Table of Contents

"John Deane of Nottingham"

Preface.

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.

"Jovinian"

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.

"The History of Little Peter, the Ship Boy"

Chapter One.

Chapter Two.

Chapter Three.

Chapter Four.

Chapter Five.

Chapter Six.

Chapter Seven.

Chapter Eight.

Chapter Nine.

"Manco, the Peruvian Chief"

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.

"The Last Look"

Chapter One.

Chapter Two.

Chapter Three.

Chapter Four.

Chapter Five.

Chapter Six.

Chapter Seven.

Chapter Eight.

Chapter Nine.

"The Lily of Leyden"

Chapter One.

Chapter Two.

Chapter Three.

Chapter Four.

Chapter Five.

Chapter Six.

Chapter Seven.

Chapter Eight.

"The Log House by the Lake"

Chapter One.

Chapter Two.

Chapter Three.

Chapter Four.

Chapter Five.

Chapter Six.

Chapter Seven.

Chapter Eight.

Chapter Nine.

Chapter Ten.

"The Loss of the Royal George"

Chapter One.

Chapter Two.

W.H.G. Kingston

"John Deane of Nottingham"

Preface.

John Deane was a real person, and I hope that the readers of this my book about him will be as much pleased with it as I was with the history of his adventures, placed in my hands by a friend who long resided at Nottingham. He was born at that town A.D. 1679. Though of gentle parentage, in his early days he followed the occupation of a drover. He then went to sea, and became a Captain in the Navy; after that he was a Merchant Adventurer. He next took service under Peter the Great, and commanded a Russian ship-of-war. On leaving Russia, he obtained the post of British Consul at Ostend, held by him for many years. Returning home, he was made a Burgess of his native town, and took up his abode at the neighbouring village of Wilford, where, in 1760, he died. In the quiet churchyard of that sweet spot, his tomb and that of his beloved wife Elizabeth are to be seen:—

“His age, fourscore years and one.”

Chapter Eleven.

Jack’s Visit to Mr Gournay—The Story of Madame le Mertens.

Evening was drawing on when Brinsmead and Jack saw the towers of the numerous churches which Norwich possessed, each situated on its own peculiar mound or hill. On entering the town, they proceeded through its narrow and winding streets to the Bear Inn, which Brinsmead usually frequented.

“There is time to present your letters this evening,” he observed to Jack. “When there’s business to be done there’s nothing like doing it immediately. It’s provoking to find when you have delayed that the person whom you wished to meet has left the town the morning after your arrival, when you might have found him had you gone to his abode immediately.”

Jack, nothing loath, prepared himself to call upon Mr Gournay. He liked old Brinsmead very well in his way; but could not help sighing for more refined society than his late companions afforded. He therefore put on his Sunday suit, and made himself as presentable as possible. He had no difficulty in finding his way to Mr Gournay’s handsome and substantial residence, it being one of the principal mansions in the place. The great merchant himself was out; but he was admitted into the presence of the mistress of the family, who received him with a sweet and matronly grace. She wore her soft brown hair without the addition of any false curls, a rich grey silk gown woven by the Huguenot weavers in Spitalfields, a Norwich-crape shawl, and fine Flemish cambric in her cap, neckerchief, and ruffles. Although it was the custom for ladies of rank to wear rouge as thick as paste, she wore none. She made many inquiries after her esteemed friends Mr and Mrs Strelley, as well as Jack’s father and mother, and invited him to remain for their evening meal, which was to be served as soon as Mr Gournay and the other gentlemen inmates of their family returned. While they were speaking four young boys came into the room, whom Mrs Gournay introduced as her sons. They were followed by a tall and graceful lady in deep mourning, no longer young, but bearing traces of considerable beauty.

“I must make you known to my friend and inmate Madame de Mertens,” said Mrs Gournay. “She speaks English perfectly, having resided with us for some years, since she was compelled by the Popish Government of France to quit her native country.”

“Ah, yes; and I have found a happy and quiet home here,” said the lady. “If those I have lost could be restored to me, I would willingly abandon all hopes of regaining the fortune and estate I once enjoyed. Ah, Monsieur Deane,” she exclaimed, after some further conversation had passed between them, “how can any English people regret their Popish king? I am told that even now among your noblest families there are some ready to risk life and fortune to bring him back! See what ours has done for us! Think of the atrocities of his barbarous dragoons in our Protestant districts—peaceful homes given up to pillage, to fire, and the sword. The best of our pastors flogged, and tortured in other ways, imprisoned in loathsome dungeons—what do I say? worse, oh, worse than all! the horrors of the galleys reserved for the noblest and best, for such as my own dear husband Eugene, who, if he still lives, may yet be labouring at the oar, among slaves and outcasts of all nations! Oh, may heaven in mercy rescue him from such an existence!”

She ceased, for her feeling, roused by the recollection of the terrible scenes she had gone through, overcame her power of speech. She hid her face for some moments in her hands!

