten Son” to suffer instead of sinful man, and to save him from the result of that determination. He heard that “the just shall live by faith,” not by any works, not by any good deeds that they can do, not by any forms and ceremonies to which they may adhere, but simply trusting to the blood shed for them on Calvary, to the perfect and complete sacrifice offered up by Christ for them. He there learned that Jesus Christ had become sinful man’s sin-bearer; that He had fulfilled the obedience which man had neglected to fulfil; that He came to save sinners, to lift the weary and heart-broken, the wretched and the penitent, out of their miserable state; that man is saved simply by turning away from his sins, from his idolatries, from the thoughtless course he may have hitherto followed, and looking trustfully, believingly, on Jesus crucified for him. The young man went away from the meeting with new thoughts, but with an unchanged heart. He had promised to go immediately to Father Quixada, and he fulfilled his promise, though not without doubt and hesitation.

“You have done well,” said the father. “Let me once get among these people, and I will put a stop to their preaching, while you may make sure of winning pretty Gretchen for your wife, and perchance come in for a share of the merchant’s property, which I may secure for you.”

There was to be another meeting the following night. Caspar passed the interval in a state of doubt and agitation. He had promised to introduce the father, who, disguised as a German merchant just arrived from the South, was eager to be present. Often the young man thought he would try and persuade the father not to go, then that he would positively refuse to introduce him. He had, however, already given him so much information that he would have had no difficulty in finding his way to the place of meeting by himself. Still, Caspar might acknowledge his own treacherous intentions and warn the Protestants of the spy who was about to be in their midst. The cunning priest soon discovered his perplexity, and used every argument to induce him to be satisfied that he was doing the right thing. Caspar was over-persuaded, but not convinced. The evening came, the meeting took place, and the German merchant was received as a Christian brother by those present. He noted them all, old men, young men, and women of various ranks.

Father Quixada heard the same truths which had been listened to by Caspar Gaill, but they fell on ground of a different character. He went away utterly regardless of them. He had now, not only the merchant Hopper, but several other influential and wealthy citizens in his power. He wished, however, to get more into his net, and hearing that in a day or two another meeting would take place, at which several other persons would attend, he laid his plans accordingly. “I shall have a good haul by that time,” he thought to himself.

Caspar Gaill had in the meantime been seized with remorse. He had betrayed the man who had trusted him, the father of one whom he wished to make his bride; still he dared not warn them. The friar, he well knew, had his eye upon him. He knew too completely the secrets of his heart, and he felt sure that should he attempt to defeat Father Quixada’s projects, he himself would be the first victim of his vengeance.

At the intended meeting, not only the merchant Hopper, but his fair daughter Gretchen was present. Caspar Gaill came also, but how different were his thoughts to those he had entertained when first he entered that hall!

He kept looking anxiously round, hoping that the German merchant might not appear. His heart sank, however, when, just before the sermon began, the seeming merchant appeared, and was, to human eye, the most devout of all the congregation. No one joined more heartily in the hymns of Marot; no one seemed to hang more earnestly on the words of the speaker. Again were the glorious truths of the Gospel put forth in simple language. Though the merchant’s eyes were fixed on the speaker, and his countenance beamed with intelligence, his thoughts were far away, occupied in a plan for capturing the whole of those who were engaged in worship round him. His quick eye, too, was noting all who were present. He marked the fair Gretchen, and knew her at once from being with her father.

“Caspar has not chosen ill, so far as eye is concerned,” he said to himself. “No wonder he raves about the little maiden. He need no longer have any fears about winning her; she may not love him, but surely she will rather become his bride than be sent to the stake. Few girls would prefer burning, or drowning, or hanging, to a young and gallant husband. Caspar is well-favoured, she will not refuse him; we will give her the choice.”

The meeting was brought to a conclusion. Father Quixada left the hall with the rest, and after making several turns and twists so as to escape observation, he took his way to the house where a newly-arrived bishop lodged, sent from Brussels to look into the religious condition of Brill. The bishop and Father Quixada were of kindred spirit. The former held an important office in the Holy Inquisition, and felt no compunction, but on the contrary, considerable satisfaction, at sending a dozen of his fellow-creatures to suffer death by drowning, or burning, because they might differ from him on a few theological points. Father Quixada explained the plan he had adopted, and received the warm approval of his superior.

It was late at night. The fair Gretchen was about to retire to her room. The merchant had been engaged at his books and accounts. He had been collecting such property as he could put into a portable form, and had made up his mind to leave Brill forthwith for England. He had communicated his intentions to Peter Kopplestock, who highly approved of them, and had engaged to put him on board a vessel the following morning by daybreak. There was a knock at the door. The merchant himself, attended by Barbara the housekeeper, went with a light to open it. A figure wrapped in a cloak was standing there.

“Admit me for a moment,” said the stranger. “I come to warn you of danger.”

He entered, and the light held by Barbara fell on the features of Caspar Gaill.

“I come to entreat you to fly immediately. Even now I may be too late. The officers of the Inquisition are already proceeding through the city, to capture certain suspected persons. You are among them. I dare not wait another moment; no mercy would be shown me if I was discovered.”

The unhappy young man spoke in a low, trembling voice. Tears were in his eyes; he was pale as death.

Again he hastened forth. He had not dared to confess the whole truth. The merchant closed the door, and proceeded with yet greater speed with his preparations. He sent Barbara to Gretchen’s room to tell her to prepare for flight. During the housekeeper’s absence there was another knock at the door. It was repeated with far greater violence when those without found that it was not opened. After the warning he had received, the merchant guessed too well who were his visitors. He hastily concealed the property he was about to carry off, and the other articles he had prepared for his departure. He then sent Barbara to the door, who, with unwilling hands, began slowly to withdraw the bolts.

“What is the matter?” she asked; “what are you in such a hurry for? Why do you thus disturb quiet citizens from their early rest?”

So nervous was she, however, that she could scarcely continue her interrogations. At length the last bolt was withdrawn, and a party in dark cloaks and masks were seen at the door.

“Where are your master and his daughter?” asked one of them; “they must accompany us forthwith.”

“My master and his daughter!” asked Barbara, “what can you want with them at this hour of the night?”

“They must come to the Holy Office, to answer certain questions,” answered the speaker. “Lead the way.”

“But if the door is opened the light will be blown out, and you will be unable to follow me.”

Her great aim was to delay as long as possible, in the hope that by some means her master and Gretchen might make their escape by the back of the house. She was greatly in hope that the light would blow out, that she might thus have an excuse for a longer delay.

“Come—come! no fooling, mistress!” exclaimed the officer. “Lead on, or we must find the way by ourselves.”

On this, Barbara proceeded up the broad steps to the floor above. Two or three men, however, kept watch below. In vain were all her precautions. In the usual sitting room, quietly seated at a table, were Gretchen and her father. They rose as the officers of the Inquisition entered, and the merchant asked them what they wanted. The officer repeated what he had said to Barbara.

“We must obey,” said the merchant; “we have no power to resist.”

Instantly the father and daughter were surrounded, and carried off separately. Poor Barbara wrung her hands in terror as she saw them depart. They were carried along to the prison in which those accused by the Inquisition were confined. Brill had for some time been free from such visitations, but the presence of Alva at Brussels had stirred up the authorities, and victims were sought for throughout every town in Flanders.

They were not allowed to languish long in prison before their trial took place. It was very short, for they did not deny the accusations brought against them. They refused to acknowledge that the elements of bread and wine were really the body and blood of Christ.

“Christ is in heaven,” answered the merchant Hopper, “at the right hand of God; He cannot be on earth at the same time. I don’t believe that sinful man, by a few words, would have the power of changing bread and wine into flesh and blood. If there was a change, our sense would give us evidence of that change. The bread remains bread, and the wine, wine. But more than this, I see no authority in Scripture for this belief. Christ told us to take bread and wine in remembrance of the last supper He took with His disciples on earth, or rather, of the great sacrifice which He was about to offer up, the last, the only one which God would ever accept, all previous ones being types of this; promising us the same support to our spiritual nature that the bread and wine gives to our physical nature. He often speaks of Himself as a door, as a rock, as a corner-stone of a building. In the same way He speaks of His flesh and blood. He intends us to understand that we are spiritually to feed on Him, that is to say, to trust on His sacrifice, His blood shed for us.”

“This is heresy! You need say no more,” said the judge. “And your daughter there, what does she say to these things?”

“I agree with my father,” answered Gretchen, firmly. “I believe that the just shall live by faith; that neither our works nor our obedience to the Church of Rome will help in any way to save us. Christ has accomplished that great and glorious work, and only requires us to take hold of it by faith.”

“Enough—enough!” exclaimed the Inquisitor, stamping; “you have condemned yourself by your own words. We need no other witnesses, though we can prove that you and others were present at heretical meetings. That circumstance alone was sufficient to condemn you to death. We may afford you a few days for consideration and repentance. If you will recant your errors, you may receive a more merciful sentence, but if not, you, Andrew Hopper, are condemned to be burned alive; and you, Gretchen Hopper, to be drowned in a tank at the place of execution.”

Several other persons were brought up before the Inquisitors, the greater number of whom were condemned to death. Andrew Hopper’s property was confiscated to the use of the state, or in other words, to assist Duke Alva in riveting yet more firmly his yoke upon the necks of their countrymen. Both Andrew Hopper and Gretchen Hopper bore their fate with firmness and resignation. The chief regret of his daughter was that she was separated from her father. She longed to be with him that she might comfort and support him. Her thoughts, too, occasionally went back to her lover Diedrich. Where was he all the time? Alas! she would never see him again in this world, but she prayed that he might remain firm to the truth, and meet her in a more glorious state of existence.

When Caspar Gaill found what had taken place, he was in despair. He felt inclined to throw himself into the Meuse, and there end his life. He accused himself, very justly, of having caused the destruction of one he professed to love.

Might he yet do anything to save Gretchen? She might, perhaps, be got off, though it was not likely that her father would be allowed to escape. At first he thought of trying to get Father Quixada to plead for Gretchen, but he shuddered when he remembered the character of the man, and felt that even should the priest get her off, her condition would possibly not be improved. At last he bethought himself of consulting Peter Kopplestock. He had already told him of his love for Gretchen, he might possibly induce the ferryman to assist in her escape—no easy task, however, and one full of perils. Peter had not before heard of the seizure of the merchant Hopper and his daughter. He was naturally indignant in the extreme against all concerned.

“We must be cautious, however,” he said at length, recovering his calmness. “I tell you, however, Caspar Gaill, I believe you have had something to do with it. You may be sorry now when it is too late. However, you must now exert yourself. Your father and the Bishop of Mons are old friends. You must endeavour to get the execution of these people deferred for a few days. That will give me more time to devise a scheme for their escape. A little bribery will probably have considerable effect. You have plenty of wealth, expend it liberally in this cause; you may thus somewhat repair the harm you have done.”

Caspar promised to follow the advice of Peter, declaring that he would spend every guilder he possessed to aid his object. Day after day passed by, the accused refused to recant, and the Inquisitor declared that he could not “longer delay affording the true Catholics in the place the pleasure of seeing their Protestant fellow-citizens committed to the flames.”

Caspar bribed liberally as he promised, but though his money was taken there was no good result. At length the day arrived when the executions were to take place. A stage was erected with a gibbet on it and huge casks of water. Below, on the solid ground, stakes with chains were driven into the ground; while near the gibbet was a post with a chain in which those who were to be mercifully strangled before being thrown into the flames were to be placed. It was a fearful-looking spectacle—fearful from its very simplicity. There was no parade nor decoration, nothing to conceal the naked horror of the work.

Chapter Four.

The beggars of the sea—Peter cherishes new hopes—Peter is sent as an envoy from the Rovers—The executions are suspended, and Caspar sent to treat with the beggars—Caspar resigns Gretchen to Diedrich—The beggars of the sea attack Brill—Diedrich visits the Inquisition—Father Quixada attempts to keep his prisoners, but is defeated—Brill is captured by the Protestants—and becomes the cradle of the Dutch Republic.

Peter Kopplestock was in despair. He had in vain attempted to obtain an interview with his young niece, or to send her any message. The prisoners were so strictly watched that he was unable even to send her a message. Her death and that of her worthy father seemed sealed. Peter in despair returned to his post; it was time for him to be ready to ferry passengers across the river. He had taken one party across, and was returning once more to Brill, when down the river a fleet of several large vessels was seen standing up towards the town. Peter watched them with interest. That they were not merchant vessels, he was well aware. They were not Spanish ships either. He came to the conclusion, therefore, that they must be the Beggars of the Sea. Concealing his own feelings, he informed his passengers, who wished to know his opinions. They were the powerful fleet of those redoubted rovers, and there could be little doubt that they had come up to attack Brill. By the time he had fully worked upon the fears of his passengers, they arrived at the landing-place on the side of the city. Instantly the whole party rushed up towards the town, spreading the alarming information they had received. He told them also that for their sakes he would venture down the river, and try and ascertain more particulars. Some urged him not to run so great a risk. He laughingly answered that it mattered little, that they could but hang him if he was caught, and that many an honest man was every day suffering a worse fate than that, thanks to the Duke of Alva.

Peter rowed away down the river as hard as he could urge on his boat. As he approached the fleet he was more convinced than ever that he was right. The first vessel he hailed was commanded, he was told, by William de Blois, Seigneur of Treslong, a noble whose brother had been executed by the Duke of Alva, and who had himself fought by the side of Count Louis at Yemmingen, where he was desperately wounded.

Kopplestock was an old acquaintance of his, and was immediately recognised. Treslong welcomed him warmly; he was the very man he wished to meet. Peter, nothing loth, communicated at once the events going forward in the city, and urged an immediate attack. Here was a means, he hoped, of saving his friends.

“Depend upon it we are not anxious to delay, for the honest truth is, we have scarcely a piece of biscuit or a lump of cheese remaining on board any of the ships in the fleet. Our fellows are literally starving, and land we must, somewhere or other, and forage for food. However, come, my friend, we will go on board the admiral’s ship, and hear what he says to the proposal of an immediate attack.”

Treslong, getting into Peter’s boat, proceeded forthwith to the ship of Admiral De la Marck. The first person Peter caught sight of on board was Diedrich Megheni. Even Peter thought he had never seen a wilder set of ruffians than the crew of the flag-ship, but they were all far surpassed by the admiral himself. His hair was long and shaggy, his beard hung down over his chest, joined by his whiskers, pendant from his cheeks, while his huge moustache projected out far on either side. He was in no ways loth to attack the place. “My jolly Beggars will soon make themselves masters of the town,” he observed; “but as you wish it, Treslong, we will see what diplomacy will do first. Who will take a message to the magistrates of the city?”

“Our worthy friend Peter Kopplestock will do so,” observed Treslong. “Here, take my ring; it will accredit you as our envoy. If the town will surrender, we promise to treat all the inhabitants with consideration and tenderness; if not, they must take the consequences.”

Peter, receiving further directions, jumped into his boat, and hurried back towards the town.

The hour for the execution of the condemned heretics was approaching. If he could work upon the fears of the Inquisitor, they might yet be saved.

While Peter is rowing with all his might up towards Brill, the sudden appearance of the ships of the Sea-beggars must be accounted for. The fleet of De la Marck had been lying for some time in different ports in the south of England, sallying forth occasionally and making prizes of Spanish ships. It was the policy of Queen Elizabeth and her Government at this time to remain at peace; and the Duke of Alva’s commissioners had been urging on her that the continued countenance afforded by the English to the Beggars of the Sea must inevitably lead to a war with Spain. Towards the end of March, therefore, De la Marck received a peremptory order from Elizabeth to quit the shores of England, while her subjects were forbidden to supply them with meat, bread, beer, or any other necessaries. The rover fleet set sail, therefore, from Dover, on one of the last days in March, with scarcely any provisions on board. They stood over, accordingly, towards the coast of Zealand; and finally entered, as has been described, the river Meuse.

Peter quickly reached the town, and pushed through the crowd of inhabitants, who came round him, asking him all sorts of questions, to none of which he would reply, except to say that a large force of the Water-beggars, some thousands, as far as he could tell, were about to enter the city, and cut all their throats if they were opposed, or if they found that any of their friends had been injured.

“Take care what the Inquisitors are about,” he added. “If these people whom they have condemned to death are executed, depend upon it the Water-beggars will put every man and woman in the place to death. Just see about that matter.”

Pushing on, he made his appearance in the town-house, where the magistrates were assembled. He told them that he had been sent by the fierce Admiral De la Marck, and by Treslong, who was well known to them; that two commissioners on the part of the city should be sent out to confer with them. He had to assure them that the deputies would be courteously treated, and he was ordered to say that the only object of those who had sent him was to free the land, and to overthrow the tyranny of the Spaniards.

“And how many men under him has De la Marck, do you think?” asked the chief magistrate.

“It would be difficult for me to count them,” answered Peter, carelessly, “considering I only saw some of their ships; but there are probably some five thousand in all, more or less; but they are desperate fellows, and equal to twice the number of ordinary mortals.”

On hearing this, the magistrates made long faces at each other.

“It is clear that we cannot resist such a force,” observed one; “but what shall we do? Shall we negotiate, or shall we fly?”

“In my opinion, it would be judicious to do both,” observed a sagacious old burgher. “We should negotiate in order to gain time to run away.”

“But which two men will be found to proceed to the rebel fleet as our envoys?” asked another. “It is an honourable post, is no one ready to fill it?”

There seemed a great likelihood of the negotiations breaking down for want of envoys to carry them on. At this juncture Caspar Gaill made his appearance in the court-house.

“I will go,” he said, “on one condition: that the executions which were to take place this morning are suspended. If we put to death the fellow-religionists of these people, they are not likely to treat us with much mercy.”

The justice of Caspar’s remark was at once seen; and in spite of the protestations of the Inquisitor and the other priests, that it would be impious to take their victims out of the hands of the Church, the magistracy decided that the criminals should be immediately respited.

“If we determine on fighting, and put the enemy to flight, you holy fathers may then execute due punishment on the heretics,” observed one of the magistrates; “but, in the meantime, we prefer not to subject ourselves to the rage of these desperate freebooters.”

Caspar quickly persuaded another friend to accompany him on board the fleet, and, rowed by Peter, they proceeded on board the admiral’s ship. It was there the rivals met. Caspar, before entering the admiral’s cabin, had just time to exchange a few words with Diedrich.

“I resign Gretchen to you,” he whispered; “I am not worthy of her. I acted a vile and treacherous part, and was very nearly the cause of the destruction of her and her father. They are now, I trust, safe; unless those vile priests prove treacherous. At all events there is no time to be lost in hastening on shore, that they may be completely rescued from their power.”

As soon as the message of the magistrates was received, the sailors quickly leaped into their boats, and hastened on shore. The rovers were divided into two parties. One, under Treslong, made an attack upon the southern gates; while the other, commanded by the admiral, advanced upon the northern. The governor of the city, it appeared, had not agreed to the proposals of the magistrates, and had made preparations to resist their entrance. Hungry men, especially of the character of the sea-rovers, are not likely to be stopped by trifles. Treslong and his followers forthwith attacked the gates with great fury. Just at the moment that they forced an entrance, the governor of the city was endeavouring to take his departure. He was, however, arrested by the rovers. Meantime De la Marck and his men, lighting a huge fire at the northern gate, rigged a battering-ram, formed out of a ship’s mast; and as the fire burned the wood of the gates, they commenced battering away with might and main. The gates quickly gave way; and, dashing the embers of the fire aside, the bold sailors, sword in hand, rushed into the town, and speedily found themselves masters of the place. Among those who had accompanied Treslong was Diedrich Meghem. Peter Kopplestock had kept by his side. A choice band of seamen had followed Diedrich.

“Follow me, lads,” he exclaimed, as soon as they were inside the gates; “our first work must be to set the prisoners of the Inquisition free.”

He and Peter rushed on, followed by a party of seamen. The Inquisitors and monks endeavoured to prevent their entrance. The doors were very soon battered in. Gretchen, who expected every instant to be led forth to execution, was on her knees in her cell. She heard the noise, little suspecting the cause. At that moment the door opened, and a monk appeared. She looked up, and beheld the stern features of Father Quixada. There was a glance in his eye which made her tremble.

“Have you come to lead me to death?” she asked.

“No, I would give you your liberty; follow me.”

“No; I will not,” she exclaimed, regarding him with a look of horror.

He rushed forward, and seized her by the arm, and was dragging her along the passage, when footsteps were heard approaching; and the ray of sunlight which streamed along the passage fell on a party of men who were hurrying through it. Their leader was Diedrich Meghem. With a cry of joy, Gretchen, tearing herself from the grasp of the monk, darted forward towards another part of the prison. The patriot seamen soon discovered the cell in which the merchant Hopper was confined, and he and all the other prisoners were quickly liberated. A large number of the citizens had escaped; but several monks and priests who had remained in the convent were captured, as well as the governor and some other civil authorities. Admiral De la Marck took possession of the town in the name of the Prince of Orange. Thus the weary spirit of freedom, so long a fugitive over earth and sea, at length found a resting-place; and the foundation of the Dutch Republic was laid in the little city of Brill. No indignity was offered to the inhabitants of either sex, and all those who remained were treated with consideration. The captors, however, took possession of the best houses, and very naturally made themselves at home. The inclination to plunder the churches, however, could not long be restrained. The altars and images were destroyed, while the rich furniture and the gorgeous vestments of the priests were appropriated by the rovers. Adam van Haren, who commanded one of the ships, appeared on his vessel’s deck attired in a magnificent high-mass chasuble; while his seamen dressed themselves up in the various other vestments which the Romish clergy had been wont to wear on their grand festivals. So great was the hatred of the admiral for everything connected with the Church of Rome, that thirteen unfortunate monks and priests, including Father Quixada, who had been taken prisoners, were, by his orders, a few days after the capture of the city, executed in the very way that they had intended to put to death the victims of the Inquisition. Caspar Gaill joined the fleet of De la Marck, and was soon afterwards killed in an action with some Spanish ships. In spite of Duke Alva’s attempt to retake Brill, the city remained ever afterwards faithful to the Prince of Orange. Diedrich and Gretchen were the first persons united according to the Protestant form in Brill, after its capture, and their descendants have ever been among its most respected inhabitants.

Chapter Five.

Frank Carlton—A story of Niagara

Niagara—its grandeur and dangers—Fanny rejects Frank because he is not a hero—Scarcity of heroes—Fanny’s nephews get into a boat—They drift away—No hope—Help at the last—A fearful struggle—Fanny finds Frank is a hero after all.

Niagara, the father of waters! The name is significant of something grand; words are inadequate to describe the mighty cataract. The waters which rush down from Lake Superior, passing through Lake Huron and Lake Saint Clair, and onward across Lake Erie, finally force their course in a northern direction into Lake Ontario. On first leaving Lake Erie, they flow in a tranquil current, and divide, leaving an island in the centre, on which a thousand cattle save one are said to feed. Then the rapidity of the current increases, till those who voyage on its bosom see in front of them, raised high in the blue sky, a cloud of vapour. This is said to be the crown of Niagara, the vapoury particles collecting from the boiling caldron below.

Proceeding onward, a roaring sound is heard, the current increases in rapidity, and ahead appears a line of foaming breakers. Those who once get within their power must give up all hope of life. No vessel built with mortal hands can live amidst those furious rapids. In the centre a rocky island appears, thickly covered with trees, and while one portion of the stream rushes directly on, and takes a leap downwards of 200 feet, the other and smaller portion, sweeping round Goat Island, finds its way into the lower level, over the cliff on the right bank of the river. The last-mentioned fall is known as the American fall, as the territory on that side of the river belongs to the United States.

Onward the waters rush, between lofty cliffs, at a distance of three miles, when they meet an opposing rock, and, circling round and round, form a fearful whirlpool. No one falling into that circling eddy has ever escaped with life. The stoutest boat would soon be dashed to pieces.

At length the waters find their way out by a narrow passage, and rush onward into Lake Ontario. A long fall across the direct current of the River is known as the Horseshoe Fall. Standing on the British bank of the stream, it is seen on the right, with the American fall directly opposite the spectator. In the latter fall many fearful accidents have occurred.

The scenery above the Falls is very different to that below. In the latter the banks are high and precipitous, and the stream flows on 200 feet below the summit of the cliffs. Above the cataract, on the contrary, the river presents the appearance rather of a large lake. The woods, consisting of firs, and birch, and maple, come close down to the water, their branches overhanging the stream. Here and there are clearings. Many mills moved by water power, and numerous farms, extend along the banks on either side.

It was somewhere above the rapids that a young man, clad in homely costume but with the appearance and bearing of a gentleman, was walking by the river’s brink. By his side was a fair girl. He was speaking to her earnestly and gently, but she seemed to be turning an indifferent ear to his words.

“I acknowledge your merits, Mr Carlton, but really I cannot see that I should be expected to give my heart and hand, as you ask me, to one who has not done anything to show that he is above the ordinary run of respectable young gentlemen.” The girl spoke in a somewhat bantering tone.

“But really, Miss Fanny Aveling, you are expecting too much at the present day. Gentlemen cannot go forth with a lance and fight in tournaments, as in days of yore, to win the admiration of the ladies of their love. I offer you an honest heart, and I have every reason to believe I shall establish a comfortable home; and really I think that is a more sensible thing than running the risk of getting a knock on the head for no purpose whatever.”

“How fearfully matter-of-fact you are,” answered Fanny. “I tell you I do not like matter-of-fact people. If you had been a soldier or sailor, and had fought the battles of your country, and got wounded, and obtained a number of medals for your gallantry, I might possibly have felt differently towards you.”

“But I have had no opportunity of doing anything of the sort,” urged Frank Carlton. “I came out here to form an estate, and I have succeeded in what I undertook, while a number of other persons with similar opportunities have failed. I do not say this for the sake of boasting, but simply as a fact which is certainly not discreditable.”

“Humdrum,” answered the young lady, half to herself. “Numbers have done as well.”

“So they have,” said Frank Carlton, “and are married and settled, and have every reason to be thankful that they came to the country.”

“Well, Mr Carlton, there is no use carrying on the conversation further,” exclaimed Fanny: “You ask me to give you my heart and hand; I frankly confess I have no inclination to do so.”

“But, surely, you have led me to suppose you would,” said Frank, in a tone of reproach.

“That was when I did not think you in earnest,” said Fanny. “If you had said this before, I should have given you an answer which might then have satisfied you.”

“Nothing will satisfy me but ‘yes,’” said Frank, “for I believe that you have more sense than you pretend to have.”

“That is to say, you think I have sense enough to love you,” said Fanny, still in a tone of banter. “We part as friends, however, and if you insist on coming to call upon my sister, Mrs Barton, of course I cannot help it, only do not for a moment suppose that I give you any encouragement.”

Frank Carlton, having graduated at Oxford, had come out a few years before to set up as a farmer in Canada. He had enjoyed the advantage of studying under a Scotch farmer for a year, and this gave him more knowledge of agricultural affairs than is possessed by many of the young men who go out to settle. He had also given his mind to the work, and what was of great importance, had withstood the temptations to idleness into which so many fall. He was also a man of refined tastes and habits, which he did not allow the rough life of a settler to make him abandon. Captain and Mrs Barton were among his nearest neighbours. He had been for some time a constant visitor at the house, and two little boys, the children of Mrs Barton, were his especial favourites.

Fanny Aveling had, the year before, come out from England, and not long after her arrival Frank Carlton began to reflect that his house would be in a far better condition than it was at the present, if he could place a mistress at its head. He had had no reason to suppose that Miss Aveling was indifferent towards him, until the day on which the conversation which has been described took place. He was still, it must be owned, somewhat in doubt about the matter. He did not suppose that she cared for anybody else; indeed he knew of no visitor at the house likely to have won her affections. He therefore, as most men would have done under similar circumstances, lived on in the hope of ultimately winning her. Still, week after week passed, and though he made frequent visits to Captain Barton’s, Miss Aveling’s manner towards him remained totally unchanged. At length, sanguine as he was, he began to fear that he had misplaced his affections. He also grew distant in his manner towards her, and he seldom paid a visit to the house of his former friends.

Mrs Barton could not but suspect the cause, for she, it must be owned, was favourable to Frank Carlton, and thought that her sister could not make a more desirable match.

“What more can you require in a man than Frank possesses, Fanny?” she said one day to her sister.

“Yes,” observed Fanny, “he is honest, and he does not smoke, and he does not drink, and he does not use bad language, that I know of, and he’s very respectable; in fact, in my opinion, he is made up of negatives.”

“Oh, you foolish girl!” exclaimed Mrs Barton; “you want him to threaten to leave you for ever, or to jump down the Falls, or to commit some other outrageous act, and then perhaps your feelings would be worked up, and you would be ready to entreat him to remain and be yours.”

“No, I tell you I don’t care for him, that I know of, and don’t know that I ever shall,” answered Fanny, petulantly. “I have made up my mind, when he next comes, to let him understand that very clearly.”

As it happened, Frank paid another visit the following day to the Bartons. Fanny certainly did contrive to show him that there were no hopes of her becoming his wife.

He would make a tour through the country, visit Toronto, Montreal, and perhaps go down to Quebec. Or he would make a trip to the Far West, across Lake Superior to the Red River Settlement, and visit the small band of his countrymen collected there. At first he thought he would start at once, and not pay a farewell visit to the Bartons.

It happened that Mrs Barton, her sister, and her two little boys, Frank’s favourites, Ernest and Harry, were strolling about by the bank of the river. They had gone somewhere down in the direction of the rapids, when Fanny exclaimed that the scenery, already tinged by the bright hue of autumn, was so beautiful that she must stop and make a sketch.

The two sisters sat down on the bank, while Fanny, with the hand of an artist, rapidly sketched the scene. She had to employ the most gorgeous colours which her colour-box could supply, and even then could scarcely give sufficient brightness to the landscape. While she was sketching, the little boys ran along the bank, where, moored to the shore, they found a boat, and very naturally got into it. Their mother and aunt did not observe them. They got out the oars, and began to make believe that they were rowing. Now they pulled on one side and then on the other. Harry, the youngest, tired of rowing, put in the oar, and began to play with the “painter.” The boat had been carelessly secured, and by some means or other he let the painter slip. Ernest, in the meantime, who was still rowing, turned the boat round, and before the boys knew what was happening, they were drifting from the shore. Already, before they saw their danger, they were too far off to regain the bank. Often they had been told of the fearful risk of being carried off by the current. They screamed with fear. Their cries aroused their mother and aunt. Several people also had been attracted by them from a neighbouring farm, but no boat was to be seen at hand in which they could be followed. Already the boat was moving down the current. It was still some distance from the rapids: but, unless stopped in its course, it must eventually reach them.

Mrs Barton and Fanny cried in vain to the spectators to aid in rescuing the children. Some of the men ran along the bank up the stream, but others stood still, and declared they had no power to save the children.

“Still, if you would but swim in, you might get on board the boat before it has gone far,” exclaimed Mrs Barton.

“And run a pretty fair chance of losing our own lives,” was the reply made by some of the men.

Some way down, another boat was at length seen. It was a small, frail skiff, and moored very near the commencement of the rapids.

“Will any one try and save my children?” exclaimed Mrs Barton in despair.

Again the men shook their heads.

“Not for a thousand pounds. Before one could reach the boat in that rotten canoe, she would be among the rapids.”

The fond mother and Fanny became almost frantic with despair. Just at that moment a figure was seen bounding down from a neighbouring height. In an instant, with a knife, he cut the painter securing the skiff to the shore. A pair of paddles were in the skiff. He leaped in and shoved off from the bank. Mrs Barton knew him, and so did Fanny.

“It’s Frank Carlton!” they exclaimed. “Oh, blessings on him! May God protect him!”

Already the boat was approaching the commencement of the rapids. Once in their power, even his sturdy arms could scarcely stem the current. Not for one moment did he calculate the difficulty or danger he was to undergo. With rapid strokes he pursued the floating boat. How eagerly did the fond mother watch his proceedings! She stood apparently calm on the bank, only now and then extending her arms, as if she would draw back the boat which contained her loved ones.

Still, to those who looked on it seemed scarcely possible that the children could escape. If they were lost, so also would be Frank Carlton. Still he pursued. The motion of the boat which contained the boys showed its near approach to the rapids. In two or three minutes it would be within their power. It seemed hardly credible that he could reach it even in that time. Onward he went, every now and then turning his head round to watch the boat. Already it began to leap and toss. The water foamed around it.

“See! he has got alongside!” exclaimed the people from the shore; “but will he have strength to stem the current on his return?”

A glance showed him that two oars were in the boat. Leaving his canoe to its fate, he leaped into the boat, and seized the oars. Now came a fearful struggle. Should an oar give way, he and his young friends must inevitably be lost. He nerved himself for the undertaking by offering up prayer for strength to One who alone can give it. Grasping the oars, he placed his feet firmly at the bottom of the boat, and rowed manfully. At first it seemed to those who looked on that he made no way. The boat’s head was up the stream, but still she seemed to be going slowly and surely downwards. He struggles on. The water foams around the boat on every side. Yes! he is making way—he has gained an inch, another and another. Slowly the boat moves onward, out of the power of the rapids. A foot is gained. Still, by the exertions he is making, his strength must become exhausted. He rows on and on; the boat makes headway. Surely the prayers of that fond mother are heard. The gallant young man renews his exertions. He is resolved, God helping him, to save the children. He thinks not of himself, or what will be the consequences to his own frame. The veins seem starting from his forehead. Those only who have gone through such a contest, can understand what he had to endure. The people from the neighbouring farms now eagerly crowd the shores, ready to render him assistance when he reaches it. Some, however, even now doubt whether he will accomplish the undertaking. Should his strength fail, even for an instant, the boat would quickly be carried back, with those on board, to destruction. With all his strength he continues rowing, looking neither to the right hand nor the left. His eyes are on the young children who sit crouching down in terror at the bottom of the boat. With a smile, he endeavours to encourage them. Again and again he cries to Heaven for strength. Gradually the boat approaches the shore. Now it has reached an upward eddy. Still he rows on, and the boat safely reaches the bank. Scarcely conscious of his success, he is lifted out of the boat, and eager hands restore the children to their mother. She clasps them to her bosom, and pours out her gratitude to their deliverer. But there is one kneeling by his side who entreats those who stand by to bring some water to bathe his brow. The handkerchief tied round his throat is loosened. He returns to consciousness, and sees Fanny Aveling bending over him. In a short time he declares himself sufficiently recovered to walk, and a joyful party returned to Barton Lodge.

Our tale is finished. Though he returned home that evening, Frank could not do otherwise than, the following morning, visit Barton Lodge, to enquire after the boys. Fanny Aveling no longer received him as had been her wont.

“You have done something,” she exclaimed. “Yes, I see it is not necessary for a man to go and fight, and kill his fellow-creatures, to be a hero. Oh, Frank, what a very silly girl I have been!”

Frank assured her he was confident she would be a wise woman in future, and it is scarcely necessary to add that Frank’s establishment soon had a mistress at its head.

Chapter Six.

Faithful and Brave

A big scamp and a true man—Ellis visited by his sweetheart—Reads his Bible on board ship—Trials and persecutions—Ellis knocks Jones down—Danger—Jones shirks and Ellis encounters it—A Christian woman’s test—A terrible predicament—The middy saved by Ellis—and the sailors ascribe it to the power of prayer.

I was many years ago, first-lieutenant of the Rainbow frigate. We were fitting out alongside the old Topaz hulk, in Portsmouth Harbour, for the North American and West India stations, at that time united under one command. We were nearly ready for sea, but still were a good many hands short of our complement. For want of better, we had entered several men, who would, I was afraid, prove but hard bargains; one especially, who gave the name of John Jones, was a great, big, hulking fellow, with an unpleasant expression of countenance, out of whom I guessed but little work was to be got. The same day he joined, another man came aboard and volunteered. He was a fine, active, intelligent fellow. He said that his name was William Ellis, and that he had been eight years at sea, in the merchant service. If there was little work in Jones, there was plenty in him I saw, though he was a remarkably quiet-looking man. He answered the questions put to him, but did not volunteer a word about himself.

We had gone out to Spithead, and the Blue Peter was flying aloft, when a shore boat came alongside. In the boat was a young woman, nicely, though very plainly dressed, and a lad, who looked like her brother. She asked leave to come on board, and inquired for William Ellis. Ellis was aloft. His name had been loudly called along the lower deck, before, casting his eyes below, having finished his work, they fell on her. She gave a half-shriek of terror as she saw him, quick as lightning, gliding down the rigging. He, in another moment, was by her side. A blush was on his manly cheek, as he took her hand and warmly pressed it. They talked earnestly for some time. He did not ask her to move from the spot where they stood. At length, with a sigh, having shaken hands with the lad, he prepared to help her into the boat. Her last words, pronounced in a firm, though sweet voice, were, “Oh! remember.”

I was particularly struck by her quiet, modest manner, and her pleasing, intelligent expression of countenance. We had despatches for Jamaica and other West India Islands, which we visited in turn. Ellis continued, as at first, one of the most quiet, well-behaved men in the ship. Every moment of his watch below—that is to say, when off duty—he was engaged in reading, chiefly, as I afterwards found, the Bible. In those days, a Bible on the lower deck was a rarity, and religious books were still less often seen. The Rainbow formed no exception to the rule, and Ellis got to be looked at with suspicion and dislike by the greater number of the men. He was equally disliked by some of the officers. The reason was clear—his life and example was a reproach to them.

We had not been long in that treacherous clime before “Yellow Jack,” as sailors call the yellow fever, came on board. Numbers of our crew were speedily down with it. Several died, and the pestilence increased. The ship’s company, as sometimes occurs, took a panic, and men who would boldly have faced a visible enemy, trembled with dread at the thoughts of being struck down by the fever. It was difficult to get men to attend properly on the sick. Ellis was an exception; he immediately volunteered for that duty, and was indefatigable in its performance. He did more, I found; he spoke words of counsel and encouragement to the sick and dying; he pointed out to them the Saviour, on whom looking with repentance and faith in His all-sufficient work, they might be assured of forgiveness.

Harry Lethbridge, a young midshipman, was among the first attacked. Ellis carefully watched over the boy. Whenever he had performed his other duties, he returned to the side of the hammock in which Harry lay, bathed his face, sponged out his mouth, and gave him cooling drinks, like the most gentle of nurses. More than once the doctor told me, however, that he was afraid the young midshipman would slip through his fingers, and he afterwards said that he considered it was mostly owing to the very great attention paid to him by Ellis that he had escaped. Ellis did more; he spoke to Harry, when his strength was returning, in a way to touch his heart,—he told him how he had been saved from the jaws of death by a God who loved his soul, and he showed how alone that soul could be saved, and how freely and fully it would be saved, if he would but accept the redemption offered him.

Notwithstanding the way Ellis had behaved during the fever, John Jones, and men of his stamp, of whom there were many, continued to sneer at him on account of his religion. “Any old woman, or young girl, could have done as well as he did,—nursing a few sick men and boys: what was that!” they said. “It didn’t make him a bit more of a man.”

From the West Indies we were sent to North America, to do away with the effects of the fever. Knowing what a quiet man Ellis was, I was somewhat surprised when one day, on the passage to Halifax, John Jones came up to me on deck, fuming with rage, and preferred a formal charge against him, for having assaulted and thrashed him. I, of course, as in duty bound, sent for Ellis, and witnesses on both sides, to examine into the case. Ellis appeared, hat in hand, and at once acknowledged that he had thrashed Jones, but offered as an excuse that Jones and other men had systematically annoyed him whenever he sat down to read the Bible, and that at last Jones, encouraged by his previous forbearance, had snatched up the book and made off with it, threatening to throw it overboard. “I could bear it no longer, sir,” said Ellis; “so I knocked him over, that I might get back my Bible, and read it afterwards in peace. Besides, sir, he said that people who read the Bible are never worth anything, only just fit to nurse sick people, and that come a gale of wind, or any danger, they would always be found skulking below.”

“In that respect you, Jones, are wrong, and you had no business to snatch away Ellis’s Bible; but you, Ellis, broke through the rules of discipline by knocking Jones over. You must reserve your blows for the enemies of your country. I must therefore punish you. It is your first offence, but it is too serious a one to be overlooked. Go below.”

I inflicted as light a punishment as I well could on Ellis. After he had undergone it, he came to me and expressed his regret at having lost his temper, without in any way attempting to exculpate himself.

We reached Halifax, remained there a fortnight refitting, and again sailed to cruise off the coast. Nova Scotia possesses a rocky, forbidding shore, near which a seaman would dislike to be caught with a gale blowing on it. One night, on a passage round to Prince Edward’s Island, we had kept closer in shore, in consequence of the fineness of the weather, than would, under other circumstances, have been prudent. The captain was ill below. Suddenly the wind shifted, and blew directly on shore. I was called up, and hurrying on deck, saw at once that we were to have a rough night of it.

The first thing to be done was to get a good offing. Accordingly I hauled to the wind, and as it was not yet blowing very hard, I kept the canvas on her which had previously been set. Suddenly a squall, its approach unseen, struck the ship, and before a sheet could be started, the main-topgallant yard was carried away, and the spar, wildly beating about in the now furiously-blowing gale, threatened to carry away, not only the topgallant mast, but the topmast itself. The loss of more of our spars at such a moment might have been disastrous in the extreme. To clear away the spar was, therefore of the greatest importance, but it was an operation which would expose those who attempted it to the most imminent dangers.

I sung out for volunteers. At that moment seeing Jones standing near me, I could not help saying, “Come, my man, there’s work for you; you were boasting of your manhood the other day!” The first to spring forward to my call was William Ellis.

“No,” I answered; “I have made the offer to Jones. He ought to succeed if any man can.”

Jones looked aloft, then shook his head.

“I dare not; the man who attempts it will be sure to lose his life.”

Ellis, as if anticipating the reply Jones would make, had been securing an axe to his belt; having felt the edge to assure himself that it was sharp. Scarcely had Jones finished speaking, than, exclaiming, “I’ll go!” he was ascending the main rigging.

I watched him with intense anxiety as long as I could see him, but he was soon lost to sight in the gloom of night up aloft there amid the tightening ropes, the straining mast, and the loosened sail and shattered spar, which kept driving backwards and forwards and round and round with terrific violence. I kept my eyes fixed on the spot where I knew he must be. Now I thought I saw him clinging on to the rigging with one hand, while with the other, his axe gleaming above his head, he made stroke after stroke at the ropes by which the topgallant yard still hung to the mast. Had he been hurled from the rigging, the ocean would have been his tomb, for, heeling over as the ship was, he would have fallen far to leeward. I fully expected such would be his fate; it might be mine too, for I was determined to make the attempt if others failed. I thought of the young woman who had visited him on board, and of her sorrowing heart. My eye caught sight of something falling. Was it Ellis? No! A shout rose from the crew. Down came the shattered spar and the torn sail clear of everything, and fell into the foaming, hissing waters, through which the frigate was forcing her way. The topgallant mast stood uninjured. Ellis the next minute was beside me on the deck.

“Thank you, Ellis; you did that work nobly,” I said to him. “I think that no one in future will venture to taunt you for your Bible-reading propensities.”

I was now able to send the hands aloft to shorten sail, and I fully believe that our masts, and the ship herself, and our lives, were saved by that act of courage. I afterwards asked Ellis how he felt when aloft.

“That I was in the hands of God, sir,” he answered. “I prayed for His protection, and I never felt my heart more light, or my courage more firm.” (See Note.)

As may be supposed, no one after this ventured to call Ellis a milksop, or to speak disparagingly of him in any other way. Jones sunk in public estimation as Ellis rose, and gained great influence among the ship’s company, which he did not fail to use to their benefit. He still further increased it by another act, which, however, was not so much a proof of courage as of presence of mind, only the sailors declared, with a tinge of superstition, that no other man on board could have done it. I will mention it presently.

I frequently spoke to Ellis in a way an officer cannot venture to do, except to a well-tried man. One day I asked him if he did not wish to write to his wife, as I had the opportunity of sending letters.

“I am not married, sir,” he answered, calmly. “That young woman you saw, sir, Mary Summers, has promised to marry me when I get back, if I can prove to her that I have acted all the time I have been away like a Christian man. It’s a long story too, and I won’t trouble you with it now; only Mary has very strong notions, and very right notions too. I wasn’t once what I now try to be. I was altogether careless about religion. I fell in love with Mary, and tried my best to appear good, and so far succeeded that I won her love. When, however, she found out what I really was she said that nothing would induce her to marry me unless I was a Christian. She gave me books and I read them, and I read the Bible as I had never read it before, and she talked to me till I thought that I was what she wanted me to be; but she said that people couldn’t tell what they really were till they were out in the busy world and tried, and that I must be tried before she could venture to marry me. At first I thought her terms very hard; but I do assure you, sir, when I came to know more of the Gospel I felt that they were wise and just. It’s a very different thing to appear all right and correct, and to feel very good too, in a quiet village, with a religious, sensible young woman to watch over one, than to keep straight aboard a man-of-war among a number of godless associates. In one case a man may almost forget the necessity of earnest prayer. I do assure you sir, I have felt aboard here that I could not get on an hour without it.”

Reader, remember these words of Ellis. Consider how you will act when you are tried and tempted. Satan often lets people alone when he finds them in an easy position, that they may grow conceited of their own strength. Never cease praying that you may see his wiles, and that, through the Holy Spirit, you may be enabled to resist them, but never, never trust to your own strength, or you will be sure to fall.

Some two years after this, when Harry Lethbridge had grown into a fine young man, promising to be as smart an officer as any in the navy, we were on our passage between the northern and southern portions of our station, when we were caught in as heavy a gale as I ever experienced—a complete hurricane. It came down on us so suddenly that it required all hands to shorten sail as smartly as they could do. Among those who sprang aloft when the hands were turned up was Harry Lethbridge, whose station was the foretop. The post of honour among seamen in reefing sails is the weather earing. (Note. An earing is a rope to haul up the outer part of a sail.) Thus when the fore-topsail was to be reefed, Harry eagerly sought, and was the first man out on, the yard-arm. While reefing the sail, on hauling out the earing, from the strength of the wind, and from his anxiety to get it done quickly, he did not haul the first turn sufficiently taut. After taking the second, and getting a good pull on it, the first earing rendered suddenly, and, losing his balance, he fell over the yard. Those who saw him as I did thought he was gone, but no; as he fell he had kept hold of the earing, and there he hung, suspended by it about nine feet below the yard-arm and full sixty from the deck, though, of course, far outside it, that is to say, over the boiling ocean.

Those on deck looked up, almost paralysed with the terrible spectacle. His destruction seemed inevitable. His hands were giving way. He caught the rope in his teeth, and thus he hung suspended, alive and strong, with the joyous spirits and anticipations of youthful manhood, and yet with death as it were gaping for him. The man nearest to him on the yard threw towards him the end of a rope, but it was blown away to leeward out of his reach. The captain instantly directed that a running bowline knot should be made round the earing, and thus lowered over his head; but his voice was drowned by the gale. Cries of horror escaped from the lips of all who saw him. “A man overboard! a man overboard!” was shouted out, for every one expected to see him fall into the sea. William Ellis had never taken his eye off him. I saw him hurry forward. Poor Harry could hold on no longer. His hands relaxed their gripe of the rope, his teeth gave way, he fell. As he did so, the ship lurched heavily to leeward and he came towards the forecastle. Ellis sprang forward, and as Harry’s feet touched the deck, caught him in his arms. The midshipman’s life was preserved, and the only injury he received was the fracture of one of his ankle-bones. (Note. The whole of this account is fact, without the slightest alteration.) “He’s the only man who could have done it, though,” I afterwards heard some of the seamen remark. “He prayed that he might do it, and he did it, do ye see.” Even the irreligious often acknowledge the efficacy of the prayers of Christian men.

William Ellis persevered in his Christian course till the ship was paid off, when I saw his Mary, who had come to Portsmouth to welcome him. They married; he obtained a warrant as a gunner, and some years afterwards, through the influence of Harry Lethbridge, got a good appointment on shore. The young midshipman, feeling that his life had, through God’s mercy, been preserved that he might do Him service, became a thorough Christian, in practice as well as in name, and a first-rate officer; while Ellis continued as he had begun, aided and encouraged, I have no doubt, by his excellent wife, to the end of his life.

Note. This account was given to the author by the late Admiral Saumarez, and the words are to the best of his recollection those used by the man who performed the act recorded.

Chapter Seven.

The two Sailor-Boys, a true tale

Ned Burton loses his mother, and is left penniless—Walks to Portsmouth, and is disheartened—Is cheered, directed, and helped by Old Moll—Gets on board the training ship—and makes a friend—but is rejected for not being able to read—Comforted by Bill Hudson—Bill’s shipmates help Ned to Field Lane—Bill takes him there—He is kindly received—Is made a sailor of at last.

On a miserable pallet bedstead, in a small attic of one of the meanest houses in the lowest portion of a provincial town in the south of England, a woman lay dying. The curtainless window and window—panes, stuffed with straw, the scanty patchwork covering to the bed, the single rickety chair, the unswept floor, the damp, mildewed walls, the door falling from its hinges, told of pinching poverty. On the opposite corner to the bedstead there was a heap of straw, to serve as another bed, and against the wall a much-battered sea-chest and an open basket, containing even now a few rotting oranges, some damaged tapes, and such articles as are vended by small hawkers. Standing by the bed-side was a lad with an intelligent, not ill-favoured, countenance, though sickly, and expressive of deep grief, as he gazed on the face of one who had ever been a kind mother to him, and from whom he now knew full well that he was to be parted for ever.

“Ned, my boy, I have done my best to keep myself and thee from the workhouse,” said the woman, trying to lift herself up on her arm, that she might the better see the lad. “It has been a hard struggle, but I have done it for thy father’s sake. He was a sailor, and would never have thought to see me come to this pass. Thou must be one, too, Ned. It’s a rough life, but better far than starving on shore. I’ve done little for thee, lad, but feed thee, and try to teach thee to be honest, as thy father was. Be honest, Ned, whatever ye do, for thy poor mother’s sake. But for thee, lad, I’d have left the weary world many a long year ago.”

“Oh, mother, mother, stay now—oh, do!” cried the lad. “Won’t the doctor help you—won’t the parson?”

“No, lad; no doctor, no parson, can keep me here. But I’d like to see the parson. Maybe he’d tell me about the place I’m going to; for it’s far off, I wot, and little I know of the road.”

“Oh, mother, I’ll run and fetch him.”

Just as Ned was going, the dying woman sunk down, exhausted with talking. “Don’t leave me, boy,” she faintly murmured; “it’s too late now. May God hear a widow’s prayer, and be merciful to you, and forgive me.”

Her voice sank—the last words were gasped out. Her son bent his head to hear her: he stood gazing at her face, expecting to hear her speak again. Gradually he became aware that he was alone in the world. His grief was too deep for tears. For hours he stood there, watching the face of the only being who had cared for him in the world; and then Ned Burton went out and did as she had before bade him, and, with the money she had hoarded up for the purpose, and that produced by the sale of the last few articles in the house, save his father’s sea-chest, obtained for her an humble funeral, truly, but not that of a pauper. Then, leaving the chest with a neighbour till he should return and claim it, he went forth penniless into the world to seek his fortune.

Ned Burton’s ambition was to be a sailor—not that he knew anything of the sea, except that his father had spent his life on it. His mother could not read or write, and, unable to instruct him or to pay for his instruction, being, indeed, too poor to do without the pittance his labours brought, she had allowed him to grow up in extreme ignorance—though, according to the faint light that was in her, she had taught him, to the best of her power, to do right. Still, poor Ned knew nothing of religion. He had never been taught even to pray. Thus, helpless and forlorn, he went forth to battle with the world. A neighbour had told him that big ships sailed from Portsmouth, so towards Portsmouth he bent his steps, inquiring his way as he went. A few of those who knew him, and had bought his mother’s oranges and bobbins, gave him a few pence, and filled his wallet with crusts of bread, and scraps of cheese and bacon, so that he had not to beg for food.

At night he slept under haystacks or hedges, or in empty barns, and thus in time he reached Portsmouth, sore-footed, weary, and hungry, for during the last day his wallet had been empty.

Wandering down the High Street, he passed through a large gateway, and out on a common, from whence he caught sight of the blue sea, and several huge ships floating on it, but they were too far out to reach, and he had no money to pay for a boat; and he would have gained nothing had he reached them, for a poor ragged boy like him would not have been received on board. So he went back the way he had come. He asked several people if they could tell him how he could get on board ship, but they must have thought that he was silly, for they smiled and passed on.

He had begun to think that he should never obtain his wishes, when close to the Southsea Gate he saw an old apple-woman sitting at her stall. She brought his mother to mind. She looked kind, too, so he asked her. Something in his manner touched Old Moll’s heart. She asked him several questions, and then said, “Sure, yes; there’s what they call a training-ship for boys—the old —, off the Dockyard, at Portsea. They, maybe, will take you. Here’s sixpence to get aboard; and here—you look hungry, lad—is some gingerbread and apples—they’ll do you good; and now God speed you! Go straight on—you can’t miss the way, and come and tell me some day how you’ve fared.”

Ned went on through narrow lanes and dirty streets, till he came near the shore of the harbour, which was crowded with vessels of all sizes.

“If one won’t have me, surely another will,” he said to himself, as he gazed with wonder at some of the line-of-battle ships. “They must want a precious number of people to fill those great things.”

He now began to inquire which was the old —, where boys were received. He was told that he couldn’t see her from there—that she was higher up the harbour; but none of the boatmen he spoke to seemed disposed to take him on board. In vain he promised his sixpence. He had gone out to the end of one of the slips from the Common Hard, when two seamen and a sailor lad came down, carrying baskets, evidently full of provisions, and directed one of the boatmen who had just refused him to take them on board the old —. As they were stepping into the wherry, the boatman beckoned to Ned, and told him that he could now go. He took his seat next to the lad, who, in spite of his own clean white trousers, and blue shirt with worked collar, and fresh straw hat, seemed in no way to despise his ragged dress. In a kind tone he asked Ned why he was going on board. Ned told him.

“Hope you’ll succeed, mate,” he observed. “A year ago, I was like you—only paler and thinner, and maybe fewer clothes to my back—and trembled when I went aloft; and now there are not many aboard can reach the main-truck from the deck before me, or lay out smarter on a yard.”

The tide was against them, so that Ned had time to tell his new acquaintances a good deal of his history before they reached the ship. They all seemed to take an interest in him, especially the lad—a fine, strong ruddy-faced young fellow of sixteen.

“Well, just do you ask for Bill Hudson—that’s me—after you’ve seen the first lieutenant and the doctor; and then I’ll tell you what to do,” said the latter. “You might lose yourself, do ye see, otherwise, about there.”

When they arrived alongside the huge ship, and Ned proffered his sixpence, the men wouldn’t let him pay it, but helped him up the side through the entrance port, when he found himself, for the first time, on the main-deck of a man-of-war. While Bill Hudson went to find the proper person to take him to the officers for examination, he was lost in wonder, looking at the huge guns, with their polished gear, the countless number, it seemed, of boys and men moving about—all so cleanly and neatly dressed—and the spotless decks, white as a wooden platter.

At length he was summoned. He trembled with agitation, for he felt so dirty, and poor, and miserable, that he thought the officers, when they saw him, would quickly turn him out of the ship again. The first lieutenant, however, important as he looked, seemed pleased with his appearance and manner; the surgeon pronounced him a healthy, able-bodied lad, fit for the service; but he had brought no certificates of parentage or age. Had he his parents’ permission to come to sea? he was asked. They were both dead: he had no friends; but he produced a tin case which had been his father’s. The contents showed that the owner had been a petty officer in the navy, and had borne an excellent character. But another question was put; could he read and write? (No boys could be received at that time unless they possessed those accomplishments.) Poor Ned had to confess that he was ignorant of both arts.

He was finally rejected. There was no help for it; though, as his father’s certificate-case was returned to him, the officers expressed a hope that he might be some day accepted, if he could learn.

He went forward, much dejected, to find Bill Hudson; for this was but small consolation to him. How could he learn to read and write, when all his strength would be required to obtain food for his subsistence? So he thought.

Bill heard his account of what had happened.

“If you had said that you couldn’t read and write, I could have told you what would happen. But, don’t be cast down, Ned. Little more than three years ago, I couldn’t read nor write, and hadn’t shoes to my feet, and scarce a rag on my back. I was a poor outcast boy, without father or mother—no shelter for my head, and often no food to eat. I picked up a living as I could, holding horses, running errands, when anybody would trust me. I didn’t steal, but I was often and often very near doing so, as I passed the butchers’, and fruiterers’, and bakers’ shops—just to fill my empty stomach. It wasn’t so much because I wouldn’t do it, as because I knew that they kept a sharp look-out, and I should have been caught. At last I thought I would try it on; and I didn’t care if I was sent to prison, for I should have been fed, at all events: but that very day a gentleman passing, saw me watching a stall, the owner of which had just left it, as if I was going to take whatever I could grab; and so I was. And he asked me if I was hungry; and he gave me a roll from his pocket, and then he asked me where I lived, and I said ‘Nowhere;’ and then he told me that if I would follow him he would show me where I could get food and shelter, and, might be, clothing and instruction, and means, too, of gaining my livelihood. Though I didn’t much credit him, I went; and he took me to the Field Lane Ragged School, as it is called; and there I found all he told me, and more. I soon showed them that I didn’t want to eat the bread of idleness, and they got me employment in the day, and in the evening I used to go regularly to the school, and sleep in the Refuge, till I earned enough, by working four days, to go to the day-school for two days; and I soon learned to read and write; and more than that, Ned, I learned what made me a Christian, which I wasn’t before I went there. For, I tell you, Ned, I was a heathen; I knew no more about God and his love for man than a block of stone; and I thought that he hated poor people, and sent them all to hell, and that there was no use being good. I did not know that it was sin brought the misery I saw around me into the world, and that God hates sin, but loves sinners; for if he doesn’t, he’d never have sent his only Son into the world to save them. At last I was asked what trade I would be, and I said, ‘A sailor;’ for I had been reading about the sea, and thought I should like to live on it. So they sent me down here, and I do like it, Ned, right well. And now I’ve told you all this, because I want to ask you if you’d like to go to Field Lane. I tell you it is a blessed place; and a blessed moment it was to me when I entered it. You’d learn to read and write, and be looked after, and learn to gain your daily bread, and be told about God and Jesus Christ, and how to be happy; and if you don’t know about them, you can’t be happy, that I tell you.”

Ned had been much surprised with all he had seen on board ship, but he was more surprised at what Bill told him, though in a different way. He said, certainly that he should like to go there, but how could he? Bill replied that “where there’s a will there’s a way.” Many of his shipmates had heard Ned’s history, and were interested in him; and he would speak to the first lieutenant and to some of the officers, who were kind, Christian men, and see what could be done.

Bill Hudson did do his best, and very effectual that was. He had acted as officer’s servant, and saved up some money; and he went round the ship and told Ned’s story; and all who heard it subscribed—some more and some less; and the officers, when they heard his proposal, subscribed very liberally. Ned was invited down to Bill’s mess, and never had he eaten so hearty a dinner.

“No wonder the sailors on board here grow stout and strong, if they have so good a dinner as this every day,” he observed.

“It’s the same every day. No banyan days with us, now, in the navy,” was the answer.

At last Bill Hudson’s plan was matured, and the power granted him for carrying it into execution. Ned was told he must stop on board for tea. In the evening Bill came to him triumphant.

“It’s all settled,” he exclaimed. “You see, Ned, it would never do for you to go up to big London all by yourself, and to wander about, not knowing your way; so I’ve got leave from the first lieutenant to go with you.”

“You—you go up to London with me; that will be good!” exclaimed Ned, delighted.

Ned slept on board, and, from the kind way he was treated, wished more than ever to go to sea. He was not aware—happily for himself—that he could have gone to sea, in the merchant service, without being able to read, and that only at that time, when it was resolved to raise the character of the men in the navy, that the rule with regard to reading and writing was enforced.

The next morning—Ned having been supplied, by the contributions of the sailors, with a suit of clothes, a pair of shoes, and a hat, and some shirts and other things in a bundle—the two lads left the ship, and took the first train to London. Bill would have gladly gone on foot, for the sake of economising his funds, so as to leave more with his new friend; but his leave extended only over three days, and he had many things to do.

The boys arrived in due time at London, and Bill employed as much time as he could in showing Ned about town. As evening drew on they repaired to Field Lane, and knocked for admission at the Refuge.

“What? William Hudson come back! What has happened to you, lad?” exclaimed the porter.

“Yes; it’s myself, sure enough. I’ve come back to ask for a night’s lodging, if there’s room, and to bring this boy, who wants one badly. Can I see the superintendent?”

“Yes, sure. You know the way, Bill; go on,” said the porter, in a kind tone.

The superintendent was very much pleased to see Bill Hudson, and more so to hear the story with which he introduced Ned Burton. He promised, gladly, to look after Ned, and, if he behaved well, to obtain regular employment for him in the neighbourhood.

Bill found, on calculating the amount of his funds, that he might leave some with the superintendent for Ned’s use.

“I don’t distrust you, Ned; but London is an awful wicked place; and if you kept the money, it might be stolen, and you almost murdered for the sake of it,” he observed.

The next day the lads went out together, that Bill might introduce Ned to some of the people who used to employ him. Some had forgotten him; some had gone away; but a few remembered him kindly, and promised to help Ned.

Ned could not help shedding tears when Bill wrung his hand, as he was about to start back for Portsmouth. Then, if it had not been for the Refuge, and the superintendent, and the good missionary, and the porter, he would indeed have felt very miserable and forlorn, in the big city; but Field Lane was now to him his home, indeed—his refuge from adversity.

He remembered, however, that he had to work; so he set about finding employment in good earnest. His decent dress and manner were in his favour; and he gained a few pence, though, being a stranger, not so much as he might have gained had he known the ways of London. At night he went back to the Refuge with a thankful heart, and commenced his schooling. He gave his mind to his task, though he found it very hard work, at first, even learning the letters. The next night it was easier, and he was soon able, when waiting for a job, to employ himself by spelling out the names over the shop doors and the words on the advertising papers. Sometimes he could get nothing to do, especially in very bad weather; and then he went to the industrial school at the Refuge, if it was open, or to the day-school; and here he began to understand the great truths about religion, of which he had before been entirely ignorant. To one of the missionaries, who was especially kind to him, he took a great fancy; and to this good man he used to go, whenever he had an opportunity, and ask him questions, and to listen to his addresses. He first here heard the glorious tidings that “God is love;” and as he saw that beautiful principle carried out in every department of the undertaking, he could not help saying, “Ay, truly, this is God’s work.”

In little more than a year he had learned, by diligent attention, not only to read well, but to write a fair hand, while he had added greatly to his religious and secular knowledge; and, above all, he had become a new creature in Christ Jesus.

One day he received a letter at the Refuge from Bill Hudson. Bill wrote that he had just arrived at Portsmouth in the frigate to which he now belonged, and that if Ned would come down at once, he would see him on board the old —, where he was sure that he would be received. Bill, moreover, enclosed a sovereign to pay for his journey.

Ned was sorry to leave the Refuge, and yet he rejoiced at the thought of being now able, as he had so long wished, to go to sea. His parting from his friends and journey to Portsmouth need not be described. Bill was at the station to meet him, and at once went with him on board the old —.

He was, without difficulty, accepted. Bill had advised him to show his father’s certificates. The first lieutenant spoke to him very kindly, when he saw them, and told him that he had known his father, who was a very good man, and he hoped that Ned would follow his example.

Ned Burton was no longer only a good-natured, well-meaning lad; he had now right principles to help him behave well; nor has he in any way disappointed the hopes of those who have taken an interest in his welfare.

Chapter Eight.

The Good Captain

The Mutiny at Spithead—An exception—Value of a Christian Captain—The Mutiny breaks out at Sheerness—Another loyal ship—The Mutiny quelled.

In the year 1797 an event occurred connected with the navy of England, which cannot even now be thought of without sorrow and shame. The crews of most of the ships of the Channel fleet then anchored at Spithead deposed their officers, and refused to proceed to sea, unless certain grievances of which they complained were redressed.

It must be remembered, however, that the seamen of those days were very uneducated—too often utterly ignorant of religious truth, and thus easily imposed upon by designing men. Their pay was scanty, the provisions served out to them often bad, and deficient in quantity, while no care was taken of their moral or spiritual welfare. Still no excuse can be offered for mutiny however much we may pity those who are induced to commit the crime in the hopes of obtaining redress for wrongs. The Christian must ever look to his Lord and Master, and be guided by His conduct under wrong and oppression. However, all the ships’ companies did not mutiny, and among those which remained faithful to their duty was the crew of the Saint Fiorenzo frigate, Captain Sir Harry Burrard Neale. How came this about? Was discipline less strict on board the Saint Fiorenzo? Were her crew allowed greater licence than those of other ships? Certainly not. But on board her the law of kindness, of mercy, and justice prevailed; on board many others it was too often neglected. However, an account of the behaviour of her crew on that trying occasion shall be given in the words of one who was then a midshipman on board her:—

“Our captain was one of the most upright and humane men in the service—a perfect officer and a perfect gentleman;” and a true, humble Christian, from whose mouth an oath never proceeded, whose lips never uttered a falsehood, might have been added. “He was a great favourite with George the Third, and the Saint Fiorenzo had consequently been appointed to attend on His Majesty during his summer sojourn at Weymouth. The King won the affection of both officers and men by his urbane and kind manners whenever he came on board. He used to call us up, and talk to us, lieutenants, midshipmen, and seamen alike, in the most familiar manner, taking an interest in our private histories, and all we had to say for ourselves. No wonder, then, that officers and men were loyal to the back-bone. Our captain, too, from the day he commissioned the ship, had, by his justice and kindness, done still more to make the officers and men love him. Few fathers would have been more thoughtful of the interests of their children than he was of the welfare of the men under his charge. On the 14th of April, 1797, the Saint Fiorenzo lay at Spithead, forming one of a large fleet under Lord Bridport. It was known that certain complaints had been sent up to the Admiralty by the ships’ companies, but little was thought of the matter by the officers, when some of the petty officers of the Saint Fiorenzo informed Sir Harry that the men of most of the ships had resolved to mutiny, if the complaints were not forthwith attended to. It was supposed that the documents received at the Admiralty were forgeries, or sent up by a few disaffected men. Sir Harry, however, on cross-questioning our people, was convinced that the petitions really did express the opinions of the seamen of the navy, and promising that he would make the true state of the case known, that very evening sent up an officer with despatches to London. The next day the mutiny broke out, and each ship’s company was directed to send representatives, called delegates, on board the Queen Charlotte. Sir Harry directed our ship’s company to select two of the most sensible and trustworthy of our men, Aynsley and Stanley, as their delegates, and they regularly informed him of all that was taking place. His representations had great weight at head-quarters; the more reasonable demands of the mutineers were granted, and the seamen returned to their duty.