“I should not have ventured to speak on this subject,” she said, when she again looked up. “My husband was Dutch, of an old family; but when he married me he became naturalised as a Frenchman. For a few years after our marriage we lived a life of tranquillity and happiness in a chateau which I had inherited, removed from the turmoil of the world and political strife. We had one only child, a fair-haired, blue-eyed little damsel, with bright rosy cheeks and a happy, joyous smile on her countenance. At length, however, fearful troubles broke upon us on the revocation of the Edict of Nantes, just ten years ago. It was a time fatal to Protestants who ventured to remain in the country. Many of the best and noblest in the land fled from persecution. Some effected their escape, but many were overtaken, and were executed, or are still groaning in prisons, or, like my dear husband, in the galleys. My dear sister and her husband had come to reside with us, hoping that in our secluded abode they would escape observation. Her health was delicate, and on that fatal night when the dragoons burst into our house and carried off my brother-in-law, so greatly was she affected that her spirits gave way, and in a few days afterwards she sank to rest from this troubled world. My brother-in-law was heart-broken at the loss of his wife. He little knew how soon he was to follow her! My husband was absent from the house, when one evening I received notice that some officers of justice, as they were called, were approaching, in search of Protestants. I had just time to snatch up my little Elise, and to hurry off to the woods, where, in a hut which had been prepared by a faithful attendant, and known only to him, we were able to conceal ourselves. My dear husband, not aware of the personages who had possession of our house, returned late in the evening, having missed those who were on the watch to give him notice of what had occurred. He was instantly seized, and carried off for trial before the Government officials, who had been sent to the neighbourhood for that purpose. He, like a faithful servant of our blessed Master, refused to deny Him, or to acknowledge the truth of any of the dogmas of Rome. He was accordingly condemned to the galleys, a fearful fate! He was immediately marched off with many others, condemned for the same crime, to one of the naval ports; but from that day to this I have had no tidings of him, and if he has survived the hardships he has had to undergo, he is still labouring at the oar in one of those dreadful ships, enduring the worst kind of slavery, for life alone will terminate it. My poor brother-in-law was also captured, and refusing to recant, he was treated, being a Frenchman, even more severely than my husband, for he was first tortured; still holding out, the barbarians placed him on the cruel wheel, where, while still alive, his bones were broken, and he, as did many other faithful Protestants, expired, though in fearful torments, still crying to their Lord and Master, and acknowledging His love and the efficacy of the perfect sacrifice He offered for them. Our faithful Pierre, the steward of our estate, having collected all the jewels and other property which he could find, brought them to me and urged me on no account to return to the chateau, being sure that both Elise and I should be sacrificed to the fury of our enemies. Having friends in England, I resolved forthwith to escape to this country. I will not trouble you with my various adventures as I endeavoured to make my way with little Elise in my arms to the sea-coast. The poor people in the villages through which I passed, compassionating me and my little girl, gave us all the assistance in their power. Often some honest farmer, though at considerable risk to himself, would drive me some distance, concealed in his waggon, in the direction I wished to go. Thus I at length reached the neighbourhood of the north coast, where I hoped to find a vessel which would convey me to the shores of England. I had already gained the beach, when in consequence of the waves breaking on the shore, there was great difficulty in embarking. Fearing that Elise might receive some harm should I attempt to hold her while getting into the boat, I committed her to the charge of a seaman, an officer he seemed of some sort, who told me he was going off with us. A considerable number of other people were about to embark in the same vessel, and were crowding down to the edge of the water, when there was a cry that the dragoons were advancing towards us. I in vain attempted to reach the boat. Other people were crowding in, and the seamen, afraid that some accident would happen from her being overloaded, shoved her off into deep water. In vain I entreated that Elise might be restored to me, or that I might be taken on board.

“‘The dragoons! the dragoons!’ shouted the people all around me.

“‘Come, madame, this is no place for you!’ I heard a person say close to me. He seized my arm, and almost dragged me along the beach. ‘I know of a place near here where you can be concealed,’ he said. ‘I will conduct you to it; there is no time to lose.’

“Again I entreated him to look for Elise.

“‘That will be useless,’ he answered: ‘she is in God’s hands, and He will preserve her! You can do nothing now.’

“He forced me on; and I could not indeed help feeling the justice of his remarks.

“Assisted on by him we reached some rocks, amid which he worked his way, even though it was dark, showing that he was well acquainted with the spot. After going on for some time longer, I found that we were in front of a small cave.

“‘Go in there,’ he said, in a low voice. ‘It is large enough to contain many people; and I have stored it with food for such an emergency as this.’

“The stranger then told me that he was the Protestant pastor of the neighbouring district, and that, though compelled to quit his church, he still ministered in secret among his former flock, who supplied him with food, and warned him of the approach of danger. He had devoted himself to assisting those Protestants who, less fortunate than himself, came to that part of the coast.