“In the meantime we received orders to fit out at Sheerness, to carry over the Princess Royal to Cuxhaven, after her marriage with the Duke of Wurtemburg. That no time might be lost, the guns on both sides, from the cabin door to the break of the poop, were sent down into the hold, that the carpenters might begin fitting up the cabins, thus crippling our powers as a fighting ship.

“On our arrival at Sheerness, great was our astonishment at finding the red flag—the signal of mutiny—flying on board the Sandwich. It being supposed that her crew had not been informed of what had taken place at Spithead, our delegates were sent to explain matters. On getting on board they were disgusted to find that fresh demands had been made on the Government by the crews of the North Sea fleet, of a nature so frivolous that they were not at all likely to be granted. Our men, it appeared, expressed their views in a very unguarded way, and in no courteous language. This enraged Parker—the unhappy man who had assumed the command of the fleet—and the other ringleaders, and our ship’s company became marked as disaffected to the common cause. From the information our delegates gave on their return, it was suspected that the mutineers intended removing our officers. In consequence, Sir Harry resolved immediately to quit the fleet and to run into the harbour of Sheerness.

“Near us lay the Clyde, an old fellow-cruiser, commanded by Captain Cunningham, who had, also, by kindness and justice, won the confidence and affection of his crew. An arrangement was accordingly made between the two captains and the ship’s companies, that they would make the attempt together, and share each other’s fortune.

“Neither of our pilots, however, through fear or treachery, would take charge of the ships. At this juncture Captain Cunningham went on board the Chatham yacht, which lay near, for Mr William Bardo, one of her mates with whose fitness for the task he was acquainted. Mr Bardo undertook the task of piloting the Clyde, and as she was the inshore ship, she was to move first. We watched her with intense anxiety. She cast the right way, and before one of the ships in the power of the mutineers could make sail after her, she was safe from pursuit. Not having a pilot we could trust, and the tide now being unfavourable, Sir Harry decided to wait till the suspicions of the mutineers might be lulled. Our anxiety was relieved when, soon after dusk, Mr Bardo, sent by Captain Cunningham, came off to us in a small boat to pilot us in. Just, however, as we were preparing to move the next morning, a body of the delegates came on board, and, abusing our men for allowing the Clyde to escape without firing into her, ordered them to bring the Saint Fiorenzo in and place her between the Inflexible and Director, to unbend our sails, and to send our gunpowder on board the Sandwich, the flag-ship of the so-called Admiral Parker. So enraged were our people with these orders, that one of the quarter-masters, John Aynsley, came aft, and in the name of the ship’s company, begged that they might heave the delegates overboard.

“Sir Harry, however, to whom all matters were referred, while he sat quietly in his cabin out of sight, ordered our delegates to express their readiness to comply with Admiral Parker’s orders; and at length the mutineers, satisfied that we were about to do as directed, left the ship.

“As soon as they were gone, we got springs on our cable, so as to cast inwards, and all was made ready to run, as was at first intended, into Sheerness. In heaving, however, the spring broke, and we cast outward. The effect of this was to carry us right among the mutinous fleet.

“At this critical juncture, Sir Harry, whose presence of mind never forsook him, directed one of the quartermasters to appear on deck as if in command, while he and all the officers concealed themselves in different parts of the ship—he posting himself so that he could, unseen, issue his orders. In a moment every sail was sheeted home, and we stood in between the two line-of-battle ships, which, as the delegates had told us, had all their guns double shotted, while their crews stood ready, lanyards in hand, to sink us with their broadsides.

“On we stood, the ship gathering good way, when, as we got in among the mutinous fleet, Sir Harry gave the order to let fly all the sheets. This so completely took the mutineers by surprise that they, believing the ship was coming about, did not fire a shot at us. Sir Harry then ordered the helm to be put ‘hard a port,’ which caused the ship to shoot ahead of the Inflexible and clear of her. He immediately sprang on deck, crying out, ‘Well done, my lads!’ A loud murmur of applause was heard fore and aft along the deck, but we had no time for cheering. ‘Now clear away the bulk-heads, and mount the guns,’ he added. Scarcely were the words out of his mouth, than the whole fleet of thirty-two sail opened their fire. The shot fell thick as hail around us on every side. The men stood at their stations without flinching. Of course it would have been worse than useless to have returned their fire.

“On we stood. Never ship passed through such a fire so slightly scathed. Not that we escaped altogether; now a shot struck us, now another. The Director alone might have sunk us; but, as far as we could judge, not a shot came from her. Some believed that her crew, struck with admiration at the heroism displayed by our people, fired wide, or did not put shot into their guns. Though we were repeatedly hulled, not a rope was shot away, nor was any one hurt on board. God in his mercy, working as he thinks fit to work through human agency, protected us. Everybody was labouring with a will, and in two hours we had our decks clear, our guns mounted, and were in a perfect state of preparation to meet a foe.

“No sooner was this done than the men came aft in a body, and begged Sir Harry that should any of the mutinous fleet come up with us, they might be allowed to go down at their guns rather than return to the Nore. The captain promised them that they should have their wish: at which they seemed as contented as if some great favour had been done them.

“As yet, however, there were no signs of our being pursued: though shortly the determination of our men was to be put to the test.

“Sir Harry had resolved to return to Portsmouth, and when just off the mouth of the Thames a fleet of men-of-war hove in sight. They approached with the red flag at their mast-heads. This was the North Sea fleet, with the admiral and all the officers under arrest.

“No sooner were we seen than a frigate bore down on us. That we could escape her was doubtful; and though we could have beaten her off had we fired, we should have brought the rest of the fleet down on us. Sir Harry, therefore, gave the speaking-trumpet to Stanley, and directed him to answer the questions of the mutineers. His replies seemed satisfactory, for the frigate, hauling her wind, rejoined the fleet. Scarcely had we lost sight of the North Sea fleet, than we spoke a brig, which gave us the astounding information that the mutiny had again broken out at Spithead. We therefore, just as it was growing dark, anchored under Dungeness, with springs on our cables, prepared for an attack.

“Towards the end of the middle watch, a large ship, as she appeared, was seen bearing down towards us. The crew, believing her to be a foe, again came aft, and repeated their request to be allowed to sink, rather than surrender to the mutineers. The private signals were made: they were answered; but that was no security, as the mutineers would of course have possessed themselves of them. The drum beat to quarters. It was a time of awful suspense. The wind was very light. The stranger closed slowly. Many asserted that she was a line-of-battle ship. As the light from our fighting-lanterns beamed forth from every port, it was easily seen what we were. Our springs were hove on, to keep our broadside to bear. Our captain hailed; breathless, we waited for a reply. The answer was, ‘H.M.S. Huzzar, Captain Lord Garlais, from the West Indies.’ Coming from a long voyage, she was high out of the water, which made her appear, in the gloom, like a line-of-battle ship. When his people, who had heard nothing of the mutiny, were acquainted with what had occurred, they were so much struck with the bravery and determination of our ship’s company, that they promised to stick by us, and share our fate if attacked by the mutineers. Not many days after this, Parker and his associates were allowed by the seamen they had misled to be carried on shore by a file of soldiers, without opposition, and the mutiny was brought to an end.”

The last years of that good captain, who had been the friend and companion of princes—who had so often in battle met the enemies of his country, were spent in visiting the cottages of the poor surrounding his house, telling them of the Saviour’s love, carrying them food and clothing, and other comforts, and never failing to speak kind words of comfort and advice.

But we must not pause here. Some important lessons are to be learnt from this narrative. See how the law of love and kindness, combined with justice, prevails, where harshness and severity fail. The crews of the Saint Fiorenzo and Clyde were composed of the same class of men as those of the ships which mutinied; yet the latter basely struck their colours, and the former were ready to die for their officers.

Let us ask ourselves, how do we rule in our families—over those placed under us? By the rule of our merciful Saviour, or by the rule of the world, of our own tempers—that is, the flesh—or of the devil?

See, again, by the way the crew of the Huzzar behaved, what a good example can effect. If we adhere to the Captain of our Salvation—firmly and boldly confess him—we may be assured that we not only shall gain the respect of our associates, but, which is of far more consequence, that we shall bring over others to love and confess him also.

Then, again, can we, after reading this account, think without sorrow and confusion of the way we have behaved to our heavenly King and Captain? We are told that because the king spoke to the officers and crew of the Saint Fiorenzo in a kind manner, taking an interest in their private histories, they were loyal to the backbone. Does not our heavenly King and Father speak to us daily, through the Holy Scriptures, words full of kindness, love, and mercy? Surely he does, if we will but diligently read that Book of books. He allows us, too, as no earthly king can do, to go to him daily—every hour—every moment of our lives. His ear is ever open to our prayers—he who keeps Israel neither slumbers nor sleeps—to tell him our private histories—our wants, our wishes, our hopes; to confess to him all we have done amiss—all our sins. And, moreover, he promises us that if we repent of them, and trust to the cleansing blood of Jesus, he will forgive them freely and fully, and give us what no earthly monarch can give, eternal life, and raise us to dwell with him in happiness unspeakable, for ever and ever.

Chapter Nine.

The Smuggler’s Fate

The smuggler’s wife—Hanson starts on his trip—His wife’s anxiety—The Revenue Officers approach—The smugglers take to the water—The fight—A fearful end.

“Good-bye, Susan—good-bye, my wife. I’ll bring thee over a silk gown, and such Brussels lace as you’ve never yet set eyes on. It will make a lady of you; and you’re not far off being one now, to my mind, so don’t fret—don’t fret, Susan, dear.”

These words were uttered by Robert Hanson, a fine sailor-like-looking man. And a bold seaman he was, indeed; but was also unhappily known to be one of the most daring smugglers on the coast. Having kissed his wife affectionately, and knelt down by the side of the cradle in which their infant slept, to bestow another kiss on its smiling lips, he hurried from the cottage.

Susan looked after him sorrowfully. She had entreated him, over and over again—not as earnestly as she might, perhaps—to give up his dangerous and lawless occupation, and with a laugh he had told her that each trip should be his last. Did it never occur to him how his promise might be fulfilled? It did to Susan; and often and often she had trembled at the thought. She had been brought up by praying parents, and had been taught from her childhood to pray, but she could not pray now—she dared not—she felt it would be a mockery. She was wrong, though. She could not pray that God would protect her husband in his lawless occupation, but she might have prayed that her merciful Father in heaven would change his heart—would lead him from the paths of sin, and put a right spirit within him, even although he might be brought to poverty, and she might no longer enjoy the luxuries which he allowed her. She was sure, however, that he could make, by a lawful calling, enough for all their wants; whereas a large portion of what he now gained was spent in feasting and treating with open hand his smuggling companions; so at the end of the year, except for the dresses and other articles which were utterly useless to Susan, they were very little the better for all his toil and the many fearful risks he had run. She stood watching him with tearful eyes and a foreboding heart, as he descended the cliff on which their cottage stood.

Bob, as Hanson was called by his companions, looked in at three or four of the huts which formed the fishing village at the foot of the cliff, and gave sundry directions to their inmates. The answer he received from all of them was much the same: “Never fear, captain, we’ll be ready.”

“You understand, Dore,” he said, stopping at one of the huts for some little time, “you’ll be on the look-out for us on Tuesday night at Durlstone Point. Now mind you also tell Green, the landlord of the ‘Jolly Tar,’ to have the two covered carts there, with his fastest horses and trusty men to drive—Bill Snow and Tom Thatcher—they are true men; but not that fellow Dennis—he’ll bring the Coast Guard down on us one of these days, you’ll see, if we trust him—and take care that we’ve no lack of hands to run the cargo up the cliff.”

Such were some of the directions Hanson gave to his confederates. He then, with active steps, proceeded to a small harbour at a little distance along the shore, where a fast-looking cutter of about forty tons lay at anchor. He hailed her. A preventive man (as the revenue officers are called), with his spyglass under his arm, passed him.

“What, Bob, off again?” he said, in a careless tone; “we’ll be on the look-out for you, if you’ll tell us when you are coming back.”

“May be next week, or the week after, or a month from this; but thank you all the same,” answered Bob, laughing, as he stepped into the punt which came for him. As soon as he was on board, the Saucy Sue made sail for the French shore, and, under a crowd of canvas, was soon out of sight.

It was soon known at each preventive station along the coast that Bob Hanson was away in the Saucy Sue, and might ere long be expected back with a cargo of contraband. A sharp look-out was accordingly kept for him. Often and often before this, however, he had been expected, but the goods had been run, notwithstanding, and the Saucy Sue having appeared in the offing, had come into the harbour without an article of contraband on board, Bob and his crew looking innocent as lambs.

Tuesday came. Susan knew that on that night the attempt to run the cargo was to be made. There was no moon. The sun set red and lowering over Durlstone Point, and dark clouds were seen chasing each other rapidly across the sky, rising from a dark bank which rested on the western horizon, while white-crested seas began to rise up out of the sombre green ocean, every instant increasing in number. The wind whistled mournfully among the bushes and the few stunted trees, with tops bending inland, which fringed the cliffs, and the murmur of the waves on the beach below changed ere long into a ceaseless roar.

Susan sat in her cottage, watching the last rays of the setting sun as her foot rocked her baby’s cradle. She knew well the path to Durlstone Point along the cliffs. No longer able to restrain her anxiety (why more excited than usual on that evening, she could not have told), she left her child in charge of her young sister, who had come in to see her, and hurried out. The clouds came up thicker and thicker from the south-west, and the darkness rapidly increased. She had good reason to dread falling over the cliff. Several times she contemplated turning back; but the thought of her husband’s danger urged her on. “If I could find the spotsman, Ned Dore, I would beseech him to warn the cutter off,” she said to herself; “it can never be done on a night like this.” She went on till she came to a dip, or gulley, when a break in the cliff occurred. A steep path led down the centre to the beach. She heard the sound of wheels, with the stamp of horses’ feet, as if the animals had started forward impatiently and been checked, and there was also the murmur of several voices. Suddenly a light flashed close to her.

“Oh, Ned Dore, is that you?” she exclaimed. “Don’t let them land to-night; there’ll be harm come of it.”

“No fear, Mrs Hanson,” said Dore, recognising her voice. “All’s right—the cutter has made her signal, and I have answered it. Couldn’t have a better time. The revenue men are all on the wrong scent, and we’ll have every cask a dozen miles from this before they are back. Just you go home, good woman, and your husband will be there before long.”

Susan, however, had no intention of leaving the spot. Again she entreated Dore, almost with tears, to warn off the cutter, alleging that there was already too much surf on the beach to allow the boats to land with safety. Dore almost angrily again refused, declaring that the cutter had already begun to unload, and that the boats would soon be in. Seeing that her entreaties were useless, she sat herself down on a rock jutting out of the cliff, and tried to peer into the darkness. She waited for some time, when footsteps were heard, and one of the men posted to watch, came running in with the information that a party of the revenue were approaching. Dore, coming up to her, pulled her by force below the rock on which she had been sitting. The other men concealed themselves under the bushes—among other rocks and in holes in the cliff—the lights were extinguished, and the carts were heard moving rapidly away. Not a word was spoken—the men held in their breath as the revenue officers approached. Poor Susan almost fainted with dread—not for herself, but for her husband. Where was he all the time? She knew too well the smugglers’ mode of proceeding not to have good cause for fear.

“It was off here, sir, I saw the light flash,” Susan heard one of the men say. “There is a road a little further up, and the cart wheels we heard must have passed along it.”

“It is a likely spot, and must be watched.”

Susan recognised the voice of the last speaker as that of Mr Belland, the new lieutenant of the Coast Guard, reputed to be an active officer.

“Do you, Simpson and Jones, station yourselves on the top of the cliff, and fire your pistols if you see anything suspicious,” he said. “Wait an hour, and then move back to your beats—there will be sea enough on by that time to save us further trouble.”

“Ay, ay, sir,” was the brief answer.

The two preventive men took up their stations, one of them directly above where Susan was crouching down, and the lieutenant and his party moved on.

While these events were taking place on shore, the Saucy Sue had approached the coast. Her usual signal was made and answered in a satisfactory manner, and preparations for landing the cargo were forthwith commenced. There were among it silks and other valuable articles, carefully packed in water-tight casks. The rest consisted of spirits in casks, two of which a man could carry on his shoulders. The casks were now secured together by ropes in separate parcels, eighteen or two dozen in each, and lowered overboard. The cutter’s two boats then took them in tow, and approached the beach. As they drew near, a small light, shown for an instant, warned them that the preventive men were on the alert. A weight sufficient to moor each parcel was on this dropped overboard, and the boats hung on to them.

“We must try the old dodge,” said Hanson, after waiting for some time. “I’ll take three parcels—Tom and Bill, you take the rest; we’ve never missed that way.”

Saying this, he threw off his outer clothing, the two men he spoke to did the same, and all three slipping overboard, took hold of the tow-lines attached to the casks. The boats returned to the cutter, and were hoisted on board; after which, letting draw her fore-sheet, she stood out at sea. Hanson and his daring companions, buoyed up with a few corks under their arms, and knives in their hands to cut the casks from the moorings, remained with their heads just above the water, watching for the signal to tow them in. There they remained, their eager eyes turned towards the cliff—the dark sky above them, the foaming waters around. Every instant their position became more perilous; for as the tide rose, the ledge of rocks to the westward no longer afforded them the protection it had done at first, and the seas came rolling in, and the surf broke more and more heavily every instant.

Could they pray for help? No. They knew well that they were engaged in unlawful work—that they were breaking the laws of their country—refusing to render to Caesar the things that were Caesar’s. Such was the picture the poor wife beheld in her mind’s eye, as she gazed down into the dark waters, where she well knew that her husband then was.

Slowly the anxious hour passed away. The preventive men, however, still seemed suspicious that all was not right, and lingered at their posts. They at last hailed each other, and held a conversation in a low tone. They were close to where two of the men lay hid. Susan, in addition to her other cause of alarm, dreaded that an act of violence would be committed, if they did not move off. The preventive men would fire their pistols, certainly; but there still might be time for the tubs to be landed, and the smugglers to make their escape, before the rest of the Coast Guard could reach the spot. Her alarm increased when she found that Dore had crept away.

What she dreaded happened. The two preventive men came down into the hollow, as if about to descend to the beach. Suddenly they were set upon by a dozen men. One fired his pistol, the other was knocked down before he could draw a weapon from his belt. The first fought desperately, but a blow from a hanger brought him to the ground, where he lay mortally wounded. The arms of the other were pinioned, his mouth gagged, and the smugglers rushed down to the beach.

The signal was now made to Hanson and his companions. The smugglers waited to allow time for them to come in, every instant dreading the return of the Coast Guard. At length a cry was heard, “Help, help!” Several of the most daring rushed into the water. First one of Hanson’s companions was dragged on shore, almost exhausted. The tubs were drawn in, and rapidly carried up the cliff. The second man was next found; but he had abandoned his tubs, and was more dead than alive. But where was Hanson himself?

Susan had found her way down to the beach. No one noticed her.

“I’m afraid the captain is gone. It was his plan, but a desperately dangerous one,” she heard one of the men say. She stood speechless with terror.

Just then a light flashed from the cliff above.

“Each man for himself,” was the cry, as the smugglers made their escape up the only path open to them.

She stood alone on the sand, with the seas roaring up to her feet. She heard footsteps approaching. “Oh! where—where is my husband?” she cried out.

“I don’t know, missus; but murder has been committed, and some one has done it.” It was one of the preventive men spoke.

Daylight at length broke. A tangled mass of tubs and rope, and a human form attached to them, was seen surging up and down in the foaming breakers. It was dragged on shore, and the poor young widow sank senseless on her husband’s body.

Chapter Ten.

The Indian Mother, a tale of the Rocky Mountains

The half-breed trapper La Touche—His wife Kamela—Their children—They are sent on an expedition—The encampment—Attacked by Blackfeet, and the men slain—The young widow flies—Almost captured—back to the fort—The refuge destroyed!—Wolves—Further flight—Refuge at last.

Great Britain possesses the sovereignty over a rich extent of country, extending from the Atlantic on the east to the Pacific on the west. Beyond the further shore of Lake Superior is found a region of lakes and rapid rivers, rocks, hills, and dense wood, extending for about 400 miles, nearly up to the Red River or Selkirk settlement. To the west of this, a rich prairie stretches far away up to the foot of the Rocky Mountains, from which the Saskatchewan descends, and, soon becoming a broad river, flows rapidly on to Lake Winnepeg. Other streams descending, find their way into the Polar Sea, or Hudson’s Bay. On the west, the Columbia, the Fraser, and others flow, with very eccentric courses, into the Pacific. Besides this, there are numerous lakes divided from each other, in many instances, by lofty mountains and thick forests.

Over the whole of this extensive region the Hudson’s Bay Company held, for many years, undivided sway, and kept in its employment large numbers of men—voyageurs, or canoe-men, and hunters—both whites of European descent (chiefly French Canadians), and also half-breeds and Red Indians. The country was inhabited by several nations of Indians, some known as Wood Indians, others as Prairie Indians and these again were divided into tribes or clans, frequently at war with each other; and these wars were cruel in the extreme, often exterminatory, neither age nor sex being spared. Their dress was skins, embroidered with beads, feathers, and porcupine quills. They painted their faces and ornamented their hair in a fantastic manner. Their weapons were the bow and arrow, spears, and hatchets. Their canoes were of birch-bark; their habitations, huts, or wigwams, either of a conical shape, or like a basin reversed, and formed of buffalo-skins and birch-bark. The Indians of the prairie possessed horses, and hunted the buffalo. Those of the woods, having few horses, lived chiefly on deer and smaller game, and cultivated potatoes and Indian corn. They believed in one Great and Good Spirit, and in the existence of numerous evil spirits, whom they feared and endeavoured to propitiate. Missionaries, however, went among them, and many have been brought out of darkness to a knowledge of the truth.

Among the most interesting of the tribes in British North America and the west of the Rocky Mountains are the Cootonais. They are handsome, above the middle size, and, compared with other tribes, remarkably fair; in conversation candid, in trade honest, brave in battle, and devotedly attached to each other and to their country. Polygamy is unknown among them. The greatest neatness and cleanliness are observable about their persons and lodges.

It was among this tribe that Pierre La Touche, a brave young half-breed trapper, sought for a wife. He had not long to wait before he found a maiden whose charms captivated his heart; besides which, she was an accomplished manufacturer of mocassins, snow-shoes, and garments of every description; she could also ride a horse and paddle or steer a canoe; she was fearless in danger, and she had, indeed, been greatly tried; once especially, when a party of Blackfeet, the hereditary enemies of her tribe, had made their way over the mountains to recover some horses which her people had captured. The Cootonais claimed the right of hunting the buffalo to the east of the Rocky Mountains, on the prairies which the Blackfeet considered belonged exclusively to themselves. This was naturally a fertile source of dispute.

Kamela, or the “Young Fawn,” the name given to the damsel selected by La Touche, had been well trained to endure all the hardships and privations to which a hunter’s wife is invariably exposed.

The usual ceremonies having been gone through, the young Kamela went to La Touche’s tent, and became his most loving and devoted wife. He treated her, not as the Indians would—as a slave, but as an equal and a friend, except in the presence of her countrymen, when he assumed the stern, indifferent manner with which they treat their wives. La Touche did not long remain idle; but away over the mountains, and down streams and rapids, across lakes, and through dense forests, he had to travel to join a band of the fur-trading company to which he belonged. Here four or five years of his life were spent; and the once-graceful Kamela had become a mother, with two fine children—Moolak, a boy, and a little Kamela.

One day, towards the end of the year, La Touche received orders to join Mr McDonald, a factor, with several other men, to assist in establishing a fort on one of the streams which run into the Fraser River. The spot selected was on a high bluff, with the river flowing at its base. The fort was of a simple construction. It was surrounded by a palisade of stout timbers, fixed deeply in the ground, and united by cross-bars, further strengthened by buttresses, and loop-holed for musketry, with a few light guns to sweep the fort should the enemy break in. The interior consisted of log-huts and storehouses. Such is the style of most of the fur-trading forts. To these forts the Indian hunters bring their furs at periodical seasons, and receive fire-arms and ammunition, tobacco, blankets, hatchets, knives, and other articles in return; and too often, also, the deadly “fire-water.”

The fort being finished, the hunters were sent off in parties in different directions to search for game—either for food, or for the furs of the animals. Mr McDonald, sending for La Touche, told him that he must proceed to a spot at the distance of about five days’ journey, with provisions for six weeks, accompanied by two other men. “We will take care of your wife and children till you return,” he added.

“No, thank you, sir; I prefer having my wife’s society. We have gone through many hardships and dangers together; and she will be happier with me, and safer than in the fort,” answered the hunter.

“How so, La Touche?” asked the factor.

“Why, sir, I mean that we have enemies—that it is possible the fort may be attacked; and that, if you are not very vigilant, it may be captured by treachery, if not by force,” answered La Touche.

“You are plain spoken; but you need not be alarmed about our safety. I have not lived among these Red Skins for eight years or more, without knowing their habits and tricks,” answered Mr McDonald. “However, by all means, take your wife and children with you: you can have horses to convey them.”

La Touche, thanking the good-natured factor, set off with his companions and wife and children. His wife, from habit, marked well the way they took; indeed, from constantly accompanying her husband, she knew the country as well as he did. They met on their way natives of two or three of the neighbouring tribes; but, as they were well mounted and armed, no one molested them. They had rivers to ford, and hills to climb, and there were woods through which, occasionally, to save a long round, they had to hew their way.

At length the party reached the hunting-ground to which the factor had directed them. Wigwams were erected—conical shaped, and covered with birch-bark—in a nook of the dense grove of cedars, where they would be sheltered from the icy winds of the north; one for La Touche and his family, the other for their companions. While the men went out hunting, Kamela remained at home to cook their provisions, and to look after her children; she also set cunningly-devised traps in the neighbourhood of the wigwams, over which she could watch. She never failed to have a good supper prepared for the hunters on their return home in the evening. She was one evening employed as usual, now lulling her little girl to sleep as the infant lay in its hammock in the wigwam, now attending to the simmering caldron, her quick ear ever on the watch for the footstep of her husband. Suddenly she started. “That is not Pierre’s footstep,” she muttered; “it is that of a stranger—no; it is Michel’s. Alas! he is wounded.”

Her fears were not unfounded. In another minute, Michel, one of the hunters, staggered into her hut, fearfully wounded. No sooner had he entered, than he sank on the ground gasping for breath.

“Fly!” he said; “they are both dead—your husband and Thomas. The Blackfleet have done it. Take the horses—ride direct to McDonald’s fort—tell him—Oh! this pain! water, good Kamela!”

Before, however, the water reached his lips, the faithful hunter, who had thus exerted his last remaining strength to save, if possible, the life of his friend’s wife and children, fell back, and died.

Kamela lost not a moment in giving way to unavailing grief. Michel’s condition too fearfully corroborated his account to allow her to doubt it. Hurrying out, she caught with much difficulty two of the horses; putting a pack on one and a saddle on the other, she loaded the first with her blankets and two buffalo-robes, with some dried salmon and beaver-flesh and flour, and on the other she mounted with her boy before her and little Kamela at her back, and set off at a rapid rate in the direction of McDonald’s fort.

She rode as she had never before ridden, scarcely daring to look behind lest she should see some of her dreaded enemies in pursuit. Not for herself did she fear—he that had bound her to earth was gone—but she feared for her beloved little ones, who might fall into the hands of her remorseless foes. Night was rapidly drawing on. The ground was covered with snow. It was bitterly cold; but she was afraid to light a fire, lest it might betray her to those who she was persuaded would be on the search for her. With her axe she quickly cut some boughs and stripped off sufficient bark to form a shelter, and wrapping herself and her children in the blankets she had brought, and tethering the horses close to her, she lay down to wait till morning light should enable her to pursue her journey. Sleep did not visit her eyelids, but anxiously she listened the livelong night for any sounds which might indicate the approach of foes. A wandering pack of wolves might have discovered her; and as she had only a long knife, which she had brought away to defend herself, her prospect of escape was small indeed.

Daylight came at last, and at the first grey streak of light in the eastern sky she was again mounted as before, and on her way towards the fort. She did not draw rein except when necessary to stop and feed the horses. If enemies were following her, she began to hope that she had distanced them. Choosing for her camp at night a sheltered spot in a deep hollow, she ventured to light a small fire, at which she could warm her own and her little one’s benumbed limbs and dress some food. She slept, too; but still so heavy was her heart, that she would have welcomed death but for the little ones at her side.

Kamela, too, had a hope beyond the grave. Confused as her notions probably were, she had learned from her husband that the Great Spirit, who made the world, is a God of love, and holiness and purity; that it is not His will that any should perish; that it was man’s disobedience brought sin, and suffering, and death into the world, and that God’s Own Son came into the world that He might triumph over both. Kamela could, therefore, pray intelligently to that Great Spirit through His Son, who died for the sins of the whole world, for protection and support. Not often has a person been placed in greater peril than was that young Indian woman.

On the evening of the third day, just as she had reached the brow of a hill, she saw galloping towards her a band of warriors. She knew at a glance that they were foes. She trusted that she had not been seen. Rapidly turning her horses round, she galloped down the hill into the thickest part of the wood. Again she watched. The Indians, instead of ascending the hill, as she feared they might do, kept along the valley, and thus did not discover her trail. She emerged from her concealment, and, as long as light lasted, pushed on towards the fort. Once there, she trusted that food and shelter would be found for her little ones. More than once little Moolak asked for his father. Only then did tears start to her eyes. She replied, “He has gone to be with the Great Spirit. We shall go to him some day.”

The neighbourhood of the fort was reached; her loved ones would be in safety. She drew in her rein. Anxiously she looked towards the bluff on which the fort had been built. “Surely, it rose above yonder clump of bushes,” she said to herself.

She approached cautiously. With a sinking heart she gazed at the spot where the fort had stood. It was there no longer, and, in its place, heaps of charred timber and ashes, the smoke from which still ascended to the sky. There could be no doubt that the fort had been destroyed; perhaps even the enemy were yet in the neighbourhood. Still, some of her friends might have escaped. She turned silently away, resolving to visit the spot as soon as the shades of night should veil her approach. At some little distance was a thick cluster of trees. Retreating to it, she carefully concealed the children and the horses. Then, lying down with her little ones, she waited, with her ear close to the ground, for the return of night.

The hours passed slowly. Not a sound broke the stillness of the evening, save that made by the horses as they stirred up the snow to get at the fresh grass and hay and leaves beneath. She fed her children—they were too well trained to cry out—and, kissing them, and offering up a silent prayer that they may be protected, she set out on her perilous expedition. Her only weapon, besides her axe, was a long knife. Gathering her garments tightly round, as she neared the spot where the fort had stood, she crept silently up. The palisades and log huts were still smouldering, but no human voice could she hear. Cautiously at first, and then louder and louder, she called out the names of Mr McDonald and those she had left with him in the fort. Breathlessly she listened—no one answered to the summons. Again and again she called. A strange cry reached her ears: she knew it well. A sudden breeze at that moment fanned up the embers, and by the bright flames which burst forth she beheld, in the farther-off corner of the fort, a band of prairie wolves wrangling and fighting over a banquet, the nature of which she guessed too well. To that part it was evident her friends had retired, with their faces to the foe, and fought till brought down by overwhelming numbers. At that sad moment a new fear seized her—the cry of the prairie wolf reached her from another point: it came from the wood where she had left her children. She panted with agitation, with dread. Maternal love gave wings to her feet: she flew rather than ran back. She sprang over the fallen logs: she dashed aside the boughs in her way, regardless of the wounds they inflicted. She caught sight of two large wolves stealing towards her children. Were they the first, or had others got there before them? She shrieked out—she shouted—she dashed forward with her weapon to meet the savage brutes. In another moment they would have reached her sleeping infants; but, not waiting her approach, they fled, howling, to join the rest of the pack at the fort. Her children were safe: she clasped them to her bosom. They were all, now, that remained to her on earth. For their sake she resolved to struggle on. But she had a fearful prospect before her. Hundreds of miles from any civilised beings, or from any tribe of natives on whose friendship she could rely; without means of procuring food, starvation stared her in the face. Yet she did not despair. She had the two horses: they must die. She might, perhaps, trap some animals; she must also build a habitation to shelter herself and her little ones. There was work enough before her.