“‘I am aware,’ he said, ‘that at any moment I may be discovered; and yet I feel that I am called to this work. God in His mercy has thought fit to preserve me from the hands of my persecutors!’

“Supplied with food and other necessaries by this brave and good man, I remained for several days in the cave. He had a sad account to give me of the fate of most of the fugitives who had been unable to get on board the vessel. Some were cruelly sabred by the dragoons, even though crying for quarter. Others—men, women (young and old), and children—were lifted up on their horses, and carried off at full speed to the neighbouring town, where they were thrown into the dungeons already crowded with prisoners.

“At length the good pastor considered it safe to conduct me to a lonely farm-house, where he told me I must remain till he could arrange for my passage to England. I longed to go, in the hopes of recovering my dear little Elise. Nearly a month passed before he was able to make the desired arrangements. I wished to pay the good people with whom I had lived, but they would receive no remuneration, and insisted on carrying me in a cart to the beach, where the boat was ready to receive me. A gale came on soon after we were at sea, and we were driven up the Channel till we were off the town of Yarmouth, where at length I landed. Some co-religionists of the good Mr Gournay, living in that town, hearing of my arrival, received me in their house; and from thence I came on to Norwich, where I have ever since resided. In vain I have made inquiries for my dear little Elise, greatly helped by my kind friends in this house, but no news have I received of her. You, I am told, Monsieur Deane, are likely to be constantly moving about the country, and it is possible that you may thus hear of the little girl, should she have escaped.”

“But she must have greatly grown since the time you speak of,” observed Deane: “it was fully ten years ago, was it not?”

“Ah, yes—yes!” answered Madame de Mertens; “but she cannot be so changed that I should not know her; and you may hear, among the Huguenot families, of a little orphan girl, though, I fear, alas! that there are many, many such. I will show her picture to you as I conceive her to be, and that perhaps may help you. I have drawn it often and often; for my great delight is to think of the little girl, and of my dear husband also. You would not know him though, I fear, if he survives, so greatly changed must he be by the hardships and barbarities he has gone through. Compared to his, my own fate has been fortunate, thanks to the generosity of my kind friends in this house, and to others. I have also been able to support myself by teaching, and have even had it in my power to help others of my countrymen who required assistance; but still the picture of my dear husband, in that dreadful slave-ship, is constantly coming before me; and often and often I think of my beloved child, thrown among strangers, who may too probably be of an inferior class, unable to give her instruction, or perhaps Papists, who will bring her up in a faith so contrary to that for which her father died, and those who love her suffered!”

Jack, much interested in what he heard, promised faithfully to lose no opportunity of making inquiries for the little Elise, who, however, by that time must have been fifteen years of age—a fact which her mother, when first describing her, seemed to have overlooked.

When Jack afterwards told Brinsmead of the commission he had undertaken, the old man smiled somewhat grimly, as was his wont when he smiled at all, saying, “I am afraid it will be something like looking for a needle in a stack of hay, but at the same time the needle may be found, so I do not tell you not to do your best to execute the poor lady’s wishes.”

Madame de Mertens had just brought her history to a conclusion when Mr Gournay, accompanied by Giles Dainsforth, entered the room.

“Friend Deane, I am truly glad to see thee,” he said, taking Deane by the hand. “I have heard of thee from friend Dainsforth here, and of thy family, and I trust that anon we shall become better acquainted. Thou hast an honest face, and if thou art diligent in business, thou art sure to gain the competency which is all that a man need desire in this life, and albeit its wealth flows in on some, by God’s providence; remember, shouldst thou ever possess it, that wealth may prove a snare and temptation to thee, even as great as want and poverty is to some men. Thou wilt have need of prayer for guidance, even as much as thou hast at present, for the devil is ever going about like a roaring lion, seeking whom he may devour; and the rich man may prove as dainty a morsel to him as the poor one—but above all does he delight in feeding upon those who have a name to lose, those who are ensigns and leaders in their church, elders and deacons, and such like. However, thou hast been journeying all day, and I will not speak to thee more of this subject at present, so come with us that thou mayst recruit thine inner man.”

Saying this, the hospitable and generous Quaker led the way to his handsome parlour. Though his own dress was simple—for he had abjured ruffles and periwig, and wore neither sword, nor lace on his cloak, nor clocks to his stockings—yet it was of the best material, and in no way different in form from that of other wealthy merchants and commoners, while the apartment into which he ushered his guest was richly furnished, and the table was covered with a handsome service of plate and china.

Giles Dainsforth, who, though not a Quaker, was dressed with Puritan simplicity, was a tall, strongly-built young man, with intelligent, though not refined features. He welcomed Jack warmly, as the brother of one to whom he was engaged. Mr Gournay treated him with a respect and consideration which showed that he had confidence in his integrity. Jack thus at once made himself at home, and he could not help contrasting his present position to the life he had been leading for so many days.

His host, John Gournay, who was born in 1655, was the founder of the family, who have since become known for their wealth and liberality. At an early day he had joined the Society of Friends, or Quakers, as they were called, and established himself as a merchant at Norwich, where he became the owner of several manufactories. It was greatly in consequence of the encouragement and support which he gave to the French Protestant refugees that he was enabled to lay the foundation of the vast wealth of the family in trade, which their industry supplied. His generosity, liberality, and industry being thus speedily rewarded by the hand of Providence. His silk and wool mills were the best then in England for the usual Norwich manufactures, as also for other delicate productions, such as crape shawls and dress-fabrics. Although somewhat grave and formal in his discourse to strangers, at his genial board his formality soon disappeared, and Jack Deane, as has been said, passed a pleasanter evening than he had enjoyed for some time. Although profane music was not indulged in, Mistress Gournay and Madame de Mertens sang some very sweet and touching hymns, which went more to Jack’s heart than any music he had ever heard.

Giles Dainsforth insisted on accompanying Jack back to his inn, to which he wished to return, though hospitably pressed to remain by Mr Gournay. Dainsforth of course had many inquiries to make about Jack’s family, and especially about Kate. He confided to Jack his intention of seeking his fortune in the new colony in America, established by Master William Penn, the son of the celebrated Admiral.

“As to worldly wealth, dear Jack,” he said, “I might gain that in England, but of freedom of conscience and freedom of worship, we may at any time be deprived, I fear. Our present king—may Heaven preserve him!—is liberal, but there are many malignants yet in the country who are striving for place and power, and we know not what another reign may bring forth. Other Acts of Conformity may be passed; and I cannot forget the cruel way in which our divines were treated in the last reign, when they were cast out on the cold world to gain their livelihood, as best they could, by those who sought to obtain only the loaves and fishes which their livings afforded.”

“But will my father agree to let sister Kate cross the ocean, and leave him for ever?” asked Jack.

“Thy father is a man of sense,” answered Dainsforth. “In most things he agrees with me; albeit he is more inclined to associate with malignants than I approve of, yet he, too, sees how the wind blows, and if he thinks it is for the happiness of thy sister Kate, he will not prevent her following the bent of her inclinations. Often has she said to me, ‘Where thou goest I will go,’ and therefore, without undue presumption, I may hope that she will consent to accompany me across the wide ocean to the land of promise. It is a beautiful and rich country, Jack; I would that thou wouldst make up thy mind to come with us! We might there, in a new England, enjoy that peace and prosperity and liberty of conscience, and freedom to worship God as we list, which may be denied us in this old country.”

The idea was quite a new one to Jack. It had never occurred to him to seek his fortune abroad, simply, probably, because he had not been thrown in the way of persons who spoke on the subject. He promised Dainsforth, however, to consider the matter.

“I will talk to thee anon more about it, Jack,” said Dainsforth, as they parted. “For a young man enjoying the health and strength that thou doest, I cannot picture a finer calling than that of subduing the wilderness, of turning a desert into a garden, and producing fruitful corn-fields out of wild land. The vine and the olive, and the orange flourish, they say, out there; and that corn which they call maize, with its golden head, so rich and prolific; and there are deer in the woods, and quail innumerable, and fish in the rivers and in the sea which washes its coasts. Indeed all the wants of man can there be amply supplied.”

Dainsforth having given a description of the New World to Jack sufficient to keep him awake all the night with thinking of it, took his departure at length from the inn, promising to call for him on the morrow, and to assist him in transacting the business he had undertaken for Mr Strelley and other friends in Nottingham. Dainsforth expressed his hope of meeting him ere long at Nottingham, to which place he expected to be sent in the course of the autumn on some business for Mr Gournay. Jack was sorry when his visit to Norwich came to an end.

Chapter Twelve.

Jack meets Pearson at Saint Faith’s and accompanies him to the North.

John Deane’s stay at Saint Faith’s was to be very short, and then he and Brinsmead were to take their way back to Nottingham.

Will Brinsmead seemed somewhat out of temper as Jack rode alongside him on their journey to the former place. He seemed unreasonably jealous of the attention which Jack had received from Mr Gournay. He had also, it appeared, not got over some suspicion of Jack, in consequence of his apparent intimacy with the stranger who called himself Master Pearson.

“He may be Master Pearson, or he may not be Master Pearson,” observed Will, sententiously: “and he may be an honest man, or he may not be an honest man. There are many rogues going about the world, and he may be one, or he may not be one; but I do not like a man who turns up here and turns up there, and dodges one’s footsteps, and does not give a reasonable and proper account of himself. Now, it appears to me, Master Deane, that you have talked to this Master Pearson, supposing he is Master Pearson, a great deal too much. If you had held your tongue, he would have gained no information out of you. When you are among strangers, it’s my opinion, that, if you are wise, you will say nothing. If you hold your tongue, those you are with will think you wise; but if you talk, ten chances to one they will think you a fool!”