She revolved these matters in her mind during the night. By early dawn she mounted her horse, and, leading the other, rode away from the fatal spot. For two days she travelled on, till she reached a range of hills, among which she believed that she should be safe from discovery. She knew too well that, should she encounter any of her husband’s foes, neither her sad history nor her sex could save her from the most cruel treatment—scarcely, indeed, from death. At last she reached the locality she sought, and fixed her abode in a deep hollow in the side of the hill facing the sunny south. She had brought with her some buffalo-robes and deer-skins: with these and a few cedar-branches, and some pine and other bark, she constructed a wigwam by the side of a sparkling stream which burst forth from the mountain-side.

No game was to be found, and she was compelled to kill the horses, and smoke-dry their flesh. Their skins added somewhat to the comfort of her hut. For three weary months the poor widow, with her orphans, dragged on a sad existence. She saw her stock of food decreasing, and she might have to travel far on foot before she could reach a place where more could be obtained. May had arrived, and there was no time to be lost; so, packing the remainder of her horse-flesh, with as many of her blankets, and buffalo-robes, and other articles as she could carry, with her youngest child on her back, while she led the other, she commenced her weary march across that wild region of mountains, forests, and streams now known as British Columbia. To no human being had she spoken since her husband’s dying comrade warned her to fly.

For days she toiled on over the rough ground, often having to carry the little Moolak, in addition to his sister. She had barely food sufficient for another day, when several grey wreaths of smoke ascending from a valley told her that a band of friends or foes were encamped below. She hesitated to approach them. “They may be foes; and if they are, will they spare me, wretched though I am?” she said to herself. She looked at her children. “I have no more food for them; I must venture on.”

Emerging from a thick wood, she saw close before her a large encampment. She staggered forward, and stood trembling amid the camp. A chief stepped forward from his wigwam and listened to her tale, which was soon told.

“You shall be a sister to us,” he answered. “Your people are our friends, and, still more, are your husband’s people. I will be as a father to your children. Fear not, sister. Here you shall find rest, and shelter, and food.”

The chief kept to his word, and the poor widow was treated with the greatest kindness by him and his people. The summer came, and a brigade of the company’s trading canoes passed down the river. The people landed, and spoke to her. She was known to several of them, and they invited her to accompany them. The Indians entreated her to remain with them. She thanked them and said, “No, I will go with my husband’s people. When I wedded him I became one of them. I wish, also, that his children should become like them, and be brought up in the faith to which he held.”

Wishing, therefore, the kind Indians farewell, she accompanied the voyageurs; and in the far-off settlement to the east, where she ultimately took up her abode under a Christian missionary, she herself learned more clearly to comprehend the truths of the Gospel whose gracious offers she had embraced, while by all around she was respected and beloved.

Chapter Eleven.

The Trawlers, a tale of the North Sea

The North Sea fleet—Sunday at the fishing ground—The Missionary Service—The gale—A mishap to the Sea-gull and her Captain—A crash—The Captain’s death—All lost but two boys—Doing one’s duty—Morning—Alone with a dead man—Breakfast—To the pumps—Saved at last.

A fleet of a hundred vessels or more lay together, dotting the surface of the German Ocean, or North Sea, as it is more generally called, upwards of 300 miles from the English shore. They were mostly luggers, of from sixty to eighty tons; each with a crew of from seven to nine men. These vessels formed a part of the North Sea fishing fleet, chiefly belonging to Great Yarmouth and the adjacent ports, engaged in trawling for turbot, soles, brill, and other flat fish, for the supply of the London market.

They had been out there for nearly three weeks, their wants being supplied, and the fish they had caught being taken away from them by several large cutters, which came out from Yarmouth laden with ice, in which the fish were packed, and thus conveyed to the Thames, or to the nearest railway terminus—thence to be transported to London, and dispersed by similar means all over the country. It was Sunday: some of the vessels had their sails set and their trawls down, their crews in their dirty week-day dresses standing ready to haul them on board. Other vessels, which had drawn close together, had their sails furled, their anchors down, and their trawl-nets hung up in the rigging to dry. A flag was flying at the mainmast-head on board two of them. The device was a figure with wings, and an open book with golden leaves in its hand, on a blue ground, and underneath, the words “Missions to Seamen.” These two vessels were somewhat apart, and boats from the others were pulling towards them. On board one of the other vessels—the Sea-gull—the crew were collected on deck, in their clean clothing, maybe not so neat and new as they might have worn on shore, however. The boat was alongside; the captain came on deck.

“Well, lads, who’ll go with me to worship God with our fellow-Christians?” he asked.

“What’s come over the old man, of late?” growled out one of the roughest-looking of the crew. “We used to do very well without all this praying and preaching; and I don’t see what good it’ll do us.”

One or two laughed: but no one answered.

“You’ll go, father,” said a young lad, Robby Starling, addressing another of the men. “You can’t tell what beautiful things are said; and then there’s praying and singing; it does one’s heart good to hear them sing. Come, father; come.”

“It’s time to shove off, lads,” said the old captain, looking round to see who would go.

Robby again pleaded with his father, who at length stepped into the boat with two other men, his son, another lad, and the captain.

The weather was calm and fine, so that it allowed of an awning to be stretched over the deck, under which seats were arranged for the accommodation of thirty or forty persons. The sailor missionary, who acted as mate of the missionary fishing-vessel, after appropriate prayers had been offered up and psalms sung, urged his hearers, in a loving manner, to accept the gracious offer of salvation while there was yet time.

All were impressed with this address; no one more so than Rob Starling’s father and the other men from the Sea-gull. Before leaving the vessel the elder Starling went to the missionary, begged him for his prayers, told him how heartily sorry he was for all his sins, and yet that he was sure his loving Saviour would wash them all away.

Notwithstanding the calmness of the morning, there had been indications all day of a change of weather; and just as the sun went down, the admiral (for so the most experienced captain of the fleet elected to that post is called) hoisted the signal for the vessels to return to port. As the fleet had a week or more to remain out, he had been unwilling to make the signal, though it might have been better had he done so earlier; but even the most experienced are at times mistaken as to the weather at sea.

Those who had been trawling all day hauled their trawls on board; and those which had been brought up, lifted their anchors, and all made sail together.

Before midnight a fierce gale was blowing from the westward, shifting now from the south-west, now from the north-west, and creating a heavy cross-sea. The fishing-vessels took different directions. Some stood to the north, some towards the south, endeavouring, as best they could, to beat up against the gale; but they were quickly dispersed here and there, so that the seamen on board the Sea-gull, with which we have to do, when they looked out into the gloom around, could not discover a single sail near them. Dark seas, with white, foaming crests, rose up on every side, threatening to fall over on the deck of the little vessel, and send her to the bottom. Now she rose to the summit of one of them now she sunk down into the deep trough between them; tumbling and pitching as if the sport of their fury. The lightning flashed vividly; the wind howled in the rigging; the waves roared, and ever and anon struck the vessel as if about to batter in her sides, sending the spray flying over her deck, wetting the crew (who stood holding on to the bulwarks or rigging) through and through.

There was a loud crash, followed by a groan: the mizen yard had parted, and, falling, had struck the old master, Captain Snow, to the deck. His men raised him up; he could not speak. He was carried below, where his injuries could be looked to.

“Robby, my son, do you and Bill Cuffe go below, and look after the old man; this is not a night for boys like you to be on deck,” said the elder Starling, who now took the command.

The boys gladly obeyed. Bill Cuffe proposed turning into their berths to go to sleep; but Robby said, “No! we were told to look after the captain.”

The men, by a sickly light of a lantern, examined the captain’s hurts, as he lay in his berth, but though they could not discover that any limb was broken, they soon saw that he was beyond their skill. They had, too, to hurry on deck to help repair the damage to the rigging. Soon after, Robby and Bill Cuffe heard the men on deck battening down the hatches; it was a sign that things were becoming even more serious than at first. The bulkheads below creaked; the seas thumped and thumped against the sides, and the Sea-gull tumbled and pitched about in every conceivable manner.

“What’s going to happen? ain’t we all going to the bottom?” asked Bill. “What shall we do, Robby?”

“Do our duty, Bill, whatever happens, as the missionary told us this morning; and pray to God to take care of us all aboard here,” answered Robby. “We’ve now to try to help the captain; I think I hear him speaking.”

The boys went to the captain’s side. He had returned to consciousness. “What’s happened, boy?” he asked: “I can’t move hand or foot.” Robby told him. “God’s will be done,” he murmured. “Your father’ll do his best—he’s a good seaman. He went to service with us this morning. I wish all had gone.”

While he was speaking, the vessel received a more furious blow; then there was a rushing noise of water overhead, followed by loud crashes and a few faint shrieks, and then the vessel seemed to bound upwards, and no other sound was heard but that of the seas which washed against the sides. The boys clung to each other in terror; something dreadful had happened, they had been long enough at sea to know that. They dreaded to ask each other; yet what could those shrieks mean? There were no sound of footsteps on deck; the movement of the vessel was different; she no longer went ahead, but lay tossed about by the sea.

“Boys, are you prepared to meet your God?” asked the captain, in a deep tone, making an effort to speak. “Pray with me.” The boys went to him and knelt by his side. He tried in vain to lift up his hands. They repeated the solemn words he uttered. His speech grew fainter and fainter, then ceased altogether. A few faint groans followed, then there was an ominous silence. Robby held the lantern to the old man’s face. The eyes were open, but all expression had gone.

“Speak, Captain Snow; speak, Mr Snow—oh! do—do!” cried the boy. “He’s gone—the captain’s dead, Bill,” he said, sadly, after waiting for some time and getting no answer. “How sorry father and the rest will be!”

The boys had not even then realised what had happened on deck. Again the lugger was wildly tossed about. Another heavy blow was followed by a rush of water below. It seemed to come in forward. They could stand the suspense no longer, but rushing up the companion-ladder, with their united strength they forced back the hatch, and looked out. Better had it been for them, poor boys, had they remained in ignorance till daylight of what had happened.

The masts were gone; the boat was gone; the bulwarks were gone; and not a human being remained on deck. The sea had swept it clear, with the exception of the companion-hatch, which was low and unusually strong. To this they owed their preservation. Had it been carried away, the vessel must soon have filled; as it was, the fore-hatch had lifted, and allowed the water to pour down. Should it be carried away, the vessel would very probably go down. Mechanically drawing over the hatch again, they returned into the cabin, and sat down, sobbing and wringing their hands.

“Perhaps they’re gone away in the boat,” suggested Bill Cuffe.

Hobby for an instant checked his tears, but immediately saw the improbability of this. “Oh, no, no! They’re all gone! they’re all gone!” he repeated again and again. “No one but us two and the dead captain aboard the craft.”

“What shall we do, then?” asked Bill, after a long silence.

Hobby looked at his companion earnestly before speaking. “Trust in God, and do our duty,” he said, at length.

“Yes, but what is our duty, Robby?”

“I don’t see that we can do much, as yet,” answered Robby, “but trust in God, and pray to Him. Yes, I’ve heard say that when people die, their friends go and shut their eyes: the captain’s are open; let’s go and do that for him.”

Together they went back to the body, and while Bill held the lantern, Robby reverently closed the eyes of the dead man.

The Sea-gull continued tumbling about as before, now tossed to the top of one curling wave, now to that of another; while every now and then a fresh rush of water down the fore-hatch made the two boys dread more than ever that she would ere long go to the bottom. They dared not go on deck to see how matters stood, because they knew that if they did they most probably would be swept off it; so they sat down on the floor of the little cabin, and held on by the leg of the table, wishing that daylight would come and the storm cease.

The night seemed a very long one; so, indeed, it was. Wearied out, they at length both slept. How long, they could not tell, but a sudden lurch threw them against the side of the vessel, and they awoke, but with their senses confused, and neither of them able to recollect clearly what had occurred. The light in their lantern had burnt out, and they were in total darkness.

Suddenly Bill exclaimed, “Oh, Robby, where’s the captain?”

“Dead,” said Robby: “you haven’t forgotten that, surely.”

“Dead!” exclaimed Bill. “Oh, so he is, and we two here with him alone in the cabin away out in the open sea. I can’t stand it, I tell you. Where shall we go? what shall we do?”

Terror caused by thinking of the supernatural is especially infectious. Robby was but a boy. In spite of his better judgment, he allowed his feelings to get the better of it, and he began to tremble like his companion. This was but natural. Brought up as are boys of his class, who could blame him? There were the two lads, with their dead captain, rolling about in a leaky craft during that fierce gale out in the North Sea. They dared not go on deck; they feared to remain in the cabin: they crept over as far as they could from the side where the dead body lay. Not till Robby again thought of praying did he regain his composure. With the hatches battened down and the skylight covered over, daylight could not penetrate in the little cabin. The boys forgot this, and sat on, Robby at length again falling asleep, but Bill’s fears kept him awake. After a time it seemed to him that the vessel did not tumble about so much; he was very hungry also, and he thought that it must be day, and as he was afraid of moving by himself, he awoke Robby, and together they groped their way to the companion-hatch, and, unfastening it, the bright sunlight streamed full on their dazzled eyes. The sea had gone down somewhat, but still it washed over the deck, which was wet and slippery, and so they were afraid to venture on it lest they should be washed off. Hobby looked around, in the faint hope that some one might be yet clinging to the vessel, but not one of the seven men they had left there when they went below remained. Then he scanned the horizon on every side. Foam-crested, dancing waves alone were to be seen. Not a sail appeared. Bill now cried out for food. They could venture to leave the companion-hatch off, and by the light which streamed down it they were able to hunt about for some. They soon found some cold meat and biscuit, and fortunately also a jar of water, and, with these things, quickly appeased their hunger. They had no fear, indeed, of starving, for there were plenty of fish on board, and an ample supply of provisions of all sorts, but the cooking-place was forward, and they could not venture along the deck to get to it. After their meal their spirits improved. Hobby remarked with confidence that, as the vessel had floated so long through the worst part of the gale, she might still weather it out altogether. They could hear, however, by the rushing sound inside as she rolled, that there was a great deal of water in her. “We must try and pump it out,” said Robby. To do that they must wait till they could get forward, where the brake of the pump was kept.

All this time the wind was falling and the sea was going down, and at last Robby thought that by working their way along the masts they might reach the forehatch. He led, Bill followed. The hatch was found partially off. Fortunately, it had not been altogether washed away, for, as it was, large quantities of water had got down and damaged everything in the forecastle. Bill, again frightened by the damage the vessel had sustained, thought that pumping would be of no use.

“It’s our duty to pump this vessel—and do so I will, if I can,” said Robby, firmly.

The pump, not without difficulty, was rigged, and they set to work manfully. It was very hard work too, but it was satisfactory to see the clear water rushing out through the scuppers, and to believe that none was coming in. They pumped and pumped away till they were weary, and then went back into the cabin to lie down awhile.

They had now got more accustomed to the sight of their dead captain, so that even Bill did not object to passing the night in the cabin. The next day they again pumped away, and had entirely freed the vessel by noon. Having nothing more to do, their thoughts turned towards the possibility of reaching England. They anxiously scanned the horizon in the hopes of seeing some vessel approaching them. A sail was seen at length—they thought that she was coming towards them, but she stood away; then another and another came in sight; but their vessel was not perceived. Another night came on. As the sun went down, the sky again became very threatening. Before midnight the gale had returned. There was no compass below, so the boys did not know from what quarter it blew. Poor Bill began really to despair, and wanted to get into a berth and go to sleep till he was drowned.

“No, don’t do that,” said Robby. “While there’s life there’s hope; and, depend on’t, God knows what’s best for us.”

The storm raged furiously, but the little vessel, freed from water, and light as a cask, floated like a cork driven before it. At length the gale ceased, and the sea went down, and the two boys went on deck. The coast was in sight—they knew it well—they were off Lowestoft. Boats came off—the Sea-gull was towed into the Yar. It became known how Robby and Bill had kept the vessel afloat by pumping her out before the second gale came on. A subscription was raised for Robby and his mother; and, though he is very young, he commands a vessel of his own, still firm in the belief which he endeavours to impress on others, that “God knows what is best for us.”

W H G Kingston

"The Frontier Fort"

Chapter One.

A party of travellers were wending their way across a wide-spreading prairie in the north-west territory of America. As far as the eye could reach, the ground was covered with waving tufts of dark-green grass, interspersed with flowers of varied hue, among which could be distinguished the yellow marigold and lilac bergamot, with bluebells, harebells, and asters, innumerable; while here and there rose-bushes, covered with gorgeous bloom, appeared above the particoloured carpet spread over the country. On the north side the prairie was bounded by softly rounded knolls, between which tiny lakelets were visible, shining in the bright rays of the glowing sun. To the northward a silvery stream could be seen meandering, bordered by willows, aspens, osiers, and other trees of considerable height, breaking the line of the horizon.

“I am delighted with your country, Burnett; I had no idea such lovely scenery and so much rich soil existed on this side of the Rocky Mountains,” said one of the travellers, addressing another, who rode alongside him.

“I hope, before many years are over, to see this fair region covered with populous towns and villages, and flourishing farms.”

“That time is far distant, I suspect,” answered Mr Burnett, a head clerk of the Hudson’s Bay Company, in charge of the party; “and I can only say that I hope so, for when it comes, our vocation will be well-nigh gone, as the Company will have to shut up shop—”

“And retire on well-won fortunes,” laughingly added the first speaker, Reginald Loraine. He was a young Englishman of good fortune and family, who had lately come out to make a tour in Canada; but having heard conflicting reports of the north-west territory, he had been induced to continue his journey westward, intending to proceed as far as the foot of the Rocky Mountains, and to return, before the termination of the summer, from Fort Edmonton, down the Saskatchewan, and through Lake Winnipeg to the Red River.

His intelligence, high spirits, and good humour made him an agreeable companion. He was never put out by any mishaps or inconveniences. His personal appearance was also much in his favour; while he was a good rider, and possessed of activity and endurance, equal, if not superior, to any of the rest of the party, long accustomed though they were to the mode of life they were leading.

From the sentiments he uttered, and the expression of his handsome countenance, it might have been surmised that he possessed many other qualities of a higher character. Young Hector Mackintosh, who had come with him from Toronto, declared, indeed, that he never wished to have a stauncher fellow at his back in a skirmish with Redskins, or in a fight with a grizzly, and that he was as high-minded and generous as he was brave.

Hector, who was now curvetting over the prairie on a tough little mustang, had been at school at Toronto, whence he was returning to rejoin his father, Captain Mackintosh, now a chief officer, or factor, in charge of Fort Duncan, a Company’s post to the south-west, situated on the borders of the Blackfeet territory. It was a somewhat dangerous position, which only a man of courage and resolution would willingly have occupied.

Following at some little distance those who have been mentioned, came three other horsemen, whose shouts of laughter, interspersed occasionally with snatches of songs, could be heard far across the prairie. The centre of the three was a short, portly gentleman, with a somewhat rubicund countenance—Doctor McCrab, just appointed surgeon to one of the forts in the west. On either side of him rode two young clerks. One of them was Dan Maloney, a light-hearted Irishman, with whom the jolly Doctor amused himself by exchanging jokes, capping verses, and singing duets which set all the laws of harmony at defiance.

The other was Allan Keith, who, from similarity of taste and mental qualities, had won the regard of Reginald Loraine; indeed, except in point of wealth, the two young men greatly resembled each other.

Some way behind the gentlemen came a long team of Red River wooden carts, escorted by several persons on horseback, under charge of Jacques Leblanc, a French half-breed, who, from his reputed knowledge of the country in all directions, had been selected to act as guide to the whole party.

The carts, which had only two wheels, were built entirely of wood, and each was dragged by a single horse. Some carried the travellers’ tents, cooking utensils, a tool-chest, and additional axletrees, their arms and ammunition, together with their clothes, spare blankets, and waterproofs. The other carts were laden with stores of all sorts for the forts to the westward.

Accompanying the carts was a drove of loose horses—the animals now rearing and kicking and biting at each other—now moving along steadily, under the management of a single driver, François Chabot, also a French half-breed. He had seldom to use his long whip to keep them in order; and even the most restless showed no inclination to leave their companions. They were intended to supply the travellers with a change of steeds once or twice in the day; for in making long journeys, when day after day forty or fifty miles have to be got over between sunrise and sunset, one horse seldom possesses sufficient strength and endurance to carry his rider the whole distance.

When a horse shows signs of fatigue, his saddle is removed to the back of another, and he contentedly runs on with the herd. The horses were mostly small, and many of them sorry-looking steeds; but they had, notwithstanding, carried their riders without showing signs of fatigue, or growing thinner. Their only food was the grass they could pick up while the party were encamped at night, or during their noon-day halt, neither beans nor corn being given them.

Reginald Loraine and the Doctor had provided themselves with English saddles; the rest of the party bestrode those of native manufacture, which were merely large pads of dressed leather, stuffed with hair or grass, and having a broad and fringed crupper. Several of them were trimmed and handsomely adorned with quills, the talent of the manufacturer being especially exerted in ornamenting the saddle-cloths. The stirrups were formed of curved pieces of wood, hanging by leather thongs to the primitive saddle. The bridles might more properly be called halters. They consisted of a thong of raw hide, thirty feet in length, called an atscacha. One end was tied round the animal’s lower jaw, and the other, after being brought over the neck to the rider’s hand, was allowed to drag on the ground some fifteen feet behind. It requires care, particularly by those in the rear, not to tread on the thongs trailing behind. By so doing, the mouth of the horse receives a jerk which seldom fails to make it rear and curvet from side to side.

The object of this long thong is to enable the rider, when he dismounts, to hold his horse while he fires at a foe; or, should he be thrown by the animal stumbling in a rabbit-burrow, to prevent it running off. The long thong serves also as a halter, ever ready to tie it up, or to catch it when at liberty. Even the gentlemen who used English bridles found it convenient to have these halters secured to their horses’ heads.

Day after day the travellers had been making their way along the Fertile Belt, the name given to a broad tract of country extending between the Red River and the base of the Rocky Mountains, bordered on the north by forests, lakes, and rivers, and on the south by that sandy and desert region which extends along the whole frontier of the United States.

The party rode steadily on, every man carrying his rifle at his back; for although the natives were generally friendly, it was considered wise to be prepared, lest so rich a booty as the carts would afford might tempt them. At night, too, a constant watch was kept on the horses, as the Crees roaming over that part of the country are notorious horse-stealers, and would have considered it a creditable feat to have carried off as many of the travellers’ steeds as they could catch.

They had proceeded some distance, when, shading his eyes with his hand, Mr Burnett looked out eagerly ahead.

“What is it you see?” asked Loraine, imitating his example.

“A party of horsemen, whom I at first thought might be Blackfeet on the war-path, but I am satisfied they are Red River men, on a buffalo hunt,” answered Burnett. “We shall soon know. See, Leblanc has gone forward to ascertain who they are.”

The guide in a short time returned, saying that the strangers were Red River hunters; that they had just sighted buffalo, and would be glad if any of the gentlemen of the party would join them.

Loraine and Hector were delighted to accept the invitation, and Allan Keith and Maloney were anxious to try their skill as hunters. While they galloped on to join the half-breeds, Burnett and his men moved towards the spot which had been fixed on for camping at night.

The buffalo hunt need not be described, except to say that the young Englishmen won the admiration of their new friends by their courage and dexterity, each having brought a couple of the shaggy monsters to the ground.

The travellers spent the evening with their new friends, the hunters, who, as soon as the buffalo they had last killed had been turned into pemmican, intended to return to the Red River. Next morning they continued their journey westward, pushing on at greater speed than usual, to make up for lost time, Burnett being very anxious to reach the fort by the day he was expected.

The country was generally lovely, being well wooded, with numerous lakelets, now rising into softly rounded knolls, and occasionally opening out into a wide, fair landscape. The soil was of rich loam, and the vegetation luxuriant, sprinkled with flowers of many tints.

They had been moving on for a couple of hours or more, when Loraine, looking to the southward, observed a remarkable appearance in the horizon, which wore an unearthly ashen hue. Pointing it out to Burnett, he asked—

“Can that be produced by a prairie fire?”

“No; but if I mistake not, we shall have, before long, a flight of locusts passing over our heads. That peculiar look of the sky is produced by the light reflected from their transparent wings.”

As he spoke, the whole sky appeared to be changing from blue to silvery white, then to ashy grey and lead colour; while, opposite to the sun, the prevailing hue was a silver white—perceptibly flashing, the air seeming as if rilled with flakes of snow.

“The insects are flying from five hundred to a thousand feet above our heads; and I hope we may get clear of them before we camp, or they will play mischief with everything made of leather, which is left exposed,” observed Burnett.

He was, however, disappointed; for, in a short time, the locusts descended—the whole air became filled with them, until they reached the ground, where they clung to the blades of grass in countless multitudes.

During the remainder of the day the creatures continued coming on; and when the party at length stopped at night, they had to clear away the ground to form their camp.

The voracity of the insects was proved by the way they attacked and destroyed several articles of clothing, which had carelessly been left on the grass. The travellers found, indeed, that the only way to protect their property was to pile it up in the carts out of reach. Dan Maloney appeared with a melancholy countenance, exhibiting a leather bag and a pair of woollen trousers, which he had thrown down outside the tent, eaten through and through in all directions. At night the insects, fortunately, did not move. Early in the morning they were found busily feeding; but as soon as the sun had evaporated the dew, they began taking short flights, and then cloud after cloud rose, and pursued their way to the northward.

Burnett assured his companions that he had never seen so large a flight before; and, as far as he could ascertain, many years had passed without the country receiving a similar visitation.

Scarcely had the locusts disappeared, than what looked like a thick, black fog-bank was seen rising from the direction whence they had come. It approached nearer and nearer. Leblanc, riding forward, pointed it out to Burnett.

“The prairie is on fire,” he remarked.

“I know it is; I saw it from the first. But I don’t think it will come near us.”

“I am not quite so sure of that. It comes on fast, and the grass here is very long,” said the guide.

“Then we’ll make our way to yonder knoll, where it is shorter,” said Burnett, who was not to be put out by Indians, locusts, or prairie fires.

The word was given to drag the carts towards the spot Burnett had indicated.

“A fire on the prairie is a serious matter, is it not?” observed Loraine, in a tone of inquiry.

“I do not much fear it, notwithstanding,” answered Burnett. “We shall have a storm before long, I suspect, and that will fight the flames.”

“I should have thought that a storm would be more likely to fan them into greater fury,” remarked Loraine, who considered that Burnett was not sufficiently alive to the dangers they might have to encounter from the fire.

“Not if it rains as I expect it will,” observed Burnett. “Look at that cloud ahead. It contains a torrent sufficient to extinguish the fiercest flames.”

Loraine had hitherto been admiring the beautiful appearance of the sky. To the south it was of that bright blue such as is seldom seen in the British Isles. To the west it was bordered with vast, billowy clouds of the softest, snowy white. Beneath the black cloud, which was every instant extending, were grey masses whirling on at a terrific rate; while, suddenly, to the north and east the expanse of heaven assumed a dun-coloured hue, vivid with lightning, where rain appeared to be descending in torrents. The whole atmosphere was charged with electricity. The lightning rushed towards the earth, in straight and zig-zag currents, the thunder varying from the sharp rattle of musketry to the roar of artillery. Still no rain had fallen from overhead, while scarcely a breath of air was blowing.

Meantime, however, the fire came rushing on across the prairie, the flames, as they caught the tall grass, growing brighter and brighter, every now and then rising and expanding, as they seized on shrubs and trees in their onward course.

Burnett at last seemed to think that matters were growing serious, and made a signal to the drivers of the carts to push forward. There was no necessity, as they were doing their utmost to urge on their steeds by uttering strange oaths and by the liberal use of their whips.

“We must try and get to the other side of the knoll, and camp; for we as yet have only seen the beginning of the storm,” remarked Burnett.

Scarcely had he said this, than, with the suddenness of a tornado, the wind came rushing down upon them; at first, without a drop of rain, but so fiercely that the horses were forced from the track. Again and again it seemed hopeless to drive against it. The lightning flashed more vividly than before; the thunder roared; while the fire advanced across the prairie like a fiery host bent on their destruction.

“I say, I don’t see why we should lose our lives, even though Burnett thinks it is his duty to stick by the carts,” said Hector, riding up to Loraine. “We can gallop ahead, in spite of the wind; it will be better than being turned into Guy Fawkeses.”

Loraine was much inclined to follow his young friend’s advice; indeed, he suspected the rest of the party would soon leave the carts to their fates, and try to save themselves by flight from the fiery sea, which was tossing and heaving not a quarter of a mile away from them. He would not go, however, without first urging Burnett, the other clerks, and the Doctor to try and save themselves.

He had turned his horse for the purpose, when the rain came down thick and furious, with even greater suddenness than the wind had arisen. They saw that it almost immediately produced an effect on the fire. It was a struggle between the two elements. At first it seemed doubtful, however, which would prove victorious; but water, they trusted, had gained the day; for, mingled with the rain came hail, not only ordinary hail, but mixed with lumps half an inch to an inch across.

“Och! I’d as soon have a whack from an honest shillaly as be pelted by thim threacherous lumps,” cried Dan Maloney.

The travellers in vain raised their hands to protect their heads from the hail. The long line of horses and carts was broken. Some of the poor creatures clung to the road, struggling desperately. Others were driven on to the prairie, and turning their backs to the storm, stood still or moved sideways, with cowering heads, their manes and tails floating wildly, like those of Highland shelties.

Hector declared that he could hear the hissing of the rain as it fell on the hitherto victorious fire, effectually, however, quenching it. A few minutes after the storm had broken, the whole ground to the left was a blackened expanse. The danger was passed, and they hastened on to the foot of the knoll, where a lakelet, fringed by aspens and poplars, afforded them good camping ground. With astonishing speed the arrangements for the night were made; every man exerted himself. The horses were unharnessed, the erratic ones hobbled, the tents pitched, and the travellers assembled round the blazing fires which were quickly lighted to dry their saturated clothing.

Almost before these arrangements were made, the storm passed away. The setting sun burst forth again until not a blot was left in the sky, save fragments of mist to the south and south-east. It was too late to think of moving on again, and Leblanc was glad of the opportunity of halting to repair some of the carts with the ever serviceable “Shaganappi,” a large supply of which was carried for the purpose, as also to mend the harness and other gear which had been broken by the restive movements of the horses during the storm.

In the mean time, while François, another Canadian, who acted as cook, was preparing the evening meal, Loraine and Hector took their guns to shoot some ducks which were seen on the other side of the lakelet. Having knocked over several birds, before returning they took a refreshing plunge in the water, which was sufficiently deep for the purpose.

The twilight had faded away into darkness before the whole party were seated round the camp-fires, discussing their suppers with such appetites as few fail to obtain while travelling in that region. Supper was over; and “early to bed, and early to rise” being a standing order, those of the party who enjoyed the luxury of tents retired within, while the rest lay down, wrapped in their blankets, beneath the carts arranged, as usual, in a circle to serve as a defence against any attacks of hostile Indians. Although Burnett did not expect any annoyance of the sort, he considered it his duty to take the precautions which no traveller at that period omitted to make. Two or three men were also stationed as sentries to keep watch, especially on the horses.

Loraine had seen Hector, who shared his tent, fall fast asleep; but not being inclined to close his own eyes, he stepped out of his tent to take a look at the stars which shone from the heavens, undimmed by a single cloud. Happening to turn his eyes towards the summit of the knoll, he was somewhat surprised to see what he felt sure was a human figure, the outline being distinctly marked against the sky. The man was evidently taking a survey of the camp. Loraine, thinking it possible that he might be a scout sent out by a party of Blackfeet, made his way to the nearest sentry to tell him to be on the watch, and to ask his opinion on the subject. By the time he had reached the sentry, however, the figure had disappeared. The sentry thought he might have been mistaken; but when Loraine made him understand what he had seen, he went round to the other men on watch, and urged them to be on the alert and to keep the horses well together. Loraine was just going back to his tent, when he heard a shout. It was answered by the sentry on the south side of the camp; and a conversation in a language he could not understand took place. On going up to them, he could dimly distinguish an Indian of somewhat diminutive size and of deformed figure.

“What does he want?” inquired Loraine.

“He says, as far as I can make out, that his chief, who will be here directly, sent him to find out who we are; for he thought at first, when he saw our camp-fire, that we might be Crees, or a party of Blackfeet, for such he knows are at present out on the war-path,” answered the sentry.

“Tell him that we shall be glad to see his chief, whoever he is, if he comes as a friend,” said Loraine. “Until I know his business, I will not arouse Mr Burnett, who requires a good rest; and I dare say it will keep until to-morrow morning.”

The sentry spoke to the hump-backed Indian, who quickly disappeared in the gloom; and Loraine walked up and down, waiting for his return.

“You must not be thrown off your guard, Pierre, lest some trick should be intended,” he remarked, recollecting the numberless tales of Indian treachery he had heard.