“Thank you, Master Brinsmead, for the compliment,” said Jack. “I told you before that I did not think I had said any thing to this man Pearson in any way detrimental to our interests, or to those of our employer, Mr Strelley. If I did, I am heartily sorry for it: but even if I did, it must be proved that he is a rogue before you should say that any harm could have happened from what I talked about.”

Brinsmead, however, was not to be brought back into good-humour; and Jack was very glad when the tall, square tower of Saint Faith’s church rose up in sight above the dead flat of marshy country over which they were travelling, which, however, was relieved by occasional groups of tall beech and birch-trees, and lines of weeping ash, amid which in spring and summer were happy birds singing all day, and some too even during the night.

Saint Faith’s, although but a small village, was just now crowded with visitors, albeit rather of a rough description, being chiefly highland drovers in plaid and kilt, or trowes, with daggers stuck in their belts, carrying, however, long goads or staves in the place of broadsword and targets. There were purchasers also of the cattle they came to dispose of from all parts of the country, mostly as rough in their way as the Scotchmen they came to meet. The accommodation which the inn afforded was suitable to such characters as the visitors who frequented it. Fortunately for Jack, their stay was to be short, as Brinsmead had merely to make arrangements with certain drovers he expected to meet to purchase cattle, which, instead of coming so far south, were to be driven to Nottingham. Jack heard Brinsmead making inquiries about the person he expected to meet, and seemed rather disappointed at not finding him at the hostelry where he had arranged to come. On a second visit, however, to the Black Bull, the landlord informed Brinsmead that a Highlander had been inquiring for him, and was even now in the public room awaiting his coming.

“There he is, Master Brinsmead!” said the landlord, pointing to a strongly-built man in Highland dress, who was seated at a table, with a huge tankard of ale before him. By his side, in rather incongruous company, it appeared to Jack, was the reverend minister he had met at Cambridge. The Scotchman rose as Brinsmead, conducted by the landlord, approached him.

“If you are Master Brinsmead, as I have ne’er doobt is the case,” he said, “I have to tell you of a sad accident which occurred to our respected friend, Jock McKillock, whom you expected to meet here: and, seeing that he could not come himself, he deputed me to transact the proposed business with you.”

On saying this the speaker presented a letter to Brinsmead, which the latter handed to Jack to read, observing, “You’re a better scholar than I am, Mr Deane, and I’ll beg you just to see what friend McKillock has to say.”

Jack took the epistle, which was somewhat dirty, the superscription being in a large though not over-legible hand. He saw, however, that it was addressed to Master Brinsmead, drover, at Saint Faith’s. On opening it, Jack saw that it purported to be signed by Jock McKillock, introducing his trusted friend Mr Allan Sanderson, who would make all the arrangements for the sale of the cattle they had spoken of at their meeting on the previous year. The price had risen somewhat, he observed, in consequence of the demand for salt-beef for the fleet, and the licence-fees, which, against all right and justice, they were compelled to pay to King William, who, worthy as he had been in other respects, had committed the same grievous sin of which the King of Israel had been guilty when he neglected to hue Agag in pieces, in not taking away the life of the Popish monarch when he was delivered into his hands, as also in favouring the prelatic priests of the Church of England.

These remarks had a considerable effect with Brinsmead, who agreed with the principles of his correspondent, though he did not object to his master paying the licence-fees, considering they did not come out of his own pocket.

Jack on delivering the letter to Brinsmead, examined more narrowly the countenance of the person who had brought it, and felt immediately convinced that it was no other than Master Pearson. He could not help giving a glance which showed that he recognised him; but the other returned his look with so calm and unmoved an expression of countenance, that he was almost staggered for a moment in his belief. Still, when he recollected that Pearson might have some cause why he should not wish to let Brinsmead know of their previous intercourse, he determined—wisely or not, it may be a matter of opinion—not to address him as an acquaintance. The minister in the same way stared at him as if they had never met before. Jack was exceedingly puzzled, not being able to understand for what reason he did not wish to be recognised. He had time, however, to think over the matter while Brinsmead and the Highland drover were making their arrangements, in accordance with the suggestions contained in the letter. The minister also pulled a volume out of his pocket, and appeared to be completely absorbed in it.

“But who is this young man with you, Master Brinsmead?” asked Sanderson, turning an inquisitive eye, as it seemed, towards Jack. “Though you are unable to travel so far north to inspect the beasts, if he understands cattle, and is intelligent and trustworthy, would it not be well to let him come in your place? My respected friend, Jock McKillock, would rather you looked at the cattle before they are driven south.”

“The lad is trustworthy enough,” answered Brinsmead, in a low voice, so that Jack should not be supposed to hear it. “He understands, too, the points of a beast better than most lads of his age. Though his shoulders are young, he has got an old head on the top of them; but it’s a long way to send him all alone, and he has yet to learn something more of the world than he knows at present. An old bird like me is not to be caught by chaff. He must be a sharp blade to deceive me, you may suppose, Master Sanderson, whereas he might easily be led in the toils of the many sharpers and impostors going about in all directions. It would be wiser not to trust him alone.”

“Do not fear that, Master Brinsmead,” answered Sanderson, “I am returning north, and will look after the lad, and guard him from all dangers such as you hint at. I cannot side with him when he is making his bargain, and help to beat down Jock McKillock, but I will give him all the advice in the general way I can, and Jock’s an honest chield, and would not take advantage of him when he puts his trust in his honour.”

Jack all this time could not help overhearing the conversation, and became more puzzled than ever how to act. A journey to the north for the purpose of purchasing cattle was exactly after his own taste, but he could not understand the deception which was being practised upon his companion. If Pearson was honest, why did he now assume a different name from that by which he had before been known? Which, also, was his right name? The minister too, who was his companion, had heard him called Pearson, and he now announced himself as Allan Sanderson in his presence, and yet the reverend gentleman made no remark on the subject.

Sanderson continued to urge his point with Brinsmead, and used many arguments to induce him to allow Jack Deane to proceed north. At last, not a little to Jack’s satisfaction, Brinsmead yielded his consent, provided Jack would wish to accept the offer.

“What say you, Mr Deane, will you take a trip into the land o’ cakes, and make a purchase of three hundred head of cattle for Mr Strelley? You will have the driving of the beasts south, and have the pleasure of seeing good honest meat and fat put on their bones in our rich water-meadows before many months have passed away after their arrival.”

Jack had had time to consider the matter, and without hesitation accepted the offer, believing that in a short conversation with Pearson he could soon clear up the mystery.

“I should be on my guard,” he thought to himself, “more than would Brinsmead, who does not suspect him, and thus I think I shall better be able to look after the interests of my master Mr Strelley.”

When a person desires to do a thing, it is very easy to find excuses, and as easy to lull the conscience asleep, and hide the consequences which may be the result.

It was finally arranged that Jack should start the next morning in company with the respectable Mr Allan Sanderson, Brinsmead purposing to follow at a slower pace in the course of the day.

Jack was aroused next morning by the sound of his quondam acquaintance calling him to “boot and saddle,” and to be off. Slipping on his clothes, he went to the bedside of Will Brinsmead, who was still sleeping soundly, to tell him that he was summoned to be off.

“Ah, lad, the Scotchmen keep early hours,” said Will, sitting up and rubbing his eyes. “The dawn has scarcely broke, surely. He is right, though, thou hast a long ride before thee, and it’s as well to be off by times, though it would have been prudent to lay in a store of provender before you depart; however, two or three hours’ ride before breakfast will do thee no harm, lad. And now, Master Deane, I have a word to say before you leave me. Thou hast a fair opening, lad, and an important commission to execute. Take this advice from an old man. Keep your own counsel on all occasions. Judge which is best for your master’s interests, and let nothing turn you aside from following that out. Avoid quarrelling with any one, and let no one pick a quarrel with thee. Mr Sanderson seems a fair-spoken man, but there’s one thing I would have you remember, that he is not Jock McKillock himself. Jock I have known well-nigh a score of years, and an honest and fair dealer, as I doubt not thou wilt find, if he is afoot and well again when you get to the north. And now, fare-thee-well, John Deane, an old man’s blessing go with thee! Thou hast shown thyself to be ready-witted and brave, and if thou rememberest always that it is better to please God than man, thou wilt not fail to succeed in thy undertakings.”

With these words the old man put on his clothes, and accompanying Jack down-stairs, assisted him in getting his horse ready for his journey.

“Weel, weel, laddy, you’re o’er long in mounting your nag!” shouted Master Sanderson.

“I am ready for you now, at all events,” answered Jack, as he threw himself into his saddle, and once more shook hands with Brinsmead.

“Stop, stop, Mr Sanderson, you be off without your stirrup-cup!” exclaimed the landlord, who at that moment appeared at the door with a tankard in his hand. “Such doings are never allowed at my house, however early in the morning my guests depart. It will do thee good, man, and help to keep the cold mists of our fen-country out of thy throat this morning; and thou, lad, must not break through our rules, either,” he said, turning to Jack, who, it must be confessed, took the proffered tankard and drained its contents, then touching the flank of his horse with his spur, and giving a farewell wave of the hand to honest old Brinsmead, rode after his new acquaintance nothing loath.

Chapter Thirteen.

Jack and Pearson’s Journey to the North, and how Jack was employed on the Road.

The sky was clear overhead, and a damp mist was swept by a south-east wind over the face of the country. Jack and the Scotchman rode on till they were clear of the village without speaking.

“I am glad to have you in my company, Master Deane,” said the latter, now for the first time throwing off all disguise.