“I know the coquins (rogues) too well for that,” answered Pierre.

In a short time, Loraine saw through the gloom two persons on horseback, with a couple of led horses, approaching. They rode fearlessly up to the camp. The first, from the white hair hanging down under his fur cap, and his snowy beard, and wrinkled, weather-beaten features, though he sat upright and firmly in his saddle, was apparently an old man. His costume, consisting of a leathern coat and leggings, fringed in the usual fashion, and the rifle slung at his back, showed that he was one of the free white hunters, or trappers, who have been wont for many a year to roam amid the prairies and forests in the north-west in search of peltries. The other person, leading the two pack horses, Loraine recognised as the hump-backed Indian who had just before come to the camp.

“I am glad to have fallen in with you, friends,” said the old man, dismounting. “You keep early hours and a careful watch. I expected to have seen you carousing, and quaffing the accursed fire-water, as so many of you travellers from the Far East are wont to do. To say the truth, when I first caught sight of your camp-fires, I was uncertain whether they were those of Crees or Blackfeet; and as I had no fancy to fall in with the one or the other, I sent on my lad Greensnake to learn the state of the case.”

“Then he was the person I saw at the top of the hillock out there,” observed Loraine.

“Not he; he would not have exposed himself in that fashion,” said the old man.

“Then my eyes must have deceived me, after all,” said Loraine. “I’m sure Mr Burnett, the leader of our party, will welcome you to the camp; but he is asleep at present, and I should be sorry to disturb him unnecessarily. I will, however, call up one of the men to get ready some supper for you and your attendant.”

“I shall be glad of some food, for I have not fired a shot for the last three days, and my stock of provisions has run short,” replied the old man.

He now called up Greensnake, took off the saddles from the led horses, and unloaded the baggage animals, placing the packs inside the circle of carts.

Meantime, Loraine found out where François was sleeping, and, arousing him, told him to get some food ready for their unexpected guests.

François at first eyed the strangers askance. Satisfied, however, at length, that he was a white man, and perhaps a person of more importance than his costume might betoken, he set diligently to work to boil the kettle and fry some buffalo meat; the old hunter, who had taken a seat on a pile of wood near the fire, looking complacently on.

Loraine having assisted François in preparing the supper, prompted by good feeling, and perhaps slightly by curiosity, took a seat by the side of the stranger, that he might attend to his wants. Immediately afterwards, the lad who has been introduced as Greensnake glided noiselessly up in a fashion appropriate to his name, and squatted down close to his master, waiting patiently until Loraine handed him a share of the food. Having no cause to conceal the object of their journey, Loraine explained that he and his companions were bound for Fort Edmonton, and were pushing on as fast as they could travel, without the risk of knocking up their horses.

“I wish that you were directing your course rather to Fort Duncan, for I suspect that Captain Mackintosh and his small garrison are greatly in want of assistance. From some information brought me by Greensnake, I suspect that the Blackfeet have formed a plot to take it. Hearing that the Captain holds the Indians cheaply, and is not likely to be warned by what I might tell him, I am on my way to Fort Edmonton to advise that he should be put on his guard, and that assistance may be sent him without delay.”

Loraine was struck by the old man’s mode of expressing himself—so different to the slang language used in general by the rough trappers and traders of the Far West.

“This is important information, indeed!” he said, feeling anxious about the safety of his young friend’s family, and especially of that young friend’s two sisters; for although he had never seen them, Hector had shown him their portraits, one of which, called Sybil, possessed a face of rare loveliness. Effie, the younger, was very attractive; but Hector declared that there never was, or never could be, anybody like Sybil. Hector had told him that the portrait, not being his own, he could not give it to him, but that he was welcome to look at it as often as he liked—a privilege of which, it must be confessed, Reginald frequently took advantage; and he had resolved, if possible, to pay a visit to the residence of the fair original. Even had this not been the case, his chivalry would have made him eager to set off to the assistance of Hector’s relatives. He felt that the matter was of so much importance that he should be justified in calling up Mr Burnett to discuss what measures should be taken. He, of course, knew that Hector would be as anxious to go as he was; he, therefore, let him sleep on. Burnett, who did not appear very well satisfied at being aroused from his slumbers, came and sat down to hear the old man’s account. He questioned him narrowly, apparently not altogether crediting his statements.

“You may think what you will, Mr Burnett; but people are not apt in general to doubt the word of Isaac Sass,” said the old man at length, in an offended tone.

“Are you Isaac Sass?” exclaimed Burnett. “I have often heard of you. Then, I say, I don’t doubt your word. But why are you so sure that the fort will be attacked?”

“For a strong reason, which, as I don’t wish to keep you longer from your rest, I will give in the morning.”

“A word for yourself, friend Sass, I ken?” observed Burnett.

“No, no; I can do without sleep,” answered Isaac Sass; “but before I lie down, I wish to know—yes or no—whether you will direct your course towards Fort Duncan, instead of going on to Edmonton.”

“I wish that I could do as you suggest,” answered Burnett. “If Captain Mackintosh wants help, I should like to give it him; but I must carry out my instructions, at all costs. It would not do to run the risk of getting our train plundered, as both stores and ammunition are much wanted at Edmonton.”

“But will you allow one of your factors to be exposed to the danger our friend here has spoken of?” exclaimed Loraine. “I should be unwilling under any other circumstances to part company; but I feel bound, whether or not I can get anybody to go with me, to set off with my friend, young Mackintosh, to warn his family, and give them such assistance as we can.”

“You, of course, are at liberty to go, Mr Loraine; and, as young Mackintosh was committed to your care, to take him with you,” answered Burnett, somewhat stiffly. “But duty is duty. I must obey my orders, and those are, to conduct this train to Edmonton with as little delay as possible. I have no discretionary power to go out of the way, under any excuse whatever.”

“But, surely, you would not object to one of the clerks, and some few of the men who could be spared, accompanying me!” exclaimed Loraine. “Even a small addition to the number would be of consequence in the defence of the fort, should it be attacked; and that it will be so, our friend here seems to think there is every probability.”

“I have explained how I am situated in the matter, Mr Loraine,” said Mr Burnett, in the same tone as before; “and I think it right to say, that, without a guide and a body of men well-armed, you and young Mackintosh will be unable to accomplish the journey. You will either lose yourselves and be starved, or be attacked and cut off by the Blackfeet. The Crees are not to be trusted either; for though they are civil enough to us, knowing that we have the power to punish them, yet they would steal our horses if they could; and, looking upon you as strangers, they would not only take your horses, but your scalps into the bargain.”

“I shall not be afraid of meeting either them or the Blackfeet,” answered Loraine. “What do you say, friend?” he added, turning to Isaac Sass. “Can I, or can I not, get to Fort Duncan, and warn the garrison of the danger which threatens them?”

The old hunter looked up at the countenance of the young Englishman, without speaking for a few seconds. He then said, “If pluck and courage would enable a man to do it, you would; but I cannot say how much you know about the country and the ways of the Redskins. It would not be an easy matter for any man, as there are several war parties out—of that I have certain knowledge; and I had no small difficulty in keeping clear of them. I wish that I could go with you, but I cannot get along as fast as I used to do, and my beasts are pretty well knocked up. But this is what I’ll do: I’ll send my lad Greensnake with you; whatever I tell him to do, he’ll do, and prove as true as steel. People call him an idiot; but he’s no more an idiot than I am, if a person knows how to get the sense out of him, and that’s what I do.”

Greensnake, on hearing his name mentioned, glanced up with a pleased look, and nodded at his master, as a dog often does when spoken about.

“I gladly accept your offer, and will give him any reward you think right for his services,” said Loraine. “I should like to set off to-night.”

“That would be impossible, as the lad and your horses want rest,” answered the old trapper. “To-morrow morning he shall be at your service, and perhaps by that time Mr Burnett will have thought the matter over, and will send two or three of his men to accompany you. I will take the duties of those who go, and he knows I am worth something.”

“Well, well, I’ll think it over, and to-morrow morning let you know my decision,” said Burnett. “Now, Mr Loraine, I’d advise you to lie down and get some rest, or you won’t be fit for the work you propose to undertake.”

Loraine, hoping that Burnett would consent to spare him a few men, followed his advice, and turned into his camp bed, while the old hunter, wrapping himself in his buffalo robe, lay down with his feet to the fire, as did Greensnake in a horse-cloth, which he took from the baggage he had deposited inside the camp.

Chapter Two.

Burnett was duly impressed with a sense of his responsibilities. He really wished to send assistance to Fort Duncan, but felt the importance of conveying his charge safely to Fort Edmonton, and he was too prudent to run any risk, by weakening his escort. He, therefore, determined to commence the journey at an earlier hour than usual, and to push forward as fast as possible. He recollected the half-breeds from whom they had parted only three days before, and whom they had left encamped. If they could be overtaken, some of them might be induced to go to Fort Duncan by the prospect of a brush with their sworn enemies, the Blackfeet. “Perhaps this young Englishman will agree to go back and obtain their assistance, and he will render far greater service to the captain than if he were to go alone,” thought Burnett. “I will propose the plan to him to-morrow morning, and allow Allan Keith to accompany him. The two seem to pull well together; and as soon as we get to Edmonton we will send off as many men as can be spared.”

Satisfied with his plan, Burnett pulled his blanket round him, and was just dropping off to sleep, when he heard the distant neigh of a horse.

“That was not one of our animals!” he exclaimed, starting to his feet. As he did so, he saw the old man and his Indian boy sitting up.

“What sound was that, Sass?” he asked.

“Blackfeet are not far off, I guess,” was the answer.

Loraine, who had been unable to sleep, hearing what was said, came out of his tent.

“Is there a chance of the camp being attacked?” he asked.

“They’ll not attack the camp, but they’ll steal our horses if they can,” answered Burnett.

“Depend on that; if we don’t keep a look-out they’ll have half of them away before morning,” observed Sass; and turning to Loraine, he added, “You said just now that you caught sight of a figure on the top of the hill, and as that was not Greensnake or me, I have a notion that it was one of the Blackfeet.”

“Why didn’t you tell me of that before?” inquired Burnett.

“Because I thought I was mistaken, and that it was not of sufficient consequence to arouse you,” answered Loraine.

“It may be of the greatest importance; even now the rascals may have enticed off some of our horses,” exclaimed Burnett, taking his gun, and going up to where the men lay asleep.

A light touch on the shoulder, and a whisper in the ear, were sufficient to arouse them. He having also called up the Doctor and the two clerks, hurried on to where the men were on watch outside. They also had heard the sounds, and were on the alert. They were certain that as yet all the horses were safe. They were joined by most of the other men; two or three only, by Burnett’s orders, having remained behind to extinguish the fires.

Just at this juncture several horses, feeding on the rich pasture not a hundred yards off, came galloping up, and would have passed the camp had not the men rushed out and stopped them. This proved without doubt that enemies were in the neighbourhood. Accordingly, several men, well-armed, went out and brought up the remainder of the horses, which they at once tethered either to the carts or to stakes firmly fixed in the ground; then each with his gun loaded with buck-shot, crawled out through the long grass, so that they could not be seen, even by the sharp eyes of the Blackfeet, and arranged themselves in a circle at the distance of about eighty yards from the camp. The night was dark, and perfect silence was maintained, so that even the most watchful enemy could not have discovered what the travellers were about.

Burnett having thus made all necessary arrangements for the security of the camp, directed Allan Keith and Maloney each to take his turn in watching, and again lay down, his example being followed by the rest of the party who were not required on duty. The most sharp-eyed Redskins would have found it difficult to discover what the travellers were about. Allan Keith was the only person who remained on foot. Having visited the horses, and ascertained that the men in charge of them were awake, he went on, intending to make the circuit of the camp, to assure himself that the men were on the alert. Thinking it unnecessary to crawl along the ground, from supposing that in the darkness he could not be seen at any distance, he walked upright, and had just got close to the outer circle where he expected to find one of the men on watch, when an arrow whistled close to his head. The scout, who must have been close in front of him, immediately began to crawl along, like a snake through the grass, in the direction whence the arrow had come.

Allan was as courageous as most persons; but it would have been folly to have exposed himself to the risk of another shot. He, therefore, wisely crouched down in the spot which had been occupied by the man who had gone forward in pursuit of the intruder. He listened with open ears, but not a sound could he hear, nor could his eyes pierce the darkness beyond a few yards from where he lay. He waited and waited, until he began to fear that the scout must have been caught by the savages, and killed before he had had time to cry out. That the other scouts were on the watch, he had no doubt, and would take care that no Indians approached without being discovered. He had remained in his recumbent position for some time, when he at length heard a rustling in the grass, and the scout rejoined him.

“The coquin has escaped us, monsieur,” whispered the Canadian. “I wish that I had shot him, but by firing I should have discovered our position, and we should have had a score of arrows or bullets flying about our ears.”

After the warning he had received, Allan, imitating the example of the scout, crawled along the ground to the different posts, and finding all the men on the alert, returned in the same fashion to the camp.

Night went by, and no other alarm was raised. At early dawn Burnett, having aroused the whole camp, gave them the information Isaac Sass had brought.

There was no lack of volunteers, among whom was Allan Keith, eager to accompany Loraine to Fort Duncan. He was somewhat less disappointed than would otherwise have been the case at being refused permission to go, when Burnett explained his plan of sending him in search of the half-breed hunters, to collect among them as many recruits as he could obtain to increase the garrison at Fort Duncan.

“I, at all events, will go with you!” exclaimed Hector, turning to Loraine. “We have a compass, and as I know the direction in which the fort lies, I shall not be afraid of missing my way.”

“You forget the Redskins, and that you must be on your guard at night, or you’ll have your horses stolen,” observed old Sass. “You will also have to look out for game to support yourselves. However, if you take Greensnake with you, he’ll help you to kill game, and will give due notice if enemies are near you.”

“Yes, although I should have been glad to have had more companions, I am ready to set out at once,” said Loraine.

“I am sorry I cannot spare any of my men,” observed Burnett. “Two or three, indeed, would make but little difference, and the smaller your party the better for safety’s sake. However, you must let your horses breakfast, for they got but little feeding last night, thanks to the Blackfeet.”

While these and other arrangements were being made, the scouts came in. It was evident, they reported, from the tracks round the camp, that they had been surrounded by a large band, who would probably have stolen all their horses had they not been on their guard. The scouts, they added, had followed to a considerable distance the tracks which led away to the westward, and it was their opinion that the Indians would keep ahead, and not make another attempt to steal the horses till they fancied that the party were off their guard. It was so far satisfactory to have discovered the direction the Indians had taken, as Loraine might thus proceed southward and Allan Keith make his way eastward on the trail of the buffalo hunters, without the risk of encountering them.

“I will spare no exertion to get as soon as possible to the fort with as many men as I can induce to accompany me,” said Allan, as he warmly shook hands with Loraine. “I heartily wish that I could have gone with you; but I must obey the orders of my chief. I am well acquainted with the family of Captain Mackintosh; pray give them my respects, and say how deeply I regret not being able to proceed at once to the fort.”

Allan looked somewhat conscious as he said this. Loraine promised to deliver his messages; and the horses having now had time to feed, the three parties separated. Allan, accompanied by Pierre, rode off to the eastward; Mr Burnett and the train continued their journey to the west; while Loraine and his two companions took a southerly course.

“Good-bye, good-bye, my young friends,” cried Dr McCrab, after riding a short distance with Loraine and Hector. “Whatever you do; don’t let the Redskins take your scalps, my boys. Keep your powder dry, and your larder well stored, and you’ll get through. I heartily wish that I could go with you; but I ride too heavy a weight, and should certainly delay you if we had to run for it with a pack of howling savages at our tails: the chances are, I should come off second best,” said the good-natured medico, when, shaking hands, he turned his horse’s head and galloped off to overtake the train brought up by Isaac Sass and his pack animals. The country being level, the train could be seen for a long distance, creeping on like a huge snake through the grass.

As Loraine looked round, a uniform and well-defined horizon met his eye. So destitute was the country in general of all landmarks, that he was thankful to have a good compass to guide his course, in addition to the assistance of the young hump-backed Indian, who depended on his instinct alone. Loraine and Hector had each a spare horse, which carried their changes of clothes, a store of powder and shot, and such provisions and cooking utensils as they were likely to require.

The young Indian frequently raised himself in his stirrups, and sometimes even stood upon the back of his horse, to take a look round, but dropped quickly down again into his saddle, satisfied that no foes were in the neighbourhood.

“It was fortunate that the Blackfeet came about the camp last night, and then took themselves off to the westward, as we are the less likely to have them on our trail,” observed Hector, who was highly delighted to be able to go home at once, instead of having to make a long circuit, as he had expected, through Edmonton. Though he had heard the report of old Sass, he had not realised the danger in which his family might be placed.

He rattled on as was his wont, never failing to find subjects of conversation. “I did not suppose that there would be much risk, or I should not have proposed your coming with me,” observed Loraine. “I was, besides, unwilling to make my appearance at the fort without you, lest Captain Mackintosh should look upon me as an impostor.”

“I am very sure my father would not do that, or my mother or sister either, or Sybil. They’ll make a good deal of you, I can tell you; for it is not often they see a gentleman at the fort, except Allan Keith, who comes whenever he can. He is, I suspect, a great admirer of my sister; and I am not surprised, for she is a dear, good girl, and worthy of the best fellow in the country.”

“Which sister?” very naturally asked Loraine. “You showed me the portraits of two.”

“I have only one. Sybil is not really my sister, though I called her so, and she is like a sister to us all. My father and mother adopted her before Effie or any of us were born; and as they were as fond of her as they could have been had she been their own child, she has lived on with us ever since. She’s as pretty as she looks in her portrait, and as good and bright as she is pretty, and we boys love her as much as we do Effie.”

This account naturally increased Loraine’s desire to see the original of the beautiful picture; but a sense of delicacy prevented him further questioning his young companion about her, being well assured that he would before long tell him all he knew. Hector, indeed, talked away for the whole party, for Greensnake never uttered a word except from absolute necessity, and then it was in Cree. Hector, however, remembered enough to make out the meaning, having known the language before he went to school, and he translated what was said to Loraine. They had got to some distance from the camp, when Hector, turning round, observed two animals following.

“Holloa! What are these?” he exclaimed. “Can they be wolves?”

“If they are,” said Loraine, “and they come near enough, we must shoot them, or they may interfere with our horses at night, especially as they are likely to pick up companions on the way.”

“Very well; then we will stop at once, and do you fire at one of the brutes, and I will try to kill the other,” said Hector. “What do you say, Greensnake?” he asked in Cree.

The hump-backed Indian grunted out an unintelligible reply, and pointed ahead.

“He doesn’t think it worth while to stop,” remarked Hector.

“Nor do I,” said Loraine; and they accordingly pushed on at the pace they had before been going.

After a while, Hector, looking back, exclaimed, “Why, they are not wolves at all, but a couple of dogs—Old Buster, who belongs to the Doctor, and Dan Maloney’s Muskey! They took a great fancy to me, for I used to play with them; but I had no idea of enticing them away from their masters.”

“They must have found out that we are not with the train, and bolting, followed up our trail,” remarked Loraine. “We cannot drive them back now.”

The dogs were quickly up to the riders, and seemed highly delighted to find Hector, jumping up on either side of him.

The prairie which Loraine and his companions were traversing was almost treeless; but not many years before it had been covered with a pine forest, destroyed by one of the ruthless prairie fires which so often sweep over the north-west territory. Here and there, however, by the sides of streams, or pools, numerous aspens—the fastest growing trees in that region—had again sprung up, their stems being of considerable thickness, while their light foliage gave a cheerful aspect to the otherwise dreary scenery. When the ground allowed it, they occasionally put their horses into a gallop—a pace well suited to their tempers. At the same time, they knew that they must not run the risk of knocking up their animals, or they would fail in their object of making a quick journey.

They had gone on for some time, when Hector’s tough little horse suddenly came down, and threw him over its head.

“Don’t care for me,” he cried; “but I’m afraid my horse has broken its leg.”

The animal had put its foot into a badger-hole. After making some violent struggles, however, it recovered itself, and Hector, getting hold of its bridle, remounted.

“We must keep a better look-out for the badger-holes. It wouldn’t be pleasant to have to continue our journey on foot,” he said, laughing.

Having stopped by the side of a pool to take a mid-day meal, give their horses water, and allow them to crop as much grass as they could during the time, the travellers pushed on until nightfall, when they encamped under shelter of a grove of aspens, close to a stream, which flowed into the South Saskatchewan. By Greensnake’s advice, only a small fire was lighted, which was to be put out when they had cooked their supper.

As soon as he had finished his meal, the Indian, taking his blanket, went and lay down close to where the horses which had been hobbled were feeding; while Loraine and Hector rolled themselves in their buffalo robes, leaving the two dogs to keep watch by their sides.

Chapter Three.

Fort Duncan, to which it is time the reader should be introduced, lay bathed in the ruddy glow of the setting sun, whose rays tinged the branches of the groves of aspen, birch, poplar, and spruce, which could be seen at some distance away, both to the east and west. It stood on the top of some high ground, rising abruptly from the margin of a stream flowing by on the north side.

The fort consisted of a square palisade, thirty feet or so in height, with rough wooden towers at each angle, connected by a narrow platform, which ran round inside the walls, a few feet below their summit. The only entrance was by a gate, flanked by two additional towers. This could be secured by strong bars, but was destitute of ditch, draw-bridge, or portcullis. The interior of the quadrangle was occupied by the residence of the chief factor and clerks, a hall used as an audience room, and a store-house, besides the dwellings of the hunters and their wives and children, and other persons forming the garrison. The land immediately round the fort had been cleared of trees; but there was a forest on one side, and scattered groups of timber on the other, affording abundance of wood for building purposes and fuel.

There was much beauty in the surrounding scenery, especially when the roses were in full bloom, and other flowers of varied hue enamelled the prairie. In a room of the fort, furnished with far more elegance than is generally seen in the north-west territory, sat two young ladies. Though both attractive, they differed greatly from each other. The youngest, of small figure, was fair, with light hair and blue, laughing eyes, her rosy mouth constantly wreathed in smiles. The elder was somewhat taller, of a richer colour, with dark brown hair, and was even more attractive in appearance than her companion. They were busily employed with their needles, talking in the mean time on some interesting subject, when their conversation was interrupted by the entrance of a fine lad, who, although a couple of years older, might have been known by his strong resemblance to be the brother of Hector Mackintosh.

“Come along, Sybil—come along, Effie—if you want to see a war-chief, thoroughly got up in his finest toggery,” exclaimed Norman. “He is Mysticoose, or the Roaring Bull, not a very romantic name—a great leader among the Blackfeet. He has come to sell several packages of peltries and a whole lot of buffalo robes. He’ll probably take his departure before long; so if you want to inspect him, you must come at once.”

“Do you, Sybil, wish to see this savage chief?” asked Effie.

“By all means,” answered Sybil. “I should like to make a sketch of him while he is bartering his peltries.” And she took up a sketchbook and pencil from the table.

“Let me bring your paint-box,” said Effie, “for you will make a much more interesting drawing if you colour it.”

“I will try, if Norman will get a mug of water and hold it for me. We must not let the chief discover what we are about, or the poor savage may fancy we are bewitching him,” said Sybil, laughing.

On going out of the house, they proceeded to the spot in front of the store where the trading business was transacted. Captain Mackintosh, a fine-looking man of middle age, and two of his clerks, stood on one side, a quantity of goods piled up near them; while on the other was seen an Indian chief, standing near several bales of peltries, and attended by a band of nearly twenty followers. His appearance was picturesque in the extreme. His head was adorned with a circlet of tall plumes. His dress consisted of a coat of dressed deer-skin, tastefully ornamented with beads and quill-work, as were his leggings, with long tassels, while a white wolf-skin cloak hung over one shoulder, and necklaces, composed of the teeth of bears and other animals, hung about his neck. He had been keenly bargaining with his host; but no sooner did the young ladies appear than he glanced towards them, his eyes wandering from one to the other, until they settled on Sybil with a look of evident admiration. She, however having begun her sketch, continued drawing, regarding the Indian much as if he had been a lay figure dressed up to copy.

Captain Mackintosh had at length to recall his attention to the matter they were engaged on. The assistants on each side continued to weigh the peltries, and hand over the articles given in exchange; but the young chief seemed to have lost all the interest he had previously shown, and instead of haggling as before over the price, made no objection to any of the goods offered him, which his attendants packed up as they received them, and carried out of the fort.

The trading being over, instead of following his people, the young chief advanced to Captain Mackintosh, and addressed him in a long speech, the meaning of which neither Sybil nor Effie could understand. Had they done so, they would have been very much surprised to find that Mysticoose was offering to make Sybil his wife, and to give in exchange for her, peltries and robes sufficient to fill the store-house of the fort. Captain Mackintosh answered, with due caution, that it was not the custom of English ladies to marry unless they could give their hearts to the persons who desired to possess them, nor that of fathers to receive payment; but that he would tell his daughter of the honour the chief intended her, although he would hold out no prospect that she would consent to quit her home, and become the bride of one whose people differed so much in their habits and customs, as well as in their religion, from his.

On this, Mysticoose declared that he would be ready to learn the religion of the pale-faces and adopt their customs, and entreated that he might be allowed the opportunity of declaring his sentiments to the maiden.

Captain Mackintosh, though very much annoyed, kept his countenance as well as his temper, and endeavoured to persuade the chief that he could find a far more suitable wife among his own people, with whose beauty he would be satisfied, and who would labour for him like her sisters in general. All he could say, however, did not appear to have any effect in turning the young chief from his purpose; but, on the contrary, he grew more and more eager, as if determined to succeed.

All the time Sybil, unconscious that she was the subject of conversation, went on with her sketch; and as she drew rapidly, she succeeded in producing a very exact portrait of the savage warrior.

Norman, who had been attending to his duties in the store, now returned, and looking over Sybil’s shoulder exclaimed—

“Capital! It’s Mysticoose himself.” Snatching it from her hand, he held it up to the chief, saying, “What do you think of that, my friend? It’s wonderfully like you, isn’t it?”

Mysticoose started as he saw it, without making any reply; and rapidly advancing towards the young lady, endeavoured to take her hand. She instinctively drew back, and stepped behind Effie.

On meeting with this rebuff, the chief stopped short, and addressed Sybil, expressing in glowing language his admiration of her charms. Though she could not understand his words, she could not fail to suspect their meaning. Norman, however, who was sufficiently acquainted with the language of the Blackfeet to make out the meaning of the speech—though the expressions were too elaborate for him to follow—not possessing the discretion of his father, burst out laughing.

“What’s all that you’re saying?” he exclaimed. “Just face-about, and march out of this fort in double-quick time, or we may be obliged to send you off in a way you may not be pleased with.”

Scarcely had Norman uttered these words, than the chief, placing his hand on the hilt of his scalping-knife, cast a glance full of anger at the speaker, but had so far command of himself as not to draw it.

Captain Mackintosh now saw that it was time to interfere, and, speaking in Indian, rebuked Norman for uncourteously treating their guest: and then, placing his hand in a friendly way on the shoulder of the chief, told him that he would consider the matter, advising him to retire, as it would be soon time for closing the gates of the fort, and expressing his regret that he could not, under the circumstances, afford him the hospitality he would have desired.

The chief appeared to be pacified, his countenance assuming its usual calm expression; and after he had cast another look of admiration at Sybil, he walked with a dignified step towards the gate.

Captain Mackintosh, who accompanied him, shook hands in a cordial way, and expressed a hope that nothing which had been said would cause a feeling of irritation to remain on his mind, and that he would continue to trade at the fort on the same friendly terms as hitherto. The chief made no reply, but stalked on towards his tents, which were pitched at some little distance from the fort. As soon as he had reached them, the gate was shut, and the usual guard placed to watch the proceedings of the Indians outside. The young ladies, who had agreed to take a ride with Norman, were somewhat disappointed on finding that Captain Mackintosh considered it would be imprudent for them to go outside the fort while Sybil’s admirer remained in the neighbourhood.

“He is really a handsome fellow,” said Norman, laughing, as he looked on the portrait. “You’ve done him justice too. Perhaps some day you may change your mind; though I cannot say that I should approve of his carrying you off to become Queen of the Roaring Bulls.”

“Don’t talk such nonsense, Norman,” said Sybil. “I am vexed with myself for having gone out to take his portrait. I had no idea that the savage would even have looked at me. I have a great mind to tear up the picture.”

“Pray don’t do that,” said Effie; “it is too well drawn to be destroyed, and I want to show it to mamma, who will, I am sure, admire it.”

Mrs Mackintosh, who had been somewhat unwell, had not left her chamber; but in the evening she came into the sitting-room, when the portrait was shown her; and Norman related in his own way what had happened.

“I am sorry for it,” she remarked. “I do not trust the Indians, and I am afraid that this savage chief may cause us some annoyance. I wish that you had not vexed him, Norman. You must in future be more cautious, and pray do not, on any account, go to a distance from the fort for some time to come. Sybil and Effie must give up their rides for the present, unless they go out with a strong party.”

“My father doesn’t think the fellow will trouble us, as we parted on good terms with him,” answered Norman. “The chances are that he takes himself off to-morrow, and will speedily forget all about Sybil.”

When Captain Mackintosh afterwards came in, though he tried to make light of the matter, his wife fancied that he looked much more anxious than usual.

Still Norman insisted that Mysticoose and his people would take their departure the next morning, and that they should then no longer be troubled by them.

Strict watch was kept at night, and all remained quiet in the Indian camp. Next morning the tents were still there, and no sign was perceived that the occupants had any intention of moving.

The day went by; but though the tents remained, the young chief did not make his appearance.

Norman was considerably put out. “I have no notion that the girls should be kept prisoners on account of an impudent Redskin,” he exclaimed. “I will go out to the tents, and advise the chief and his party, now that they have transacted their business, to take themselves off.”

“No, no, Norman, stay quiet, my lad,” answered his father; “they’ll not go faster for being ordered off; and it is just possible that the young chief may take it into his head to do you some harm. It will be a poor satisfaction to punish him afterwards.”

“I am not afraid of him, or of any other savage like him,” said Norman.

“Well, well, stay within the fort until I give you leave to go out,” said his father. “Young blood quickly gets up, and a quarrel may ensue, which it is better to avoid.”

Norman promised to obey; and, to vent his feelings by himself, went up to the platform, which was dignified by being called the ramparts, that he might take a look cut, and ascertain if there were any signs of moving in the camp of the Blackfeet. He watched in vain, though he made out in the far distance two figures on the prairie going in a south-westerly direction. The sun was nearly setting when he returned to the house. He found his mother and Sybil engaged in their usual work.

“It is too provoking to have that fellow stopping out there, as if he were laying siege to the fort. My father won’t allow me to go out, but I must get some one to inquire the chief’s intentions. It is absurd in him to suppose that Sybil would ever be induced to marry him. He can have no object in remaining, as his admiration cannot be very deep, for he has only seen her once for a few minutes.”

“I am not quite certain about that,” remarked Sybil; “I think that he has seen me more than once. Don’t you remember, when we were out riding, meeting with an Indian, whom you said was one of the Blackfeet, and who made Effie and me a long speech, though as we did not understand a word he said, we could not reply, but you talked to him, and laughed in his face. I thought that I recognised his features, though he was dressed and painted in so different a way that I may have been mistaken.”

“I remember perfectly, but it never struck me that he was Mysticoose, though I cannot positively say that he was not,” answered Norman. “I don’t exactly remember what he said, but I fancy that he was praising the pale-faces generally, and expressing his desire to be their friend.”

“Well, we cannot account for the wayward fancies of the Red men,” observed Mrs Mackintosh; “but your father is anxious to retain their friendship, and would be unwilling to do anything to offend them. You must have patience; and I dare say in a day or two we shall be rid of our visitors.”

“I am very sorry to have been the cause of the annoyance; and had I dreamed of the result, I would have kept out of the way of the chief,” said Sybil, half laughing.

“Well, if the Blackfeet don’t go to-morrow, something must be done to make them move off,” exclaimed Hector.

Captain Mackintosh, though he did not say so, was really as much annoyed as his son.

No buffalo were to be seen in the neighbourhood, and it was evident, therefore, that the Indians did not remain for the sake of hunting. Among the men in the fort was an experienced voyageur and trapper, Le Brun by name, well versed in all Indian ways.

The captain having consulted him, he volunteered to go out at night, and try to ascertain what the Indians were about.

“We must never trust those Redskins,” he observed; “they don’t remain here without an object.”

His offer was accepted. Soon after dark he lowered himself down at the rear of the fort, and crept round, making a wide circuit, so that, should any of the Blackfeet be on the watch, he might escape observation. Captain Mackintosh directed a man to wait with a rope, to help him in again on the same side.

A careful look-out was kept during his absence round the fort. Some time having passed, and Le Brun not making his appearance, Captain Mackintosh began to fear that he had been discovered by the Indians, and captured. They would scarcely, however, he thought, venture to put him to death. Two hours or more went by; still he did not return. The Captain, therefore, began to consider whether it would be expedient to send out another man to try and ascertain what had happened. He was turning over in his mind who he should employ in this somewhat dangerous service, when Norman came up to him.