“I am obliged to you,” said Jack. “I knew you, Master Pearson, the moment I saw you.”

“So I thought,” was the answer. “When we parted at Cambridge, I was not certain in which character I should come to Saint Faith’s. However, you might have found it difficult to come north without me, and I therefore have made arrangements to accompany you.”

“But why this masquerading, Master Pearson?” asked Jack. “Mr Harwood’s recommendation makes me place confidence in you, but I tell you frankly, I would rather know more about you than I do!”

“Very sensibly spoken,” said Pearson, laughing. “The state of the times makes ‘masquerading,’ as you call it, necessary; but of one thing you may be sure, that I mean you fair; I will treat you honourably. Had I not given you warning, you would have returned to Nottingham, and have been clapped probably into the stocks; for depend upon it some of the country gentlemen round would have been too glad to get hold of your father’s son, and by punishing him, keep in awe others of less degree.”

“I am sure you mean me well,” said Jack, whose disposition made him unsuspicious of others. “But we shall pass within a short distance of Nottingham, and I should like to go and pay them a visit during the evening, when the darkness will prevent me being recognised, just to tell them where I am going, and what I propose doing.”

“Oh, Master Brinsmead will do that in a few days!” answered the northern drover; “depend upon it there are some on the watch for you, and you would run a considerable risk in returning home, even for a short time.”

Jack thought this very likely, and did not press the point, but suddenly another idea occurred to him.

“I might surely visit Harwood Grange?” he observed; “no one would be looking for me there, and I should like to see Mr Harwood and gain some information respecting the persons to whom I am to deliver these letters.”

“I will think about that, my lad, as we ride on,” answered Pearson. “Our direct road will take us a good deal to the east of Sherwood Forest, and your visit to the Grange would cause considerable delay. I do not at present see that this is necessary, though, to be sure, you may have some attraction there with which I am not acquainted.”

He gave a peculiar glance as he spoke, which drew the colour into his companion’s cheeks.

Jack was mounted on a strong, active nag, but he soon found that it was very inferior in speed to the one Pearson bestrode, and frequently he had to use whip and spur to keep up with him.

“We must get you another beast,” observed the latter; “it will make the difference of two or three days to us in our journey, and I always like to know that my friend is mounted on as good a steed as I am when we ride together. We know not the moment when we may have to try the metal of them both.”

“If that’s the animal you were riding when I met you between Nottingham and Cambridge, it’s a good one,” observed Jack, remembering the leap he had seen Pearson take, and the speed with which he had afterwards gone over the ground.

“Ay, the very same,” answered Pearson; “Black Bess and I seldom part company. I would have no other person bestride her; and I doubt whether she would allow it, if any one were to make the attempt.”

“But this horse belongs to Mr Strelley,” said Jack; “I have no business to change it for another.”

“Oh, I will settle that matter,” answered Pearson; “you will accept the loan of one from me, and I will send your nag to meet old Will as he comes west. In a couple of hours we will stop to breakfast at the house of an old friend of mine, and I have no doubt that we shall find a steed in his stables just suited for you.”

At the time Master Pearson specified, they drew up before a farm-house a little off the high-road. A sign, however, swinging over the door showed that occasional entertainment was afforded there also to man and beast. The landlord, who had very few of the characteristics of a Boniface, being a tall, thin, hard-featured man, received Pearson as an old acquaintance, and, the horses being sent to the stables, ushered them into a small oak parlour, intended for the accommodation of his private guests.

“We may here rest without the risk of being observed,” said Pearson to Deane, as he threw himself into a chair. “A wise man will not make more confidants than are necessary, and will not let the rest of the world know what he is about or where he is going. We will have some refreshment, and then I will go and search for a better steed than yours, which shall be returned in due course to your employer.”

Pearson having intimated to the host that refreshment would be required, it was quickly placed on the table; and, like a man who knew not when he might have another opportunity of feeding, he applied himself to the viands, advising his companion to do the same. This Jack did with right good will; and the meal being despatched, Pearson advised him to amuse himself as best he could in the room, while he went out to look for a horse fit, as he said, for Jack to ride.

Deane could not help feeling puzzled at times at the caution his companion considered necessary to use. Still, so little accustomed was he to the world, that it did not occur to him that he was otherwise than a respectable character, with whom he was perfectly safe in consorting. He paced the room without finding any thing to amuse himself with. Not a book on a shelf, nor a picture on the wall. A sanded floor, a dark oak table, several benches, a chair of large proportions, used probably for the president at clubs of convivial meetings; with a few of smaller size, completed the furniture of the oak-wainscoted room. He was not, however, kept very long before Pearson returned, telling him that he had procured a horse on which his saddle was to be placed; and Jack, going out into the stable-yard, found a man leading up and down a fine, strongly-built steed, which, if not possessing all the points of which Pearson’s own horse could boast, was evidently an animal well capable of performing a rapid and long journey at a stretch.