“Let me go,” he said; “I am sure that I can get up to the camp without being discovered, and I will be exceedingly cautious. It is not, indeed, likely that the Indians will be on the watch; for, should they have caught Le Brun, they will not suppose that we shall send another person to look for him. I will only get near enough to hear what they are saying, and creep away again as noiselessly as a lynx.”

“No, no, Norman; I am convinced of your courage and discretion, but I cannot allow you to risk your life for such an object,” said his father.

“But I run no risk of losing my life,” answered Norman; “they would not venture to kill me.”

“They would not if they knew who you were; but finding a spy in their neighbourhood, they might shoot you down without inquiry,” observed Captain Mackintosh.

“I don’t want to be shot,” said Norman; “depend upon it, I’ll take good care to avoid that.”

At length, Captain Mackintosh, reflecting that he could not send any one else on an expedition to the dangers of which he was unwilling to expose his own son, gave permission, charging Norman to approach the camp with the greatest possible caution, and only to do so provided he could hear the voices of the Indians, and had reason to believe that they were sitting in council.

Norman, well pleased at the confidence placed in him, hurried off to prepare for his expedition, by putting on a dark suit, which would assist in concealing him from view. Taking his gun, and sticking a brace of pistols in his belt, he descended, as Le Brun had done; but, to reach the camp, he took a route on the side opposite that which the scout had chosen. At first he walked upright, that he might the better ascertain the course to take. There were lights in each of the towers of the fort, which assisted him. No other objects were visible, even at the distance of a hundred yards. As he got nearer the tents, he hoped to be able to make them out against the sky. After he had gone some distance, he stooped down and began to creep along in the Indian fashion, trailing his gun. Every now and then he stopped to listen for sounds. He was, he calculated, approaching the camp, when he fancied he heard a rustling near him. It approached. He lay perfectly quiet. It might be a snake or some animal. His eyes were of but little assistance. “Should it be an Indian, I must try to take the fellow prisoner; but it may be a hard matter to do that, unless he is unarmed, and then I must hold a pistol to his head, and threaten to shoot him if he cries out.”

He had scarcely thought this, when he saw the head of a man lifted up as if going to gaze around. Strong and active, with good nerves, he was about to spring on the person, and seize him by the throat, when the other must have made him out, and he heard a voice whisper—

“C’est moi, Le Brun!”

Norman, greatly relieved, made himself known.

“Venez avec moi, vite!” and the Canadian led the way, crawling along the ground towards the lights glimmering from the fort. It was not until they had been hauled up, and were safe inside, that Le Brun spoke. He had, he told Captain Mackintosh, got close up to the camp, where he heard the sounds of many voices, and the tramp of feet, as if a large number of persons were collected, although only one fire burned in the midst of the tents. He was afraid of approaching nearer, lest he should be discovered. He waited in the expectation that the leaders would gather round the fire, as is their wont, to discuss their plans. He was rewarded for his patience, although they were too far off to enable him to see them distinctly. He, however, counted at least six warriors, who took their places at the fire, and one after the other got up and addressed their companions. A few words only reached him; but he heard enough to be convinced that they were discussing a plan to take possession of the fort, but its details he was unable to make out. He had gone round the camp, and while returning on the side opposite to that from which he had set off, had fallen in with Norman.

“We must take care to be doubly vigilant, then,” said Captain Mackintosh.

He at once cautioned the men to be on the watch; but before the ladies he made light of the matter, not wishing to cause them unnecessary anxiety. He felt pretty certain, indeed, that the Blackfeet would not openly attempt to take the fort, even though their numbers had, as Le Brun supposed, been much increased.

Night passed away without the slightest alarm. The next day matters remained to all appearance as on the preceding one. The tents were there, and a few Indians only—some on horseback, others on foot—were seen moving about in the neighbourhood, but none came near the fort. Le Brun suggested that if they had any treacherous design in view, they were probably waiting until the hunters, who made excursions to bring in game two or three times a week, had been seen to leave the fort, and that they would then, when fewer people were within, try and carry out their plan, whatever that might be. He suggested that a party should leave the fort after mid-day with several pack horses, as if they intended to make a long excursion. That they should go away to the south-east, and, as soon as they were out of sight, cross the river and come back again after dark, on the north side. If the Indians really intended treachery, they would certainly take the opportunity of attempting to carry it out.

Captain Mackintosh approved of the plan, and Norman thought it an excellent one. “I should so like to disappoint those rascals, and catch them in their own trap,” he said.

The horses (or the guard, as the stud belonging to a fort is called) were kept in a meadow on the opposite side of the river, where they were tolerably safe from any attempts which the marauding bands on the south might make to carry them off. Some time passed before those required could be brought across. As soon as they arrived, Le Brun, with eight well-armed men, with as many spare horses, set off on their pretended hunting expedition. They took care to pass sufficiently near the Indian camp to be easily seen.

“Le Brun was right in his suspicions!” exclaimed Norman from the ramparts, addressing his father, who was walking below. “Here comes Mysticoose with a dozen followers, dressed in their gayest attire, for I can see their ornaments glistening in the rays of the sun. Perhaps he has come to ask for Sybil’s answer to his offer; if so, we can give him a very short one.”

“We will say nothing to offend him,” answered Captain Mackintosh, who had joined his son; “but it will be prudent, knowing what we do, not to admit these gentlemen inside the gate. I will go out and meet them, and you and the other men cover me with your rifles. Let the Indians have a glimpse of your arms, and I am sure that they will attempt no violence.” The arrangements were quickly made. As soon as the chief and his party drew near, Captain Mackintosh went out of the fort, directing the men at the gate to close it should the Indians show any intention of making a rush to get in.

Advancing a short distance, he called to Mysticoose to dismount, and explain the object of his visit. The chief looked up at the ramparts, and, seeing the gleaming rifle-barrels, did as he was directed. Giving the bridle of his horse to one of his followers, he then advanced, and, putting out his hand in a cordial manner, said—

“Why does my white brother look upon me as an enemy? I have traded fairly, and wish to trade again. I have now brought some more peltries, not to trade, but to present to him as an earnest of my goodwill. Let him, then, admit me and my followers within the gates, that I may offer my present as presents should be offered, and have the happiness of gazing once more on the fair lily of the prairie, after whom my heart pants, as does the weary stag for the refreshing stream.” Mysticoose uttered much more in the same strain before he stopped.

Captain Mackintosh replied that he was always glad to see his friend, but as it was late in the day he regretted that he could not admit the chief and his followers, but that the next morning, if they wished to come, he should be happy to receive them; and although he would not refuse the present they had brought, he must insist on returning one of equal value in goods, as he could not promise that the fair lily, as he described his daughter, would be willing to show herself, and begged the chief to understand clearly that she had sufficiently considered the matter, and could not become his bride.

Whatever were the Indian’s feelings, he concealed them, and made an equally courteous reply, intimating that, notwithstanding what his white brother had said, he should come as proposed with a larger present, and a greater number of followers to convey it. He then, shaking hands as before, returned to his horse, and remounting, rode off with his companions.

“I hope, after all, that the Indian intends no treachery,” observed Captain Mackintosh, as he re-entered the fort; and the gates were closed for the night. “Still we must be on our guard.”

“I should think so, sir,” said Norman; “and we shall soon hear what Le Brun has to say on the subject.”

About a couple of hours after dark, Le Brun and his party arrived, and, having left their horses on the other side of the stream, noiselessly entered the fort.

At an early hour the next day the young chief, with nearly twenty followers, was seen approaching. Captain Mackintosh at once placed his men in positions commanding the entrance, so that, should the Indians show any treacherous intentions, the gate might forthwith be shut. His great object was to prevent bloodshed; at the same time, while showing that he was not unprepared for treachery, he did not wish to offend his guest.

As a precautionary measure, he resolved not to admit more than half their number, and he placed men ready to close the gates directly the party had entered. Mysticoose rode up with the air of a gallant in days of yore, and throwing the rein to one of his attendants, he, with the larger number of his followers, dismounted and advanced towards Captain Mackintosh, who stood ready to receive him.

“I can only allow ten to enter,” said the captain; “the rest must remain outside with the horses.”

The chief, appearing not to think this unreasonable, directed the rest of his followers to keep back. His countenance fell, however, when, having entered the gate, he looked round and saw the hunters whom he supposed to be at a distance, standing on either side with arms in their hands. He hesitated and stopped short.

“Does my white brother think I come intending treachery?” he asked. “He has been deceived by some one. My object is to present these peltries to him, hoping that he will give me, not the goods he spoke of, but the fair lily, his daughter, and I will promise to bring him ten times the amount before another summer has begun.”

Captain Mackintosh replied that he had already said all that he could say on that subject.

But the chief was not satisfied with his refusal, and began another long speech, which, as Norman remarked, “Though it might have a head, there seemed but little chance of seeing its tail.” He advised his father to try and cut it short.

Meantime, Le Brun, having slipped away, unseen by the Indians, had gone up on the ramparts, crept round to a part whence he could observe their tents. He had not been long there when he saw a large body of men issuing forth, and rapidly approaching the fort. Hurrying down, he gave the information to Captain Mackintosh.

“There is no time to lose, monsieur,” he said. “If we don’t turn these fellows out, they’ll try to obtain possession of the fort, as I suspect they all along intended to do.”

On hearing this, Captain Mackintosh ordered his men, who had been drawn up on either side, to close round their visitors, and some, who had been concealed, to show themselves.

The chief, on seeing this, stopped short in his speech, knowing that his treacherous design, it such he had intended, must have been discovered.

“What does this mean?” he asked, in a tone which showed that his self-confident air was more assumed than real.

“It means, my friend, that you must quit the fort if you do not wish to be shut up within it, and come another day to finish your address,” answered Captain Mackintosh. “I wish to be your friend, but I must be obeyed.”

The appearance of the garrison showed the chief that the captain was in earnest; and though he and his followers looked as if they were about to make a rush, thinking better of it, they beat a hasty retreat, when the gate was closed behind them. This was not done too soon, for they had got but a short distance off when a number of warriors from the camp, uttering loud shouts, galloped up, evidently expecting to indulge in the plunder of the fort. The young chief, no longer able to constrain the rage he felt at his disappointment, turning round, made gestures significant of his intended vengeance; then, putting spurs to his horse, he galloped off beyond range of any rifle-shot which he might well have expected would be sent after him. He was seen at a distance haranguing his people; but if he was urging them at once to attack the fort, they did not appear willing to risk their lives in an attempt which was likely to prove a failure.

The following day, having struck camp, they moved away to the southward, and Le Brun, who followed them to a considerable distance, reported that they appeared to have no intention of stopping in the neighbourhood, but were probably returning to the lodges of their tribe.

Greatly relieved by this information, the inmates of Fort Duncan pursued their usual avocations without any apprehension of further annoyance from Mysticoose and his people.

Chapter Four.

We must now return to the two travellers and their strange guide. Although Loraine had slept but little the previous night, he could not close his eyes. He enjoyed the excitement of the life he was leading, but he did not hide from himself its dangers, and he felt the responsibility of having induced young Hector to accompany him. He was also anxious to arrive at the fort, for he had become much interested in its inmates. Although it was supposed that the Blackfeet had gone to the westward, he thought it possible that some of them might have remained behind, and followed up the trail of his party. He had, however, great confidence in the watchfulness of Greensnake, and he hoped also that the dogs would give due notice should any enemies approach.

“If we pass over this night in safety, I think that we shall get through the rest of our journey without difficulty,” he said to himself. “We have accomplished well-nigh fifty miles to-day, and, as our horses will have a good feed to-night, we may ride another fifty to-morrow, and by keeping that up, we shall, as far as I can calculate, reach Fort Duncan in four or five days.”

He was about to drop off to sleep, when he was again aroused by a continuous howl in the distance. After listening for some time, he was convinced that it was produced by wolves. He fancied from the sound that there must have been hundreds of them. It grew nearer and nearer. The animals were coming that way. They might attack him and Hector, or, at all events, the horses, and either kill them or put them to flight.

He looked at the fire. By their guide’s advice he had allowed it to burn low, so that no flames casting their light around should betray the position of the camp to prowling Indians. Still it was better, he thought, to run even that risk than to allow the savage brutes to get into the camp. He, therefore, having thrown some more sticks on the fire, which quickly blazed up, awoke Hector, who naturally inquired what was the matter.

“Do you not hear the howling of wolves?” asked Loraine. “Get your rifle ready.”

“But Greensnake advised us not to fire, lest we should discover our camp to the Indians,” said Hector; “and I don’t fancy that at this time of the year wolves would be daring enough to attack us.”

“They may, however, attack the horses,” answered Loraine. “I will go and warn him, so that he may collect them.”

“He is on the alert, depend upon that,” said Hector; “and well knows what to do.”

“It is wise to be on the safe side,” answered Loraine, getting up. “Stay by our saddles and provisions, and I will try to find him.” He set off towards where he supposed the horses were feeding.

As soon as he had got beyond the range of the light thrown from the fire, the darkness became so great that he could with difficulty avoid running against the trunks of the trees. He stretched out his gun before him to try and feel the way. Two or three times he saved himself by this precaution. At last he thought that he must have reached the spot where Greensnake ought to be found; but though he called out to him, no answer came. He shouted louder and louder, still there was no reply, nor could he distinguish the forms of any of the horses against the sky. He could hear, however, the sound of the yelping and barking of the wolves, apparently much nearer than before. Still he went on, forgetting that he ran the risk of losing sight of the fire. At length, turning round to look for it, intending to go back to the camp, what was his dismay on being unable to discover the slightest glimmering of light in any direction! He had proceeded further than he had supposed, and regretted his folly, for he was well aware how easily he might lose himself. The sky overhead was obscured, so that the stars afforded him no guide. He thought that he had turned completely round, but of this he could not be quite certain, and he feared that by going on he might only get further and further from the fire. He shouted out—

“Hector, Hector, don’t move; but only shout in return, that I may know where to find you.”

Instead of Hector’s voice, the barking and yelping of the wolves alone reached his ear. Probably his shouts had been drowned by the fearful din they had been making. They served, however, partly to guide him; but they seemed so near that he expected every moment to be assailed by them; and in the darkness it would be a difficult matter to defend himself. Still, being a man of courage and determination, he resolved to face the danger; and keeping as direct a course as the impediments in his way would allow, he directed his steps towards the spot whence it appeared to him the sounds proceeded. He, of course, could move but slowly. He had gone, as he supposed, far enough to reach the camp, or, at all events, to be in sight of the fire, when he heard a shot, which came, it seemed to him, from a point rather more to the left than that towards which he was making his way. He had no doubt that it had been fired by Hector, and he immediately turned, hoping soon to catch sight of the fire. He was unwilling to discharge his own gun, not knowing at what moment he might require it to defend himself from the wolves. He, therefore, only shouted as before. He listened, and fancied that above the yelping chorus he could distinguish Hector’s voice. Presently, to his infinite relief, he caught sight of the gleam of the fire, more distant, however, than he had supposed it could possibly be. He made towards it as fast as he could venture to move; notwithstanding his caution, he first ran against a tree, and soon afterwards stumbled at a fallen log.

He could now clearly distinguish the spot where the fire was burning, by the lurid light which it cast on the neighbouring trees; and, with more confidence than before, he was hurrying on, when he saw to his right a number of glowing eyeballs, and the yelping of the wolves sounded closer than ever.

Waiting until a pair of the glowing balls were only a few feet off, he fired. They disappeared. A fearful yell from the whole pack followed. He could see a number of dark forms surrounding him. There was no time to reload, so, clubbing his rifle, he swept it round and round on every side. He felt it striking every now and then on the heads of the creatures which were thus providentially kept at bay. The fire became more distinct; but the wolves continued to leap and snarl and yelp as savagely as at first; and, notwithstanding the blows he was dealing about, one of the brutes seized him by the coat, and another, still more daring, flew at his throat, and though it failed to bite him, caught him by the collar, and it was with the greatest difficulty that he saved himself from being dragged down. He was afraid that Hector, hearing the sound of the wolves, and not seeing him, might fire; he, therefore, shouted at the top of his voice, to show his whereabouts. Presently, he saw his young friend holding a couple of flaming brands in his hands, come rushing towards him, accompanied by the two dogs, who, springing forward with furious barks, attacked his savage assailants. The assistance came only just in time, for the wolves had nearly succeeded in pulling him to the ground. The dogs at once sprang upon the brute hanging to his collar, which let go its hold to defend itself, when a blow on its head from Loraine’s rifle prevented it from offering further resistance. The dogs then flew at the other wolf, which also let go; while Hector, dashing the burning brands in the faces of the rest of the pack, put them to flight, enabling him and Loraine to get back almost breathless to the camp. The brave dogs were following the wolves, and would probably soon have been torn to pieces had they not promptly been called back.

“What can have become of Greensnake?” exclaimed Hector, as soon as they had time and breath to speak. “I hope that he has not played us false, and gone off with the horses.”

“I have no fear of that,” answered Loraine. “The old hunter would not have sent him with us unless he had perfect confidence in his honesty. Perhaps he heard the wolves coming long before we did, and took them to some place of security.”

“He was more likely to have driven them into the camp, where we could have assisted in protecting them,” observed Hector. “I am afraid that he has been surprised by a band of Blackfeet, or Sircees, who are notorious horse-stealers, and that they have carried off him as well as the animals. If so, we shall be left in a pretty plight.”

“We have our guns and dogs, and a fair stock of ammunition, to obtain food, and our compass to guide us; and if we find that we have lost our horses, we must push forward on foot,” answered Loraine. “But I am grievously annoyed at the prospect of being unable to reach the fort as soon as we expected; however, we must try to make our way on foot, and although we may be longer about it than we had hoped, we may still arrive in time to be of service. It is useless, however, talking over the matter at present. The best thing you can do is to lie down, and get some sleep while I keep watch.”

“No, no,” said Hector. “I have had my share already; but pray do you lie down, and I will watch.”

At length Loraine consented to do this, expecting to be able to arouse himself in a short time; while Hector, taking his rifle in hand, began to walk up and down, anxiously looking out for Greensnake. The wolves, however, still snarling and yelping a short distance off, would, it at length occurred to him, prevent the guide from making his appearance till the morning. Having now time for thought, he recollected the warning Greensnake had given; and he reflected that possibly at any moment, should a party of Blackfeet have been in the neighbourhood, and heard the reports of their rifles, guided by the light of their fire, they might come suddenly upon them. He kept, therefore, a vigilant watch with his ears rather than his eyes, listening for any sound which might indicate their approach, and trusting also to the dogs, which were on the alert, and accompanied him whenever he moved a few feet from the camp. When he returned they went back again, and lay down near the fire, with their noses on their paws, and ears erect, showing that they were wide awake.

At length Loraine awoke, and insisted on Hector’s lying down, who, before he did so, mentioned the ideas which had occurred to him.

“Never mind now what you think, but go to sleep,” said Loraine. “I’ll keep a bright look-out; depend upon that.”

Soon after this the wolves, attracted possibly by a passing stag or some other game, greatly to his relief, scampered off, their cries becoming less and less distinct as they got to a distance.

The night seemed interminably long, but the morning came at length. Loraine aroused Hector, and having made up the fire, intending to come back for breakfast, he charged the dogs to watch over the baggage, and then set out in search of Greensnake and the horses. Loraine endeavoured to trace the course he had taken during the night, but the trail was so indistinct that he could not be certain in what direction he had gone. As he and Hector advanced, they looked round for the horses, but they were not near the spot to which Greensnake had taken them on the previous evening, nor were they anywhere to be seen. They came, however, upon what Hector believed were their tracks; but as they were scattered about over a wide space of ground, he could not be positive as to what course they had taken. Loraine still argued that the guide would return, and that it would be prudent to go back to camp and wait for his appearance. This they accordingly did, shooting on their way a couple of ducks, which served them for breakfast, the remains being given to the dogs. After some time Loraine went to the top of the highest point near at hand—a small knoll or hillock—that he might take a look-out for the missing horses, but he soon came back without having seen them.

“I think we should wait a little longer,” he observed. “The young Indian may have thought it prudent to go to a considerable distance on account of the wolves. He may have slept until the morning, or may have stopped to catch and cook some food.”

“I will have another look round,” said Hector. “A few ducks won’t come amiss, if I can kill them on the way, either to us or our dogs, before we finally make a start;” and, calling the two dogs, he set off, they willingly accompanying him.

While Hector was away from the camp Loraine thoughtfully employed himself in examining their baggage, and in selecting such articles of food and clothing as they could carry on their backs, and in doing them up in two packs, making the heaviest for himself. He was thus engaged when he heard a couple of shots, but concluding that Hector had fired at some ducks, as he proposed, went on with his occupation. As he looked at their saddle-bags and valises, he regretted having to leave them, but without horses he saw no possibility of carrying them. Noon was approaching, Hector had not returned, and he became seriously anxious; so, taking his gun, he set out to look for him. “If he returns while I am away, he will, I hope, guess why I have gone, and will remain quietly here for my return,” he said to himself. As he walked along he searched on every side, but Hector was nowhere to be seen. The dreadful thought occurred that his young friend might have met with some accident, or that, should Indians have carried off Greensnake, they might have entrapped him also. His own position was trying in the extreme; but being a man of courage, he nerved himself up to encounter whatever might happen. As he was casting his eyes around, he caught sight of a small, dark object on the ground. He hastened on. It was a powder-flask. It, however, was certainly not Hector’s. He had no doubt that it belonged to Greensnake. A short distance beyond he came on a ramrod. The ground was covered with a rich grass, and there were signs of horses having fed on it, so that no doubt remained on his mind that it was here Greensnake had been during the night, and on further examination he discovered traces of the animals’ feet moving to the eastward, but he was unable to ascertain whether Hector had passed that way. Had he done so, he would probably have followed up the trail of the horses. Loraine, therefore, hurried on in the same direction. He marked as carefully as he could the course he was taking, examining his compass to guide himself. Several times he thought that it would be better to retrace his steps, lest Hector should have returned during his absence to the camp. He was at length on the point of doing so when he saw before him a wood. At the same instant, he fancied that he heard the bark of a dog. He hurried forward, feeling sure that it was that either of Muskey or Buster, and he hoped that, if so, Hector was not far off, and had escaped being captured by Indians. In a short time he again heard the dogs bark, and as he approached the wood a voice, which he knew was Hector’s, shouted out—

“Take care, there’s a big she-grizzly, with a couple of cubs, in that thicket. I wounded her, and she’s very savage.”

“Where are you?” asked Loraine.

“Here, up a tree,” cried Hector. “Whenever I attempt to descend, she rushes out, and I have dropped my gun, so that I have no chance of killing her.”

“Come down then, and find your gun, and I will stand by to shoot the bear if she appears.”

“She got hold of my gun and broke it to pieces, so that you must not depend upon my help,” cried Hector. “You’ll do better to get up here, and kill her when she shows herself.”

“I’ll take post behind the tree, and when she sees you descending, perhaps she will come out from the cover,” answered Loraine. The dogs meantime were barking furiously outside the thicket.

No sooner did Hector begin to descend than the bear, which had apparently had her eyes fixed on him, came waddling out from her place of concealment, growling savagely. The two dogs wisely scampered off out of her reach, and Hector sprang up again. Loraine then stepped out from behind the trunk, when the bear rose on her hind quarters, growling and showing her fangs. The opportunity was as favourable as he could desire. He took a steady aim, and over she rolled. At this, Hector gave a shout of satisfaction, while the dogs came back, though afraid to approach, as she was still struggling violently. Loraine then reloaded, and advancing, sent another shot crashing through her brain. The two cubs had come out, and looked as if inclined to give battle, but the dogs kept them at bay, giving time to Loraine to load again, when he fired and killed one of them, and the next was settled in the same way.

Hector, who had come down from his perch, expressed his regret at having caused his friend so much anxiety. He had been following up the track of the horses, when he caught sight of the bear, which he unwisely fired at and wounded. She at first had gone off with her cubs, but just as he had reached the wood, she had turned and rushed at him. He had again fired, but having no time to reload, in attempting to escape up the tree had dropped his gun, when the bear, seizing it, had gnawed and twisted it in such a manner as to render it perfectly useless. Had not the dogs held her in check, he acknowledged that he should have been caught.

“Had we our horses, we might supply ourselves with bears’ flesh sufficient to last for the whole of our journey; as it is, we can only take as much as we can conveniently carry,” observed Loraine. They speedily, if not very scientifically, cut off a portion of the meat, which they did up with strips of the cubs’ hides into two packages, the dogs meantime enjoying a magnificent feast off the remains. They then retired to the camp, still as much in the dark as ever as to what had become of Greensnake and the horses.

“I don’t know what I shall do without my gun,” said Hector, as they walked along. “If we meet with enemies, I shall be unable to help you to fight; nor can I kill any game.”

Loraine did his best to comfort him. “We must keep out of the way of enemies, and my gun will enable me to obtain as much food as we shall require, while you can assist me with your advice, as you know more about the country than I do,” he observed.

When Loraine pointed to the articles they must abandon, Hector suggested that they should be placed en cache by hanging them up to the bough of a tree, deep in the wood, so as to be concealed from passers-by.

They might thus some day have an opportunity of sending for them.

“There, you see how at once you can help me,” remarked Loraine. “I have been sadly puzzled to know what to do with them.”

Having taken a substantial meal of bears’ flesh, they carefully put out their fire, and obliterated as far as they could the traces of their encampment. They then strapped on their packs, and Hector supplying himself with a pointed stick, in the place of his damaged rifle, they set off, followed by the dogs, in the direction, as they supposed, of Fort Duncan.

Chapter Five.

For many a mile the weary travellers tramped on. In vain they looked out for Greensnake, and had too much reason to fear that he had been entrapped by the Blackfeet, and probably murdered. The country, though often fertile and beautiful, was in some places sandy and barren, and utterly destitute of water. The whole day, their flasks having been emptied, they had not a drop to quench their burning thirst, and when they did at length reach a pool, the liquid in it was so bitter and stagnant that they dared scarcely to taste a drop, even after straining it through a handkerchief. The food they had brought with them was also running short, and they had been unable to shoot any game to supply its place. Two or three buffalo had been seen in the distance, but had made off before they could get within shot; and several deer had passed, but being to leeward, scented them, and scampered away as they approached.

“Though we cannot find large game, we must look out for small,” observed Hector. “Perhaps we shall meet with some beavers, musk-rats, or badgers; we must not be particular.”

“Not if we are starving,” answered Loraine; “but I should prefer a hare or duck, or a prairie-hen.”

At length a broad stream appeared before them. They hurried forward to quench their thirst, and then sat down to consider how it was to be crossed. They could both swim, but their packs and Loraine’s gun, as well as their clothes, had to be floated across.

There are, fortunately, neither alligators nor voracious fish in the rivers of those latitudes, and so Hector proposed that they should build a raft of rushes and dried branches on which to place their clothes, their packs, and the gun, and tow it over.

It was soon formed, though Loraine feared it was a somewhat frail structure, even for the duty it was intended to perform.

The passage was accomplished with difficulty, and with the loss of Loraine’s gun, which slipped off into the deepest water.

They lamented this serious loss, but Loraine having supplied himself with a pointed stick, they set off, endeavouring to keep up each other’s spirits as they marched on. They had still their compass to steer by, but their direct progress was on some days very slow, as they had to turn aside to avoid extensive marshes and lakelets. Their food at length came to an end, and, in spite of all Hector’s efforts, he was unable to trap any animals. They several times saw beavers, which got away from them, and the ducks and other water-fowls only appeared to fly off with derisive quacks at their impotent attempts to knock them down, so Hector declared.

The dogs were growing thinner and thinner, and at length Buster, who had dropped behind, did not come up to them. In vain they called him, but, unwilling to lose time by returning, they went on, hoping that the dog would overtake them at their camp. He did not appear, however.

“Perhaps he took it into his head that we might eat him,” said Hector, looking at poor Muskey, who wagged his tail as he spoke, wondering if he was to have anything for supper.

“Should you mind eating Muskey?” asked Hector.

“I should be very unwilling to kill the poor dog; but if we can find no food to-morrow, it must be done, I fear, to save our lives,” answered Loraine.

Although they lighted a fire, they lay down that night supperless. At daybreak they set off, hoping to reach a lakelet in which Hector thought that he might catch some white fish. They were becoming faint, and no water was to be seen. At length they entered a wood, close to which they found an abundance of choke-berries, as well as gooseberries and currants, which served to appease the gnawings of hunger, although the poor dog looked as if he wished that he could have something more substantial; and about mid-day, they each managed, almost at the same moment, to knock over a small bird.

So great was their hunger that they immediately halted, and, lighting a fire, cooked and ate them.

Darkness coming on, all hope of obtaining food that night was given up. Loraine offered to kill Muskey.

“No, no; let him live to-night, and perhaps to-morrow morning he may assist in catching something,” answered Hector.

They lay down close to the fire, but neither could for some time sleep. Hector was very feverish, and Loraine himself began to feel ill. He saw that his young companion was very unlikely to be able to proceed, and he determined to set off next morning in search of water. At last he closed his eyes, and, to his surprise, when he awoke he found that the sun had arisen. Hector was still sleeping. The fire had gone out, and Muskey lay with his nose on his paws, watching his masters.

“I must manage to get the dog to remain behind and guard him,” he thought; “I will try to find water by myself.”

Hector awoke just as he was about to set off, and tried to get up; but his strength failed, and he sank down again on the ground.

“Hold out for a few hours longer, and I trust I shall obtain relief for you,” said Loraine. “Get Muskey to stay, and he will assist in defending you should any enemies appear.”

To prevent the dog from following him, Loraine fastened a strap round its neck, and put the end into Hector’s hand. The dog, making no resistance, lay down by his side. Loraine set off towards a knoll which he saw at a little distance, hoping from thence to be able to ascertain in what direction water was to be found. He walked as fast as his strength would allow. On reaching the knoll he looked anxiously round on every side. Before long he saw what appeared to be the gleam of water, near a wood of willow and aspen, and tottered forward, every instant expecting to find the water, but it seemed to be further off than he had supposed. At last he saw the grove of willows, and he was sure that the water would be found near it. The grove was reached, but no water could he see. “It must be close at hand,” he said aloud; “it would be useless to attempt returning until I have found it.” By a strenuous effort he aroused himself, and pushed forward. His strength was failing: he felt as if he were in a dream. In vain he tried to move his feet. At length he sank fainting to the ground, beneath the shade of a tree.

How long he had thus remained, he could not tell, when he heard a human voice. At first he thought it was Hector calling to him for help. He tried to rise, but before he could regain his feet he sank back to his former position.

“This is dreadful,” he thought. “I must help that poor lad. His friends at the fort, if we do not reach it, will be surprised by savages and cut off. Those two young girls—what a dreadful fate will be theirs! I must try and recover myself.” And once more he endeavoured to get up. Again he heard a voice; it was much nearer; and opening his eyes, he saw a figure standing over him. It was that of Isaac Sass.

“Right glad I am to find you!” exclaimed the old man, stooping down; “but you seem in a sad plight. What has become of your young companion? I trust no harm has befallen him.”

“Water, water!” answered Loraine, faintly. “Take water to him; he wants it more than I do.”

“You want it bad enough, I guess,” said the trapper; and, unslinging his flask, he poured some of the refreshing liquid down Loraine’s throat. It quickly revived him.

“Take him water,” he said; “he is out there.” And he pointed in the direction where he had left Hector.

The old man shouted; and, presently, who should appear but Greensnake, mounted on a horse, accompanied by three others, which he at once secured to some neighbouring trees. Isaac then handed a flask of water to the young Indian, who, receiving some directions which Loraine could not understand, set off at full gallop towards the spot where Hector had been left.

“Will he find him?” asked Loraine, anxiously.

“No fear of that,” said Sass. “When you have recovered we will follow. Here, take some food, if you can swallow it.”

Loraine was better able to eat than he expected.

“I brought a couple of horses for you and your companion, besides yonder pack animal; for I guessed whereabouts I should find you, though I thought you would have made better progress than you have done, and I did not expect to come upon your trail for another day or two.”

Loraine having briefly explained what had happened, inquired how the old trapper had fallen in with Greensnake.

“The lad was carried off by a party of Sircees, who stole your horses; but, believing him to be an idiot, they failed to keep a watch over him, and he easily managed to escape on one of the fleetest of their animals, and made his way towards Fort Edmonton. I, knowing the difficulties you would be in without horses, at once set off to find you, though I little expected that you would have been reduced to this sad plight. And now do you think you could mount, and see how it fares with your friend?”

“I will try, at all events,” said Loraine, feeling very anxious about Hector.

With the aid of the old trapper he got into the saddle. When once there he felt capable of going as fast as the horse could gallop.

They set off, the trapper leading the other horse. As they neared the spot, Loraine’s mind misgave him. Had Hector survived the hardships he had endured? He himself felt how nearly he had succumbed, and he wished that he had begged the old trapper to go on at once, and left the Indian with him.

“Cheer up, cheer up, friend,” said Sass, surmising the thoughts passing through his mind. “Youth is tough, and hunger and thirst don’t kill a man for a long time.”

At last the spot was reached. Loraine threw himself from his horse, and nearly fell to the ground in doing so, forgetting how weak he was. Greensnake was bending over Hector, supporting his head with one hand, while he was feeding him with the other; Musky, who was looking on, evidently having recognised the Indian as a friend.

Loraine hurried forward.

“All right,” exclaimed Sass; “speak to your friend, my boy.”

“Yes, yes, thanks to this Indian,” answered Hector, faintly.

“I knew it would be so,” observed old Sass, addressing Loraine. “We’ll camp here, as neither of you are fit for travelling, and while you attend to the lad, Greensnake and I will light a fire and put up a hut for you, and then I’ll see about getting some game.”

These arrangements were soon made, and old Sass set off with his gun to shoot any creature he might come across fit for the pot.

Hector had so far recovered as to be able to sit up, and to show that he was likely to do justice to the fare the old trapper expected to provide for the party.

Chapter Six.

The inhabitants of Fort Duncan were spending their time much as usual, and had almost ceased to trouble themselves about the threats of Mysticoose, who had, they believed, returned to his lodges, having seen the hopelessness of inducing the English chief to give him his daughter in marriage. The hunters were out every day in search of buffalo, sometimes several days together, while the young ladies, accompanied by their father and brother, and two or three attendants, took their rides as they had been accustomed to do, without fear of encountering enemies.

They were about, one afternoon, to take a ride, when a small party of mounted Indians—who, as they had several pack horses, were evidently coming to trade—were seen approaching the fort.

“We must wait to receive these fellows,” said Captain Mackintosh, “and I am afraid, my girls, there will be little chance for you afterwards to get your gallop.”

“Oh, papa, Norman can come with us, if you can spare him; it would be a pity to lose this lovely day,” said Effie.

Sybil said nothing, and Captain Mackintosh, perhaps against his better judgment, consented to let the girls go, supposing that the new comers would be too fully engaged in trading to notice them. They accordingly mounted, and accompanied by Norman and two of the men who usually acted as their body guard, set out a short time before the Indians arrived at the camp.

No one in the fort observed that one of the savages turned round his horse and galloped off in the direction from whence they had come.

As there were not more than a dozen men, and as they, according to custom, had deposited their arms outside the fort, they were admitted without hesitation.

Captain Mackintosh, well acquainted with the various Indian nations, was struck by the appearance of their features, which were those of the Blackfeet, although they wore none of the distinctive ornaments of that tribe, and introduced themselves as Peagons, whose territory lies to the southward. Their chief, a plausibly mannered man, stated that they had been induced to come to Fort Duncan by hearing that better value was given for peltries there than was to be obtained from the Long Knives. They seemed, however, in no hurry to begin business, and begged that food might be provided for the party, as they had gone several days without shooting a buffalo, hinting that some fire-water would be a welcome addition, though they did not appear surprised when Captain Mackintosh refused to supply the pernicious beverage.

The visitors did ample justice to the feast placed before them, and would apparently have continued eating as long as any meat remained, had not Captain Mackintosh suggested that darkness would come on before they had time to commence trading.

At length, therefore, one of the packs was undone, and business proceeded in the usual way.

They were thus engaged, when a little hump-backed Indian, whom nobody had observed, crept in at the gate of the fort, and making his way up to where Captain Mackintosh was superintending affairs, drew a piece of paper from a leathern pouch and put it into his hand.

Captain Mackintosh having read it attentively, directing his head clerk to go on with the trading, beckoned to the hump-backed Indian to accompany him out of ear-shot of the trading party, and having questioned him and received his answers, he summoned Le Brun.

Though the Captain had betrayed no emotion in presence of the strange looking little Indian, his chief hunter remarked his agitation. “What has happened, Monsieur Capitaine?” he asked.

“This is a matter of life and death, and I know that I can trust you, Le Brun,” said Captain Mackintosh, not directly answering him. “Take the fleetest of our horses and ride after Monsieur Norman and the young ladies. Spare neither spur nor whip. Desire them to return immediately to the fort, as hard as they can gallop. Here, take this with you,” and he wrote a few words on a slip of paper to be delivered to Norman.

“Monsieur Capitaine can depend on me. I will make La Froule fly like the whirlwind,” said Le Brun, and doubling up the paper, he hurried away to obey the order he had received.

“I would that I could go myself,” murmured Captain Mackintosh, “but my duty compels me to be here, and even for my dear children’s sake, I must not desert my post when danger threatens.”

It was some time before Le Brun could catch the horse he had selected.

Captain Mackintosh endeavoured to conceal his anxiety, especially from his visitors, whose keen eyes had been watching him narrowly though in no other way did they show that they suspected the little hump-backed Indian had come with any information relating to them. Captain Mackintosh, who had gone up to the platform, gave a sigh of relief, as he at length saw Le Brun gallop off at full speed in the direction the riding party had taken.

Having seen Le Brun off, Captain Mackintosh returned to superintend the trading, which the Indians seemed inclined to prolong more than usual. They haggled over every article, and insisted on their peltries being weighed more than once, on the pretence that there was some mistake, or that the scales were out of order. They examined the goods offered to them over and over again, handing them round to each other, and criticising their quality. They then requested that tobacco might be supplied to them, as they were inclined to have a smoke before proceeding further.

One of them then got up and spoke. The meaning of his speech was difficult to understand, though uttered with that flow of language of which most Indians have the command.

Captain Mackintosh bore all this with the necessary patience. He did not wish to come to a rupture with his visitors, though from the warning he had received, he strongly suspected that treachery was intended.

As time went on, he became more and more anxious at not seeing the girls and Hector return.

At length he went to the platform, but not a glimpse of the riding party could he discover. On his return he found the Indians still smoking their pipes. He inquired whether they intended to sell the remainder of their peltries, when one of them getting up stated that they wished to hold a council on the subject, and asked permission to sleep in the fort, that they might be prepared the next morning to continue their trading.

Captain Mackintosh replied that he had made it a rule to allow no strangers to sleep within the fort, that they might leave their peltries if they chose, that they would be perfectly safe, and that they could sleep in the hut built expressly for the purpose outside the gate.

This answer appeared somewhat to disconcert the traders, and one of them rising, offered to go on again with the business after they had been supplied with some more food, for which, as he expressed it, their souls yearned.

Captain Mackintosh answered that a feast should be prepared for them, but that as the gates were closed at a certain hour, they must not take it amiss at being requested to leave the fort before that time.

While their spokesman was making his address, the dark eyes of the other Indians were wandering around in every direction. Perhaps they began to have an idea that their intentions were suspected, when they perceived that all the men in the fort had pistols in their belts, and swords by their sides, and their rifles in their hands.

While the traders were waiting for the promised feast, Captain Mackintosh again went to the platform. Just as he reached it, he saw a single horseman galloping at headlong speed towards the fort, and in the distance, as if pursuing him, he observed an extended line of mounted savages. His heart misgave him on discovering that the fugitive was Le Brun, who, not even casting a glance over his shoulder, made straight for the gate.

Captain Mackintosh hurried down to meet him. “What has happened?” he inquired, with difficulty commanding his voice. “Where are the young ladies and my son?”

“Monsieur, I cannot tell, though I fear the worst,” answered Le Brun, throwing himself from his panting horse, which stood covered with foam at the gate. “I was on the track of the young ladies, and Monsieur Norman, when I saw far away a large troop of Indians. I endeavoured to avoid them, but was discovered, and they came thundering across the prairie in pursuit of me. I fled for my life, feeling sure that they would take my scalp, should I be overtaken, and that is all I know. I would have died to save the young ladies, but it was beyond my power to help them.”

While he was speaking a shout was heard from one of the Indians, who had remained with the horses outside the gate. In an instant the visitors sprang to their feet, and drawing their tomahawks from beneath their cloaks, uttering similar cries, rushed towards the white men standing round. An athletic savage was about to strike Captain Mackintosh, when a shot, fired by the hump-backed Indian, pierced his heart. Another savage shared the same fate. The remainder fought desperately, their aim evidently being to keep the gate open until the arrival of the approaching horsemen.

The instant the alarm was given several of the garrison, who had remained concealed, appeared from various quarters, and furiously attacking the treacherous Indians, shot several of them down, the remainder being allowed to make their escape through the gate, which was immediately closed and strongly barred behind them.

So rapidly had everything been done that up to this time scarcely a minute had elapsed since Le Brun had entered the fort.

Before it was perceived what he was about to do, the hump-backed Indian had struck his knife into the breasts of those who had fallen, several of whom were still struggling on the ground.

We must now return to the riding party. They cantered gaily on, enjoying the pure fresh air, the exhilarating exercise, and the scenery, notwithstanding that its general features were well known to them. To the south and west extended the level prairies, covered in many places with rich grass, though in others sandy and barren, while to the east rose a ridge of tree-covered hills, through which the river forced its way, bordered by maples, willows, and elms. On the other side of the river the hills swept round, rising almost abruptly from its margin, with here and there small fertile valleys dividing the heights. To the south-east was a lake of some size, also fringed by graceful trees, beyond which appeared another blue distant range, adding much to the picturesque beauty of the landscape. On approaching the northern end of the lake, they saw a splendid flock of pelicans floating on its calm surface, sailing round and round, but as they got nearer, the birds spreading their wings, flew majestically off until they disappeared in the distance. Magpies, grackles, cat birds, and many other of the winged tribe, appeared in considerable numbers among the trees, or disporting themselves on the lake or river.

“It is so long since we have had a gallop, that I vote we take a good long one,” exclaimed Norman; and Sybil and Effie, whose spirits had also risen, expressed their readiness to do as he proposed.

“Then let us take the circuit of the lake,” said Norman. “I have gone round it several times; and there is plenty of hard ground, though there are some swampy places which it won’t do to ride into.”

They had, however, not gone far, when Norman, whose horse was higher than those of his sisters, observed in the distance to the south-west a large body of mounted men, whom he knew from their numbers, and the prevailing colour of their ranks, must be Indians.

He pointed them out to his companions, “They are probably bound either for the fort, or are on a hunting expedition to the eastward, but I cannot yet make out in what direction they are going,” he observed. “However, I conclude that they are friends, and should they come near us, I will go forward and meet them. It is always better to show that one wishes to be on good terms with the Redskins, and have no fear of them. You girls, however, keep back. Since the lesson Sybil received, it is as well you should not let them see you pale-faces, if you can help it.”

The young ladies laughed, and Norman soon afterwards observing that the horsemen were approaching, dashed forward to meet them as he proposed.

He had got some little way when he saw that the strangers had put their horses to their topmost speed, and he remarked at their head a tall chief who was galloping on, urging his steed by whip and spur.

“I don’t like their looks,” he thought. “That fellow is very much like Mysticoose. It will be wiser for the girls to keep clear of them.”

Turning round, therefore, he rode back as hard as he could go, and as he rejoined Sybil, and Effie, he advised them to give their horses the whip so that they might not risk an encounter with the strangers. On looking round he saw that the latter were coming directly after them.

“On, girls, on!” he cried out. “I wish that we had turned sooner; but our horses are in good wind and we can keep ahead of these fellows, even should they try to overtake us.”

Norman’s horse was a powerful one: the young ladies being light weights, and accustomed to riding, giving the rein to their steeds they flew over the ground.

Their attendants, who did not like the appearance of the strangers, making good use of whip and spur, managed to keep up with them.

“There’s a ford right ahead, across the river; we will make for it,” shouted Norman. “We can then keep along the northern bank. It will be much safer than attempting to reach the fort by the direct track, which would bring us close to those fellows.”

Towards the ford, therefore, they directed their course. Trusting to the fleetness of their steeds, they had reason to hope that they should keep ahead of their pursuers; for the Indians’ horses, though strong and possessed of great endurance, were incapable, they knew, of going at any great speed.

Norman, looking back, however, saw with vexation that the Indian chief, spurring on his animal, was fast distancing most of his followers, somewhat scattered, though not far off. There were several other savages endeavouring to keep up with him. Again and again, Norman urged Sybil and his sister to give the rein to their steeds.

“Never fear. Stick on; the animals won’t come down,” he shouted.

They both kept up their courage, though fully alive to their dangerous position. Sybil, indeed, suspected that Mysticoose was at the head of the party, and that his object was to capture her. She nerved herself up, however, for whatever might occur.

Though Norman had assured them that there was no risk of their horses falling, she saw, as she approached the river, that the ground was becoming more uneven. Rocks and the stumps of trees, burnt in a recent fire, cropped up here and there, and fallen logs, some so close together that the horses in leaping might stumble over others further off.

Beyond, the ground appeared marshy, and though it might not be too soft for them to get over, they would be delayed until their pursuers had overtaken them.

Still, the girls holding their reins ready to lift their horses should they stumble, continued urging them on with their whips, and Norman, as he looked at them, wondered at their nerve and apparently calm demeanour.

He carried a brace of pistols in his belt, and the two men had their buffalo guns, short weapons, useful for a close encounter, and he resolved to fight to the last rather than let his sister and Sybil be captured. He knew at the same time, how hopeless it would be to contend with their numerous, well-armed enemies.

The rough ground was crossed, the marshy spot was reached, and the horses dashed on, floundering through it, their feet at times sinking so deep that it appeared impossible to draw them out again, while even Norman had to stick tight to keep his seat. He scarcely dared look round, but he fancied that he could hear the clattering of horses hoofs on the hard ground they had just before passed over.

“Hold on!” he shouted, “we shall soon get through the marsh and the savages will find it no easy matter to follow us!”

Though he said this, he knew there was the ford to be crossed, and that could only be done at a walking pace, so that before they could get to the other side, the savages would already have reached the margin of the stream. Once more he turned round.

The chief and half a dozen of his followers were already on the borders of the marsh, some going on one side, some on the other, to find a harder part for crossing.

Happily, however, just then, the young ladies’ steeds reached firmer ground, and sprang forward. They were now making directly for the ford, and Norman hoped once more, though almost against hope, that they might get across in time to obtain another good start of their pursuers.

The savages, however, knowing the nature of the ground better than they did, had succeeded in passing it much more rapidly, and Norman saw that in a few minutes they would be up to them. He had almost lost all hope of escape when two horsemen, evidently white men, appeared on the brow of the ridge on the opposite side.

A glance must have shown them the state of affairs, and at the risk of breaking their necks, they came rattling down the steep descent, the horses sometimes sliding almost on their haunches, sometimes leaping forward.

“That is Hector!” cried Norman, recognising his brother; and then the thought occurred to him that he and his companion would share the fate to which it appeared likely they were doomed. Hector and his companion, who, as may be supposed, was Loraine, regardless of the danger into which they were running, dashed forward, and without stopping, plunged into the ford to meet the fugitives, who had all by this time began the passage.

The appearance of only two white men did not deter the Redskins from continuing the pursuit, and having, their guns in their hands, got within thirty yards or so of the two attendants, they fired. Both shots took effect.

One poor fellow fell from his horse; the other, though wounded, clung on still, endeavouring to escape. The Indians came pressing on. One of them, who had got abreast of his chief, attempted to grapple with Hector, and Mysticoose himself was about to seize Sybil, when Loraine, dashing forward and levelling a pistol, shot him in the arm. The limb hung powerless at his side. But notwithstanding, taking the reins in his teeth, the savage chief again attempted with his other hand to take hold of her, while, fearing that she would escape him, he shouted to his followers, who, with fearful shrieks, were pressing on. Her horse, terrified by the sound, bounding forward, she escaped him. Enraged at his failure, he lifted his tomahawk to hurl it at her head, when Loraine with the butt of a pistol struck down his arm; and at that instant a horseman was seen on the top of the ridge. The stranger was old Sass. At a glance he took in the state of affairs. Instead of descending, however, he turned round and shouted loudly in Cree—

“Come on, come on! Here are your enemies, here are your enemies! We’ve a fine band of them in our power. Quick, quick, or they will escape us!”

Then, as if his followers were close behind, he began to descend almost as rapidly as had the younger men. The Blackfeet, evidently believing that in another minute a large body of their foes would be upon them, turned their horses’ heads, and without looking again at the top of the ridge, began a rapid retreat, carrying Mysticoose along with them, their flight hastened by the loud shout which, Hector and Norman setting the example, was raised by the white men.

Norman had not forgotten the poor fellow who had fallen in his defence, and succeeded in catching him as he came to the surface, and dragging him to the shore.

“We must get to the top of the hill and show ourselves, or the Blackfeet may suspect the trick we played them,” said old Sass. “That done, we’ll ride as fast as our horses’ legs can carry us to Fort Duncan. I’ll help you with that poor fellow,” he added, addressing Norman. “Here, friend, mount your horse; many a man has ridden a score of miles with a worse wound.”

The half-breed, knowing that his life depended upon his following the advice, succeeded in getting into his saddle, when the whole party, winding their way up the height, which was of no great elevation, showed themselves on the summit, appearing as if they were the front rank of a body of horsemen about to descend to the river. Such was the idea, in all probability, that the Blackfeet entertained as they were seen in the distance galloping off to the south-west.

The party had to make a considerable circuit, and notwithstanding their wish to hurry forward were compelled frequently to proceed at a foot pace, although they pushed on whenever the ground would allow.

On reaching the top of the hill overlooking the prairie on the southern side of the river, they caught sight of the Blackfeet band in the distance, galloping, it appeared, towards the fort. Whether they themselves were perceived, they could not tell; but Norman fancied that he saw a band separate from the rest, and direct their course towards the river. It would have answered no purpose to stop and ascertain this, though, should such be the case, it was more necessary than ever to gain the fort without delay.

Descending the hill, they pushed forward as before; but Norman cast many an uneasy glance to the left, fearing that the savages might, having swam their horses across the river, pounce suddenly out upon them.

They had got about half-way, when the sound of distant firing reached their ears.

“Where can that come from?” asked Hector, who was riding with his brother.

“From the fort, I am afraid,” answered Norman. “The Blackfeet must have attacked it, hoping to get in while some of the garrison are away; but my father will, I trust, have been prepared for them, though I am afraid that some traders, who arrived just before we set off, must have come with treacherous designs, and will try to help their friends outside.”

“I thought before this that a fine fellow who came with us—Allan Keith, one of your clerks—would have arrived with a party of half-breeds, whom he expected to enlist,” said Hector. “We calculated that he would have been here, as we were greatly delayed on our journey,” and he briefly related the adventures Loraine and he had met with.

“Hurrah! Here’s a level place. We can push on,” cried Norman; and the party, putting their horses into a gallop, dashed forward. As they did so, rapid firing, echoing among the hills, was again and again heard, evidently coming from the direction of the fort.

Chapter Seven.

The glowing sun was touching the line where the blue sky and prairie met, his rays casting a ruddy hue over the calm surface of the river, when the party, conducted by Norman, reached the northern bank opposite the fort, they having been delayed by attending to the wounded man, who could with difficulty be brought along. As they descended the slope to the river they caught sight of a body of horsemen galloping away across the prairie. Norman, as he watched them, was certain that they were the savages who had pursued his party.

“Thank Heaven, the Redskins have been defeated!” exclaimed Hector; “but had it not been for the warning you sent my father, friend Sass, the case might have been very different.”

Norman now hailed at the top of his voice for a boat.

In a short time two men were seen launching one from a shed close to the water. They quickly brought her across. As she would not carry the whole of the party, the two young ladies, and, at their request, the wounded men, were first ferried over.

Captain Mackintosh stood on the bank to receive them, and, as Sybil and Effie threw themselves into his arms, their feelings at length giving way, they burst into tears.

“There is nothing more to fear; we have driven off the Blackfeet, and they have received a lesson which they will not soon forget, I trust,” he said.

He then inquired how they had been preserved. They were both eloquent in describing the way Hector and Loraine, with their old companion, had rescued them; but there was no time to say much just then. While some of the garrison, who had come down for the purpose, carried the wounded men into the fort, the rest of the party were ferried across the river. Captain Mackintosh gave a fatherly greeting to Hector, who then introduced Loraine.

“I have to thank you, sir, for the brave way in which you saved this young lady from the clutches of the savage chief. Had it not been for your gallantry, she might have been carried off. As the fellow has, however escaped, we must still keep careful watch for her protection.”

Loraine expressed himself appropriately, saying how rejoiced he was to have been of service, and that it made ample amends to him for his disappointment in not having arrived in time to warn Captain Mackintosh of the Indians’ plot to surprise the fort.

Old Sass, who had modestly kept out of the way, now came in for his share of thanks; and the whole garrison, when they heard of the clever way in which he had frightened off the Blackfeet, were enthusiastic in their expressions of admiration at his conduct. The hump-backed Indian, who, as may be supposed, was no other than Greensnake, was also made much of, all acknowledging that it was through the warning he had brought that they were put on their guard against the intended treachery of their cunning enemies.

The bodies of the Indians, and other signs of the strife, had been removed before the party had entered the fort. The young ladies at once disappeared into the house, under charge of Mrs Mackintosh, whose maternal feelings had been fearfully tried during their absence. They did not appear again until the evening, when Hector declared that they looked as blooming as ever.

Loraine soon won the regard of Captain Mackintosh and Norman. Every hour the young Englishman remained in the society of the original of the beautiful picture he so much admired, endeared her more and more to him; and it is not surprising that a girl who had seen so few gentlemen, except her brothers and some of the Hudson’s Bay clerks, should have given him her heart in return. Loraine was not a man to trifle with a girl’s affections, and sooner than he might otherwise have done, he expressed his wishes to Captain Mackintosh.

“I conclude Hector has told you that Sybil is not my daughter, though she is as dear to me as if she were,” answered Captain Mackintosh. “I am, in truth, utterly ignorant of her parentage. Soon after my marriage, while quartered in Upper Canada, my wife and I made an excursion through Lake Ontario and the Sault Sainte Marie to the shores of Lake Superior. We intended proceeding across the lake to the then wild region of the west.

“While staying at a small cottage on the north side of the falls of Sainte Marie, the very day before we were to sail, a heavy gale came on. As we were unable to embark, not to disappoint my wife, I proposed to make an excursion, partly on foot and partly on horseback, as far as we could proceed along the north shore of the lake to Groscap, a conical hill which we could see rising to a considerable elevation in the distance. We found the path far more difficult than we had expected, and at length, our object unaccomplished, we turned our steps homeward. We had not got far when the rain began to come down in torrents, and we were glad to take shelter in a log hut of the roughest description, built on some rising ground a short way from the shore of the lake. It was unoccupied, but as there was a hearth and chimney, we directed our attendants to obtain some fuel and lighted a fire to dry our drenched garments. In vain we waited for the weather to clear. Darkness coming on, we found that we must spend the night in the hut, not a pleasant prospect, but it was preferable to making our way through the forest with the rain pouring down on our heads.

“The wind howled and whistled, the waves dashed furiously against the shore, the trees bent and writhed beneath the blast, and my fear was that some of those surrounding the hut might be uprooted and crush in the roof. I went frequently to the door, in the hopes of discovering a rent in the clouds which might enable me to hold out some prospect to my wife of the cessation of the storm. While looking up at the sky I fancied that I heard the plaintive cry of a child. The next moment I thought that it must be that of some wild animal, and was about to re-enter the hut when it was repeated. Telling my wife what I was about to do, I desired the two men to accompany me, and groped my way through the darkness in the direction whence the sound had come. Again I heard the cry, and, guided by it, I almost stumbled over a woman lying on the ground, with a child in her arms. The woman was speechless, but was uttering low moans. I took the child in my arms and hurried back to the hut, while the men followed me, conveying the almost inanimate form of the woman.

“‘Heaven has sent us here to rescue the little creature,’ exclaimed my wife, as I put the infant in her arms.

“She lost no time in taking off its wet clothes and wrapping it up in a shawl.

“‘It is a little girl,’ she said, ‘and I trust has received no injury. We must attend to the poor mother,’ she added, as the men brought in the body of the woman and laid her before the blazing fire. ‘Why, she cannot be the mother of this child; she is an Indian, and the child is beautifully fair,’ exclaimed my wife, as, giving me the baby, she knelt down by the side of the woman to try and restore her to animation. All her efforts, however, were in vain. Before many minutes had past she had breathed her last. We took off some of the few ornaments she wore about her dress, to assist us in identifying her, and the men then placed the body at the further end of the hut.

“We had, as you may suppose, no sleep that night; my wife, indeed, was fully occupied in nursing the baby. Providentially I had brought, instead of wine, a bottle of milk for my wife, very little of which she had drank, and with this she was happily able to feed the child.

“How the woman and child had come to be in the position in which we had found them, I could not tell; but our guides asserted that they must have escaped from a wrecked canoe, and possibly others of the party might have got safe on shore and would be able to tell us to whom the child belonged.

“When morning came the storm cleared off, and though my wife was anxious to get back to our lodgings, I set off to explore the beach with one of our guides. We went a considerable distance in both directions, but no one could we discover, nor a trace of a canoe or boat of any sort. If the woman had escaped therefore, as we supposed, from a canoe, it must have foundered or been knocked to pieces on the rocks, and the fragments and bodies of those on board have been driven far out again on the lake.

“After our vain search, we commenced our journey, my wife carrying the little girl in her arms. On our way we called at the Hudson’s Bay Company’s post, situated above the falls, where the hospitable superintendent begged us to remain, and offered to take care of the child until its friends could be discovered. My wife, however, refused to part with her treasure-trove, as she called the little foundling, and so strongly expressed her wish to adopt her, that, having none of our own, I consented, provided no relative appeared to claim her. On seeing the ornaments which we had taken from the Indian woman, the superintendent pronounced them to be those worn by Crees, and thought by their means he might discover the child’s relatives.

“He at once sent to the hut to bury the poor woman, and we remained at our cottage until we could receive the information our friend promised to obtain. He had not expected any canoe from the west, and could not account for the one which was supposed to be lost.

“We waited on, but as the superintendent of the post could obtain no information in the neighbourhood, and told us that it might be many months before he could get any from the Far West, whence there could be little doubt the canoe had come, we returned to Toronto with the child. She became our adopted daughter, and from that day to this, notwithstanding all our inquiries, we have been unable to learn her parentage. Though we soon afterwards had a child of our own, she ever retained the same hold on our affections which she had at first enjoyed.”

“I cannot but suppose that so lovely a creature must be of gentle birth,” exclaimed Loraine; “but whether she is or not, with your leave, if she consents to be mine, I will marry her as soon as a clergyman can be found to unite us.”

“Although we shall all be sorry to part from her, I will throw no obstacle in the way of what may tend to her happiness as well as yours,” answered Captain Mackintosh, shaking Loraine by the hand.

As it may be supposed, the young lover felt pretty sure of the answer Sybil would give him, nor was he mistaken.

Norman and Hector looked somewhat grave.

“And so you intend to carry off Sybil,” exclaimed the latter. “I almost wish that I hadn’t brought you to the fort, old fellow. But one good thing is that you cannot take her away until you are married, and you may have to wait a long time for that.”

Effie felt the expected parting with Sybil more than any one else. She was also anxious, and as much out of spirits as it seemed possible for so happy a creature to be, for Hector had naturally told her that Allan Keith had gone to obtain reinforcements for the garrison of the fort, and had expressed his surprise that they had not long before this arrived.

On his first arrival a room had been assigned to Isaac Sass, and he had been invited to the captain’s table, when, notwithstanding his rough appearance, he showed that he was a man of good education, though ignorant of the events which had of late taken place in the world. He generally sat opposite to Sybil, and it was remarked that his eyes were often fixed intently on her, but that he withdrew them whenever he saw that he was observed. He would follow her about the fort, or when she went out to walk in its immediate neighbourhood, as if wishing to watch over her safety, and when he occasionally addressed her his voice assumed a softness contrasting greatly with the somewhat harsh tone in which he ordinarily spoke.

“If ever angels come on earth, that sweet sister of yours is one of them,” he remarked to Hector one day, while he stood watching Sybil at a distance.

“I will tell her what you say,” answered Hector, laughing. “And I’ll ask her if she is really one. Perhaps she may be, for, do you know that she is not my sister?” and Hector told him the story of her discovery.

Isaac Sass made no reply, but seemed to be pondering deeply on what he had heard.

He continued to watch Sybil with even greater interest than before, and managed to obtain from Captain Mackintosh a confirmation of the account Hector had given him. He said nothing, however, in reply; but his manner showed that he was laying some restraint on himself, during the remainder of the time he remained at Fort Duncan.

Although Captain Mackintosh paid him every attention, grateful to him for the service he had rendered, the old man, however, appeared at length to grow weary of inactivity, and began to speak of taking his departure with Greensnake for the north.

“It is seldom nowadays that I come near the country of the Blackfeet,” he said, addressing Captain Mackintosh. “It may be a long time before you see me here again. It may be I shall never return; but I shall often think of the time I spent with you and your English friends.”

Before, however, old Isaac took his departure two horsemen were seen approaching the fort from the westward. Their steeds, as they came to the gate, showed that they had ridden hard. One was a white man and the other an Indian. The first dismounted and entered the gate.

“My name is Harvey,” he said, shaking hands with Captain Mackintosh, who advanced to meet him. “I am in charge of the missionary station at White Fish Lake, and have come to ask your assistance for my people, whom the Blackfeet have threatened to destroy. I have felt it my duty to obtain, if possible, the means of protecting them.”

“I am well acquainted with your name,” answered Captain Mackintosh, who knew Mr Harvey to be a devoted Christian man, one of those brave pioneers of Christianity who, in obedience to the commands of our blessed Lord, have, with their lives in their hands, ventured into the wilds among the savage races of the Far West to win precious souls for Him.

“I would gladly help you,” he answered, “but this fort has only lately been attacked, and I should not be justified in weakening the garrison by sending away any of my people. I will, however, thankfully receive you and your family, and those of your flock whom you may wish to bring with you, while the others move northward beyond the reach of their enemies. Even were I to spare you half a dozen men, they would be of little use in repelling an attack of the daring Blackfeet.”

“I feel that you are right, and that I must remove my family, and leave our house and garden to be destroyed,” answered Mr Harvey. “Pray do not misunderstand me, and suppose that I mistrust God’s protecting care; but I know that He would have us take all reasonable measures for our safety, and fly from earthly, as he directs us to escape from spiritual, foes.”

“We will discuss the matter after you have rested, and I have had time to think it over,” answered Captain Mackintosh. “It is my private wish as well as my public duty to afford every assistance in my power to missionaries labouring among the Indians, and you may depend on my doing all I justly can to afford you the aid you wish. However, I now advise you to lie down and rest while some food is preparing.”

Mr Harvey acknowledged that he was very tired, and gratefully accepted the offer, before paying his respects to the ladies of the family.

Sybil looked somewhat confused when she heard that a clergyman had arrived at the fort.

“You need not be alarmed,” said Effie, somewhat slily. “From what papa says, he can only remain a few hours. He has to hurry back to his station, and declines remaining even one night.”

What might have been Loraine’s wish need not be said, but Mr Harvey promised, should his life be spared, to return shortly to perform the ceremony which was to make Sybil his.

Captain Mackintosh, after reflecting, agreed to send five of his men, under the orders of Le Brun, to protect Mr Harvey’s station, for he guessed that, without the prospect of booty, notwithstanding their threats, the Blackfeet would not venture to attack it, even though opposed by so small a number; for, if successful, they would gain but little, and would be certain to lose several men.

Le Brun, a brave fellow, laughed at the notion.

Just as Mr Harvey was about to set out, old Sass and Greensnake appeared mounted at the gate.

“I’ll go with you, friend,” he said, addressing the clergyman. “Though I’ve not had much to do with parsons in my day, I want to have a talk with you, and maybe if those villains, the Blackfeet, try to give you any trouble, I may be of as much use as those six men you are taking with muskets and pistols.”

Before finally starting, the old man bade adieu to Captain Mackintosh and his family, as also to Loraine.

He gazed in Sybil’s face as he took her hand. “I have not prayed for many a day, but if God will hear the prayers of such an outcast as I am, I will ask Him to bless you and make you happy with the noble young Englishman to whom you have given your heart. It is my belief that he will prove true and faithful.”

He spoke in a similar strain to Loraine; and turning, with an evident effort, to where Greensnake was holding his horse, mounted, and joined Mr Harvey, who had already left the fort.

Chapter Eight.

Life in a fort in the Far West is not as monotonous as may be supposed. There is a variety of work to be done. The hunters are employed in procuring buffalo, deer, and other game for provisions during the many winter months. The meat has to be preserved in summer by being converted into pemmican, and in winter by being placed in deep pits, with floors of ice between each intervening layer of meat, and then covered up with snow. When the fort is in the neighbourhood of a lake or river, fish have to be caught and preserved. This is done by salting them in summer, and freezing them as soon as the cold becomes intense enough. Numerous horses have to be attended to, and dogs trained for dragging the sleighs when the snow covers the ground, the only mode then possible of travelling. Sleighs, carts, snow-shoes, and harness of all sorts, have to be manufactured, and moccasins and winter clothing prepared. In the neighbourhood of some forts gardens containing vegetables, and fields of maize, wheat, and oats have to be attended to. In others boats and canoes are built, while at all the gunsmith has constant work in repairing damaged fire-arms.

Trappers are constantly coming and going, bringing peltries, buffalo, deer, and wolf-skins, as well as other produce of the chase. Some are half-breeds, others white men, but the greater number pure Indians. Some arrive with several bales, others only bring a few skins to exchange for powder and shot, and a new trap or two. Then the skins obtained have to be sorted, repacked, and despatched either to York factory in the north, or to Fort Garry in the south; while stores and provisions at certain periods arrive, and the men transporting them have to be entertained until they are ready to return to head-quarters.

Such was the existence which the inmates of Fort Duncan were leading. Under other circumstances Loraine might soon have grown tired of so limited a sphere of action, but every day he became more and more attached—if that were possible—to Sybil; and although he had intended to perform the journey across the Rocky Mountains to Vancouver’s Island, he could not bring himself to leave her exposed to dangers such as those from which she had lately been preserved.

Sybil had no wish to let him go, for though short as was the time since they had first met, he had become all in all to her; and no wonder when Hector, who had opportunities of knowing him well, declared that he was one of the finest, noblest, best fellows he had ever fell in with, right-minded, true and brave; and Sybil was convinced that this account was not exaggerated.

Next to Loraine, Hector’s chief friend was Allan Keith, whom he considered almost the equal of the first. He had become very anxious at the non-appearance of Allan and the half-breed hunters he had hoped to enlist. Either he must have failed in inducing them to accompany him, or he had encountered some hostile Indians on the way, which was not very likely, or had been compelled to make a wide circuit to avoid them. At last Hector asked his father’s permission to take two or three men with him, and to travel northward in the direction Keith would most likely come, in the hopes of falling in with him, and giving assistance should it be required. “He may have met with some such misadventure as Loraine and I did; or he may have expended his ammunition and be starving,” he observed.

Effie was very grateful to Hector when she heard of his proposal.

“I won’t ask you to accompany me, Loraine,” he said to his friend, “for I suspect that Sybil would greatly object to your going away; and as you are less accustomed to the style of life than our men, you would knock up sooner than they would. I wish that old Sass had been here with his boy Greensnake; they would, by some means or other, have discovered him, wherever he is.”

Loraine made no reply. He certainly had no wish to go, and he agreed with Hector that the hunters were more accustomed to the style of life they would have to lead than he was; still, in his anxiety to assist Keith, he was ready to sacrifice much, but if a sufficient number of men from the fort could be spared, his aid would not be required.

To Hector’s disappointment, however, Captain Mackintosh objected to his taking any men from the fort.

“The best hunters are required to go out in search of game, and the garrison is already weakened by those who have accompanied Mr Harvey,” he remarked. “Although I am as anxious as you are about Keith, yet duty compels me to refuse your request, and I cannot let you go alone, or even with one man. Had Le Brun been here I might have sent him, as he is worth two or three others; but unless Mr Harvey abandons his station and takes refuge in the fort, it may be some time before he returns, and I hope before then we shall either see or hear of Keith.”

Still Hector did not abandon his plan. Norman was ready to go; and Loraine, when he found that no one else could be spared, without consulting Sybil, volunteered to accompany him.

Captain Mackintosh finding that his sons were so bent on the expedition, and that their guest was ready to sacrifice his own inclination, on further considering the matter, gave his consent, and agreed to send one of the best hunters and guides with them, provided they promised not to be absent more than ten days, and to leave behind them marks by which their trail could be followed up.

Effie thanked Loraine warmly; and even Sybil acknowledged that as he was going from a generous motive, she could not venture to ask him to stay behind.

The undertaking being determined on, the party rapidly made their preparations. Having crossed the river where the horses were waiting for them, they set out. Besides those they rode, each person had a spare horse on which were carried a few light articles required for camping.

Sybil and Effie stood on the ramparts facing the river, and bade them adieu, as they wound their way up the hill on the opposite bank.

Effie felt happier than she had been for some time; and it was now her part to console Sybil for Loraine’s absence, assuring her that the party would not return without bringing tidings of Allan.

Several of the hunters had been out for three days in search of buffalo. They were expected back that night; but as they did not make their appearance, the gates were closed as usual, and sentries posted to keep watch at night.

Towards morning the man on duty in one of the towers, saw through the gloom a horseman coming at full speed towards the fort.

“Vite, vite, open the gate; I am well-nigh done for,” he shouted. “The rest have been killed, and I have had a hard matter to escape from the savages.”

The sentry gave the alarm, the gates were opened, and Jacques Robe, one of the hunters, rode in. He almost fell from his horse into the arms of two of the men who had hastened out to meet him. An arrow was in his side, and he was bleeding from other wounds.

The gates being closed, Captain Mackintosh directed the wounded man to be carried to his house, and as soon as he had sent the garrison to the ramparts to be ready should the enemy appear, he hastened to attend to him.

The poor fellow’s wounds though severe were not likely to prove mortal. The arrow was extracted by sawing off the head, the other hurts being bound up, the bullets having happily not lodged in his body. Captain Mackintosh then left his patient to the care of his wife and went out to make further arrangements for the defence. He now regretted having allowed his sons and Loraine to go away, contrary to his better judgment. They could not, however, as yet have got to any distance; and as their assistance would be of the greatest value he resolved at once to recall them. He hoped that they would be able to return in time to assist in the defence of the fort, as probably the Blackfeet, knowing that notice would be given of their approach by the escape of Jacques Robe, would not venture to attack it, if such was their intention, until the following night. He therefore ordered Jules Buffet, an active and intelligent scout, to cross the river and hasten as fast as his horse would carry him after the party.

“They will not hesitate about returning when they hear what is likely to occur,” he observed.

Jules, stuffing some pemmican and bread into his pouch, without loss of a moment set off.

It was still too dark to observe his movements; but the man who had gone to assist him in catching and saddling his horse, reported that he had started in safety, and that knowing the country, in spite of the obscurity, he would have no difficulty in carrying out his instructions.

Captain Mackintosh laid strict injunctions on Sybil and his wife and daughter, on no account to leave the shelter of the house, observing, “It will become still darker than it is at present before day breaks, and it is possible that during the time the savages may take the opportunity of sending a shower of arrows into the fort. With our reduced numbers, I must not venture to send out scouts to ascertain their position; they may be still at a distance, or they may be creeping up towards the fort hoping to take us by surprise.”

The ladies exhibited the courage that might have been expected of them when they, without fear, came to live in that remote fort, situated, as they well knew, in the neighbourhood of hostile tribes.

Mrs Mackintosh got lint and bandages and cordials ready, in case any of the garrison should be wounded.

Captain Mackintosh then went round the fort to encourage the scanty garrison, and to see that they were on the watch. He endeavoured to pierce the gloom, but could distinguish no objects moving on the prairie. Still, he knew well the various tricks to which the Redskins were likely to resort. They might be close by, creeping up on hands and knees among the grass, or along the bank of the river so as to attack the fort at the real as well as in front. He prepared for both contingencies, posting careful men at every assailable point.

The minutes went slowly by. He greatly missed his sons, and Loraine, who would have been of essential service in watching the more dangerous points. Le Brun, a most trustworthy man, was away, and two of his best hunters and scouts had been killed, while another lay wounded and useless. Still he endeavoured to make up for the limited number of his men by his own energy and watchfulness.

As he hurried round and round, he praised those who were most on the alert, and warned the others of the dangers of negligence. He more than once went down to examine his watch, and ascertain how the time was passing, for of course no lights were shown on the ramparts, and then again he hurried up to look over the prairie.

At length a bright streak appeared across the eastern sky. The light increased, and it was with a sigh of heart-felt relief, when at last, being able to see across the prairie, he discovered that not a single object was moving over its broad expanse.

“It is as I thought, then,” he said to himself; “the Blackfeet have deemed it prudent not to show themselves until they can catch us off our guard. We shall have, I trust, a day’s rest, and by the evening my boys and their brave friends will have returned; and even should poor Keith have met with disaster, Burnett may send us reinforcements from Edmonton. I pray that the savages have not paid a visit to Harvey’s station, or it may have gone hard with him. Now I may go down and console Mrs Mackintosh and the girls, and get some breakfast;” and the gallant Captain, having again charged the sentries to keep on the alert, returned to his house.

The day wore on, and had it not been for Jacques Robe’s positive assertion that he had escaped from an unusually large body of Blackfeet, it might have been supposed that there was no cause for alarm.

Not even a buffalo or deer appeared. That, however, was not unusual; indeed, the only cause to create suspicion was that no traders, either Indians or others, arrived at the fort.

Noon had passed, and had Jules Buffet ridden as fast as he proposed, Loraine and his companions might soon return. Still they did not appear.

Sybil and Effie frequently went to the southern platform to look out, but returned each time disappointed.

Captain Mackintosh, who had gone to the top of the look-out tower, swept with his telescope the horizon to the south and west, towards which the glowing sun was once more sinking.

As he looked, he fancied that he could detect objects moving above the tall grass, embrowned with the tints of autumn. If they were Indians they probably did not suppose that they could be discovered at so great a distance. They might, indeed, have been only a herd of deer scampering across the plain. Still, as he looked again and again through his glass, he fancied that he could distinguish the plumed heads and shoulders of Indian warriors.

“They shall not catch us napping, at all events,” he said to himself; “and I trust to Heaven to enable us to make good use of the means at our disposal.”

He was unwilling to leave his post, while there was sufficient daylight to give him a chance of ascertaining whether the objects he saw were mounted Indians or not: he knew that at such a distance men on foot could not possibly be seen. He had much less to fear from men on horseback than from the stealthy approach of savages on foot, who might creep up almost unperceived close to the walls.

At length the increasing shadows of evening shrouded the view, and he made another round to warn the sentries, as before, to be on the alert, telling them that they might expect to be attacked before morning.

Just as he reached the river side of the platform, he heard a shout. It was Norman’s voice, asking for a boat to be sent over.

He immediately, therefore, ordered two of the men usually employed in the service to pull across, and in a short time his sons and Loraine entered the fort. It need not be said that they were welcomed by those who had been so long looking for them. Jules Buffet had fulfilled his promise by pushing forward at full speed, and had overtaken them just as his horse fell utterly exhausted, while they were making their noon-day halt. They had galloped back on fresh horses, which at the end of the ride seemed scarcely able to stand.

“But we have managed it,” cried Hector, “and now I hope the Redskins won’t disappoint us. I wish, however, that we could have brought Allan Keith; but we met with no signs of him or his party, and he may be still a hundred miles away or more.”

The addition of five persons in whom he could trust, made Captain Mackintosh hope more than ever that he should be able successfully to resist the expected attack of the Blackfeet. That they would come that night he felt almost certain, as also that the great object of their young chief Mysticoose was to carry off Sybil. He had, however, probably induced his people to undertake the expedition by promising them the pillage of the fort. They had a few years before this surprised Bow Fort, which afforded them a rich booty, and they might naturally expect to succeed in capturing Fort Duncan, which was not better provided with the means of defence. Never, however, before the recent attempt of Mysticoose to take it by treachery, had it been attacked.

The fresh arrivals, after taking some food, lay down to get the rest they so much required, Captain Mackintosh promising to call them should any signs of the approaching enemy be discovered. Each man on the ramparts was provided with a lantern, kept shaded until required, to throw a light on the ground round the fort, which, as was rightly expected, would tend greatly to disconcert the assailants, should they creep up with the expectation of effecting a surprise.

Hour after hour went by.

“They intend, I suspect, as I thought they would yesterday morning, to make their attack a short time before daylight, when they fancy we shall be weary with watching, and off our guard,” observed Captain Mackintosh to Loraine, who had joined him on the platform.

“Then we may expect them before long,” said Loraine, looking at his watch by the light of a lantern.

Scarcely had he spoken, than an arrow flew between him and Captain Mackintosh. He had just time to shout to his people to get under cover, when a whole flight came whistling over their heads, followed by a terrific war whoop, the most fearful sound of which the human voice is capable.

The men in the garrison shouted in return, several of them well accustomed to the noise giving vent to derisive laughter.

“The painted savages fancy that we are to be frightened by yells like yon,” cried Sandy Macpherson, an old Scotchman, who had been since his youth in the service of the company. “They may shoot their arrows and shout as loud as they like, but it won’t help them to get inside the fort, lads, I ken. Wait till we can see their heads, and then send a shower of bullets among them, but dinna fire till the captain gives the word, an’ then blaze away as fast as ye can load.”

“Bravo, Sandy! That’s just what we must do,” cried Hector, who was passing at the moment, having been sent round by his father to see that the men were at their proper stations.

A shout from Sandy, of “There they are!” and the word to fire, produced a blaze of light round the fort.

The Blackfeet, many of whom had muskets, fired in return, and then countless dark forms were seen dashing forward, some to attempt to scale the walls, others to force open the gate.

Chapter Nine.

So resolutely carried on was the attack of the Indians, that Captain Mackintosh could not help fearing that it must succeed. Two of his men had been killed, and both his sons were wounded, although they refused to retire, and continued firing through the loop-holed walls. The fiercest attack was made on the gate, which Mysticoose evidently hoped to break open, and to force his way in. Loraine undertook to defend it to the last. Captain Mackintosh, knowing that he would do so, was able to turn his attention to other points.

Notwithstanding the desperate manner in which they came on to the attack, the assailants were kept at bay; but so much powder had at length been expended, that Captain Mackintosh found to his dismay that the stock was running short.

“We must manage to hold out until daylight, and then, through Heaven’s mercy, the savages may be induced to give up the attempt,” he observed to Sandy, who brought him the alarming information.

“Ay, sir, that we will; and when the powder is done, we will take to our pikes and bayonets. The Redskins will have no mind to face them.”

The savage chief seemed resolved, however, to succeed. Again and again he and his followers rushed up to the gate, which they assailed with their axes, hewing at the stout wood in the expectation of cutting it through. Many fell in the attempt by the hot fire kept up on them from either side.

At last they were driven back, and the garrison gave vent to a loud cheer, confident that the enemy were about to take to flight.

For a short interval the fighting ceased; but the savages, urged by Mysticoose, again came on, this time to make another effort to scale the palisades. Some stood on the backs of their companions, trying to reach the summit; others tugged away at the stout timbers, endeavouring to pull them down; but they resisted all their efforts.

The defenders of the fort rushed here and there, striking fierce blows with their axes wherever an Indian showed himself, thrusting with their pikes, and hurling back their assailants. Still, it was too likely that numbers would prevail. On either side the Indians were swarming up, and one man had often to contend with a dozen before others of the defenders could come to his assistance. Several more of the garrison had been wounded; but no one, while he had strength to wield a weapon, retired from his post. At last the Indians, finding that so many of their party had fallen, and that, in spite of all their efforts, they were unable to climb over the palisades, desisted from the attempt, and again retired out of gunshot. Though they could not be seen, their voices were heard on three sides of the fort, showing that they had not altogether abandoned the attempt.

“I wonder what they will do next?” said Hector to his brother. “Do you think they have had enough of it?”

“If that fellow Mysticoose has escaped, I’m afraid he’ll urge them to come on again,” answered Norman. “It still wants an hour to daylight, and they are up to some trick or other, you may depend upon that. Perhaps they are creeping round to try and get in at the rear of the fort by climbing up on that side, thinking that we should not guard it so carefully as the front. Come along, let us try and find out what they are about.”

They accordingly hurried up to the ramparts overlooking the river; but when they peered down through the gloom, they could see nothing moving. They urged the men on guard to keep a watchful look-out.

“No fear about our doing that,” was the answer. “The Redskins have had enough of climbing over for the present. They are more likely again to try and beat down the gate.”

Still the shouts and shrieks in the distance continued.

Hector and Norman returned to their posts in front. They had scarcely got there when Hector’s sharp eyes perceived some dark objects moving along the ground. He would have taken them, under other circumstances, for a herd of buffalo, so shapeless did they seem.

He immediately warned the rest of the garrison. The objects came nearer and nearer. It was evident that they were men carrying loads on their backs, who, bounding on before a fire could be opened on them, got close up to the gates at the foot of the palisades. The next instant a number of Indians were observed making off at full speed. They were fired at; but so rapid were their movements, that most of them effected their escape without being hit.

Scarcely had the firing ceased, than small flames were seen rising out of the loads left close to the fort, which it was now discovered were faggots, brought by the savages for the purpose of burning down the palisades.

Loraine, on seeing this, volunteered to head a party to drag away the faggots before the flames should have time to blaze up; but just as he was about to set out, and the gates were being opened, some more Indians, protected by a band of horsemen, were seen approaching, laden with an additional supply of faggots, with which, using them as shields, they endeavoured to protect themselves from the fire of the garrison. But by this time many of the men, having only a round or two of ammunition remaining, were unwilling to expend it, and the savages as before escaped with slight loss.

“The faggots may blaze up, my boys,” cried Captain Mackintosh; “but it will take some time to burn down our palisades.” His heart, however, began to sink, as he thought that too probably the enemy would succeed in their design.

Loraine, seeing the fearful danger to which the fort was exposed, again offered to rush out at the head of a party of men, and endeavour to drag away the burning branches. There was a risk, however, that while they were so engaged, the enemy might make a rush for the gate. Already the flames were ascending. As they burned brightly, their glare would expose him and his followers to view. Still, the position of affairs required that the risk, great as it was, should be run. Dense volumes of smoke were coming through the interstices of the palisades, and the circle of flame which rose up round the fort showed that no time must be lost.

Captain Mackintosh sent those who had most ammunition to fire away at the enemy, should they approach. The gates were opened, and Loraine, with his followers, issued forth armed with pikes, to drag away the burning mass. Those at the gate were soon hurled to a distance. They then began to labour away at those spots where the greatest danger was threatened to the palisades.

So rapid were their movements that it was some time before their object was discovered by the Indians, who, however, at length perceived what they were about, and, uttering a war whoop, came rushing towards them.

In vain the party from above endeavoured to keep the savages in check. Loraine ran a fearful risk of being cut off.

Captain Mackintosh, seeing the danger to which he was exposed, shouted to him to retire, while the men within stood ready to close the gates the moment he and his companions had entered. Although warned that the enemy were drawing near, he laboured on to the last, when, turning round, he saw, by the light of the flames, the savages, with tomahawks uplifted, scarcely a dozen paces from him.

His first impulse was to stop and encounter Mysticoose; but by so doing he would delay, he knew, the closing of the gate, and the savages might succeed in entering.

A tomahawk whirled by his head. In another moment he would have a dozen enemies upon him. He sprang back after his companion, and the gate was closed against their assailants, who at once, to wreak their vengeance, began to throw back the blazing faggots against it.

A few shots were fired at the enemy, and then not a single report was heard. Every grain of powder in the fort had been expended.

The Blackfeet had in the mean time been collecting a fresh supply of faggots, and now, finding themselves unmolested, brought them up to the stockades. At length the stout gate, having caught fire, showed signs of giving way, while the forked flames appeared in all directions between the palisades. In vain the bold hunters sprang here and there with buckets of water—for the fort was well supplied—and dashed it against the burning timbers. It was too evident that ere long the whole front of the fort would be one mass of fire.

“Never fear, lads,” cried old Sandy Macpherson, as he saw to a certainty what would happen. “Even when the walls come down, the Redskins won’t be in a hurry to make their way over them. We may still keep the ‘varmints’ at bay for a good time longer, and then just take shelter in the big house, and they’ll no get into that in a hurry, while we make good play with our pikes and bayonets.”

If Sandy did not forget that the savages, as soon as they got into the inner part of the fort, would set fire to the buildings, he thought it prudent not to say so.

In the mean time, Loraine began to fear that notwithstanding the heroic efforts he and his companions were making, the helpless ones, whom they were ready to sacrifice their lives to protect, would fall into the power of the savages. Language, indeed, cannot describe his feelings. Rather would he have seen his beautiful Sybil dead than carried off by the Indian. “Would it not be possible to get through the back of the fort, and to place the ladies in the boat, then either to carry them down the river, or enable them to make their escape to the northward?” he asked of Captain Mackintosh. “Surely it would be safer than defending them in the house.”

“I much fear that the savages, though we do not see them, are watching the banks, and that the attempt would be unsuccessful; yet, as a last resource, we must try it,” answered Captain Mackintosh. “I will commit them to your charge.”

Loraine’s feelings prompted him eagerly to accept the office, and yet, influenced by a high motive, he replied—

“I would propose that your sons should escort them. They are well acquainted with the navigation of the river, and would be more likely to find their way across the country than I should.”

“My boys and I must remain at our posts and defend the fort to the last,” said Captain Mackintosh. “You must go, my friend. We have but a short time to prepare. Old Sandy shall accompany you. The boat will hold no more. Go on, and let my wife and poor girls know what we have decided, and I will make the required arrangements.”

“I will do as you desire,” answered Loraine.

In building the fort, the timbers had been so placed that an opening could easily be formed on such an emergency as now occurred. Captain Mackintosh, summoning Sandy, they together removed part of the wood-work. Sandy was about to step through the opening, when he hurriedly drew back, and replacing the timbers exclaimed—

“The Redskins have found us out. I saw half a score of them creeping along the bank. Quick, quick, captain, and stop up the gap!”

All hope of enabling the ladies to escape as he proposed had to be abandoned, and Captain Mackintosh, with a sad heart, leaving Sandy to watch the spot, went back to tell them of the impossibility of carrying out their projected plan.

Scarcely had he reached the building than the towers on either side of the gate, which were blazing furiously, and a large portion of the front, fell down outwards with a loud crash.

A fearful yell of exultation was uttered by the savages, but the encircling flames and the burning timbers still kept them at bay. In a short time, however, the flames would burn out, and they might spring over the smouldering logs.

Disheartened by the desperate way in which their attacks had been met, and not aware that the garrison were destitute of ammunition, they kept at a distance, feeling confident that their prey could not escape them.

As the flames decreased, Captain Mackintosh ordered the men to retreat into the two chief buildings, urging them to hold out bravely to the last. He feared, however, with too much reason, that although they might prolong their resistance, their ultimate destruction was inevitable. Every moment the flames in front were decreasing, although on either side they were creeping along the stockades, threatening everything with speedy destruction.

The savages, hovering round, had been waiting for the moment when they might force their way over the burning ruins. It came at last. Again uttering their fearful war whoops, they came rushing on, confident of success, when a cheer was heard from the left, followed by a rattling fire of musketry. The fierce warriors turned and fled. Their chief himself, who was distinguished by his tall figure and waving plume, was seen to fall. Some of his followers endeavoured to lift him from the ground, but fled with the rest, and in another minute a large body of horsemen galloped up, who were seen, as the glare of the burning stockades fell on them, to be mostly half-breed hunters, led by a white man.

“Hurrah! Hurrah! It’s Allan Keith,” cried Hector, who had been on the look-out through one of the barricaded windows.

In an instant the door was thrown open. The men of the garrison rushed to the burning walls, some with axes to cut them down, others with buckets of water to extinguish the flames.

While the half-breeds were pursuing the flying foe, another party appeared on the right, and in a short time Dr McCrab and Dan Maloney, who had led them, were heartily greeting Captain Mackintosh and his companions, and congratulating them on their narrow escape.

“Faith, my boy, I’m mighty glad that we’ve come just in the nick of time, and that we shouldn’t have done, I’m after thinking, if it hadn’t been for falling in with old Isaac Sass, and his impish follower, Master Greensnake,” exclaimed Maloney, as he shook Hector’s hand. “He told us if we wanted to save you, to put our best feet foremost while he showed us the course to take. It’s my belief, too, that he afterwards managed to fall in with Allan Keith and his party, or it’s possible they might have arrived as we should have done, just in time to be too late.”

The men belonging to the fort had been successful in extinguishing the flames, though the whole front was either in ruins or presented a fearfully shattered and blackened appearance.

Dr McCrab, with coat off and sleeves tucked up, was busily employed in attending to the wounded men, while Loraine was assisting Sybil and Mrs Mackintosh in calming the fears of poor Effie, who, not seeing Allan Keith among those who had just arrived, had feared that some accident had happened to him. He soon, however, with his active horsemen, having driven the enemy to a distance, arrived unhurt, and his appearance quickly tranquillised her mind.

“We must not, however, forget our friend Mr Harvey,” exclaimed Captain Mackintosh. “The Blackfeet may possibly direct their course towards his station and revenge themselves for their failure here by attempting its destruction.”

On hearing this remark, Allan Keith and Loraine offered to lead a party of men to the assistance of the missionary, and about thirty of the hunters having volunteered to accompany them, fresh horses were brought across the river, and they immediately set out.

Norman and Hector, notwithstanding their wounds, wished to go, but the Doctor refused to allow them, and insisted on their turning in and getting the rest they greatly needed. Not an hour was lost in commencing the repairs of the fort, that it might be in a condition to resist any further attack which the Indians might venture to make on it. A few men were also sent to bury the Blackfeet, who had fallen either in the attack or flight. Among the bodies that of Mysticoose himself was found, his followers being unable to carry him away. He was buried in the common grave at a distance from the fort.

Of course a watch was kept at night, though it was not thought probable that the Indians, even should they discover the absence of Loraine and Keith, would renew the attack.

A week passed by. The sawyers and carpenters had worked so energetically, that already the fort had assumed its former appearance, with some improvements to add to its strength. There was no time to be lost, as winter was approaching, and most of the men who had arrived under Dan Maloney and Dr McCrab, had to return to Fort Edmonton.

Sybil and Effie had at first kept up their spirits, but they were growing anxious at the non-appearance of Loraine and Keith.

Evening was approaching, when a shout was raised by the sentry on the western watch-tower, that a large train was coming across the prairie, on which Norman and Hector, with several other inmates of the fort, hastened up the platform to take a look at it.

“I am much mistaken, if they are not Loraine and Keith and their party,” exclaimed Hector.

“They have carts with them, so there can be no doubt about their being white men,” said Norman.

Hector getting a telescope soon discovered that he was right in his conjectures. As the train drew nearer, the gates were opened, and a large party hurried out to meet the newcomers, who proved to be not only those who were expected, but Mr Harvey and his family, with several Indians who had accompanied them.

“He came,” he said, “to ask for protection for himself and his wife and children, as well as for the converts, until it could be ascertained that the Blackfeet had finally left the district.”

It need not be said that Loraine and Keith had warmly urged him to take this step.

Captain Mackintosh, giving him a hearty welcome, assured him of the use he would be to the inmates of the fort.

“In truth, my dear friend,” he observed, “I believe you can do more real good among my half heathen people, than you could to any of the few Indians who would visit you during the winter.”

Mr Harvey, besides his wife, had two daughters, nearly grown up, and a son, who, there could be no doubt, would prove a great addition to the society at the fort, the inmates of which had little chance of enjoying much communication with the outer world for many months to come.

Soon after his arrival, Mr Harvey inquired for Isaac Sass. “I half expected to have found him here,” he observed to Captain Mackintosh, “though he left without saying in what direction he was going. I am thankful to believe that his visit to me was of spiritual benefit to him; for, opening his heart, he confessed that he had been a careless liver, having endeavoured, though in vain, to put God out of his thoughts. I was the instrument of bringing his mind into a better state, and I trust that in a contrite spirit he sought forgiveness from God through the gracious means He has offered to sinners. Before leaving me, he put into my hands a packet to be delivered to you; and from what he said, I suspect that he is deeply interested in the young lady whom I believed to be your daughter, until he assured me that such was not the case. He had recognised her by her likeness to one whom he truly loved, but who had been lost to him for ever, though, I conclude, you will learn his history from the contents of the packet which I now give you.”

Captain Mackintosh, on opening the packet, found it contained a long manuscript written in a large but somewhat shaky hand. It would occupy too much space were it to be copied. His life, like that of many others, had been an adventurous one. His true name was Hugh Lindsay, and his family was an old and good one. Having left home at an early age, he entered the service of the Hudson’s Bay Company, and had every reason to expect to become one of its leading members, when his family so strongly expressed their annoyance at hearing of his marriage with a beautiful half-Cree girl, that he ceased to hold any communication with them. He had not long after this quarrelled with his employers, when he left their service, and commenced the life of a free trader and trapper. For some time he had considerable success, and as his wife had presented him with a daughter, whom he devotedly loved, he was doubly anxious to gain the means of supporting and educating her in the rank of a lady. Neither he nor her mother, however, could bear to part with her.

At an early age she was seen and admired by Donald Grey, a young clerk in the service of the Hudson’s Bay Company, who sought for and obtained her hand. He, however, had managed, as his father-in-law had done, to quarrel with the chief officer of the fort where he was stationed, and having some means of his own, had taken up his residence at the Red River Settlement.

After living there a year, and becoming the father of a little girl, he received intelligence from England that he had inherited a good property. He had embarked with his young wife and child and a Cree nurse, intending to proceed through the Lake of the Woods, across Lake Superior to Canada. From that day, weeks, months, and years went by, and the old trapper, still supposing that they had arrived safely in England, waited in vain to receive intelligence of them.

It is necessary here to remark that when the superintendent at the company’s post on the Sault Saint Marie made inquiries of the chief factors and other officers throughout the north-west territory, they replied that no person connected with them was missing, or had crossed Lake Superior at the time he mentioned. From the American traders also he could obtain no information. Not until Isaac Sass, or more properly, Hugh Lindsay, heard Captain Mackintosh describe the way Sybil had been discovered, did he suspect the fate of his daughter and son-in-law. He had accounted for never having received a letter from them, by supposing that on reaching the old country, and occupying a new sphere of life, they had forgotten him, or had not taken the trouble to write. His wife, dying soon after their daughter’s marriage, he had taken to the wild life he had from that time forward led, believing that he himself was forgotten by his kindred, and endeavouring in a misanthropical spirit to banish from his mind all thoughts of the past.

On seeing Sybil, a chord had been struck in his heart, and on hearing her history, he was at once convinced, from her extraordinary likeness to his own child, that she was her daughter though fairer, and of a more refined beauty, such as mental culture gives; but for her sake he was unwilling to make himself known, believing that neither she nor Loraine would be gratified at finding that she was the grand-daughter of a rough old trapper. He especially fancied that the gentlemanly young Englishman would object to him, and having himself a bad opinion of human nature, he supposed that it might even cause him to give up Sybil. Still, after he had been brought to a better state of mind by Mr Harvey, he could not resist the temptation of writing a sketch of his history, and by informing his grand-daughter of her birth and parentage, enable her, as he hoped, to gain the property which would have been her father’s. He added all the information he possessed for the discovery of Ronald Grey’s family, and whether or not he had ever arrived in England.

While listening to this narrative which Captain Mackintosh read to him, Loraine exclaimed, “Grey was my mother’s name, and I remember hearing that a cousin of hers had gone out to the north-west territory, in the service of the Hudson’s Bay Company, and that although property had been left him he had not returned to claim it, and has never since been heard of. Ultimately it came to my mother, through whom it forms a portion of the fortune I possess, and I will willingly resign it to the rightful heiress.”

“I don’t suppose that she, with equal willingness, will deprive you of it,” said Captain Mackintosh, laughing.

Mr Harvey again expressed his regret that the old man had not remained behind with him, though he added, “I felt confident he has embraced the truth as it is in Christ Jesus, and I fully expect to see him again before long.”

The wounded men having recovered under the care of Dr McCrab, he and Dan Maloney returned, with a portion of their followers, to Fort Edmonton, while the half-breeds set off eastward for their homes at the Red River. Allan Keith, much to his own satisfaction, having had permission to remain at Fort Duncan with the rest, to reinforce its garrison.

It was fully expected that the old trapper would some day make his appearance, but time went by, and no tidings could be gained of him.

Before Mr Harvey returned in the spring to his mission station, he united Sybil and Effie to the two gentlemen to whom they had given their hearts.

Loraine and his bride immediately set off for the Red River, intending to proceed from thence to Canada, on their way to England, while Allan Keith took his to a fort, to the charge of which he had been appointed.

Loraine, by means of the information Captain Mackintosh had given him, and such as he was able to obtain at the Red River, was able to prove that his wife was the daughter of Ronald Grey, but was saved a vast amount of legal expenses by her refusal to claim the property of which he was already in possession.

Some time afterwards, Allan Keith and Effie came over to pay them a visit. They brought some deeply interesting information. Search had for a long time been fruitlessly made for the old hunter, until at length, Norman and Hector Mackintosh, when on an exploring expedition, had discovered on a tree-covered hill, overlooking a calm lake, a solitary grave. Over it had been placed, in regular order, a pile of huge logs, cut by an Indian axe. Searching further, they found in a hut hard by, a hump-backed Indian, life apparently ebbing fast away.

He pointed above. “I am going,” he whispered, “to that heaven of which my friend and protector, he who lies yonder, has told me, through the merits of One who died for sinful men. I have fulfilled his last wish, which was to be buried, and but yesterday finished my task. It has been a long one, for the trees were hard to cut down, and now I go with joy to meet him, in the happy land from which there is no return. I am thankful that you have come to know where he is laid.”

In the hopes of resuscitating the poor lad, Norman and Hector endeavoured to make him take some nourishment, but he was in too exhausted a condition to swallow the food, and he breathed his last just as the setting sun cast a bright glow across the calm waters on the old trapper’s grave.