“The account is settled; and now let us mount and be off,” said Pearson, throwing himself into his saddle, and, having whispered a few words into the ears of their ill-favoured host, he put spurs to his horse, and with Jack by his side quickly left the village behind. Jack was highly pleased with the paces of his new acquisition, and soon saw that he should be able to push on over the ground at far greater speed than when he had his own steady-going nag under him. In a short time, coming to a fine open, grassy piece of land, he could not resist the temptation of putting spurs to the animal’s side, and starting off for a gallop. Pearson shouted after him to stop; but Jack found it no easy matter to rein in his steed. On turning his head, he found that the drover was following him; and, though he fancied that he himself was going at full gallop, his companion was quickly alongside him.

“That is very like a young man, but not the act of a wise one!” said Pearson. “You should always keep your horse’s strength for an emergency on a long journey. His limbs are supple enough, I’ll warrant; there was no necessity for trying them just now.”

“I could not help it,” said Jack, tugging at the same time at the rein. “The animal has mettle enough for any thing, I should think.”

“I see that I must help you,” said Pearson, “or you will not bring that animal up in a hurry, till you have well-nigh sawn his mouth in two. So-ho! Rover!” he cried out, adding a few cabalistical-sounding words.

In an instant the animal threw himself on his haunches, so suddenly indeed, as nearly to unseat his rider. He was too good a horseman though to be played such a trick.

“The beast is no stranger to you, Master Pearson,” he observed.

“No; he has carried me over many a mile,” was the answer. “I would not wish to put you on an animal I had not tried. And now we will make play over this ground, though at more moderate speed than you were going at just now.”

They found accommodation for the night in a small roadside inn. On the next day, when passing through Grantham, as the travellers were approaching the open square of the market-place, they observed a large crowd collected round a person elevated above their heads on the top of a huge cask or table, so it appeared. He was throwing out his arms in every direction. Now pressing his hands together, now lifting them towards heaven in the attitude of prayer. Most of his auditors seemed to be listening to him with rapt attention. As they drew nearer, Jack, on looking at the countenance of the speaker, was convinced that it was no other than the Independent preacher whom he had met in company with Master Pearson. From the words which fell from his mouth it was difficult to ascertain what principles he was inculcating. He was speaking at the moment of some wonderful dream with which he had been favoured by Heaven. He was warning the people of the dreadful calamities which he knew, in consequence of what he had seen in his vision, were about to fall upon the land. He seemed, however, to be dealing out tolerably even-handed justice towards all other denominations. He had nothing in its favour to say of Protestant Episcopacy, and as little of Romanism. He was hurling abuse at Presbyterianism, and warning the Independents that their day of grace had passed, that they were no longer holding up a standard in Israel, while he condemned the Baptists for maintaining unscriptural doctrines.

“Woe! woe! woe!” he shouted, “woe to this country! woe to this people! Listen, ye stiff-necked and stubborn generation! A new revelation is about to be vouchsafed to you; will you receive it, or will you refuse it? Those who are ready to receive it will hold up their hands, and shout with joy at the thoughts of their emancipation from the slavery under which ye have hitherto groaned in the bonds of bitterness and the darkness of despair! Those who have made up their minds not to receive it must take their departure from among us, and go back to the place whence they came, there to await till summoned to go down into the pit full of fire and brimstone, already boiling up to welcome them!”

No one moved from among the crowd, the greater number of whom held up their hands, as invited by the speaker, and gave way to a shrill cry, which swelled by degrees into a loud ringing shout, which was repeated again and again.

Jack, to satisfy himself, asked Pearson if he knew the name of the speaker.

“I know his name, Master Deane,” answered his companion: “you must ask the bystanders if they know it. They will probably tell you that it’s the Reverend Simon Stirthesoul, one of the newest of new lights who have appeared in the kingdom in this favoured reign. There are many such; and of great advantage will they prove to the spiritual welfare of the people. They have an especial work, it seems to me, to show that all the old forms of worship are wrong, and invent as many new ones as their imaginations can devise. Wherever they spring from, they’re serving the Pope of Rome well, for the more the Protestants are divided, the better will it be for his faithful children in this realm of England.”

Jack wished to stop and hear more of the remarks made by the preacher, but to this Pearson objected, observing that he did not wish to delay, and that they would bait their steeds a few miles beyond the town, at a roadside inn.

Pearson expressed a more important truth than he himself was aware of at the time. From the time of Elizabeth up to that period, a number of Popish priests, chiefly Jesuits, had been introduced into the country under various disguises, having received dispensations from the Pope to act any part they might consider most advisable for the establishment of new and strange doctrines; thus dividing Protestant interests. There is undoubted evidence of this. Most of these men, well trained in foreign universities, accustomed to the ways of the world, were admirably fitted for the part they were destined to perform. Some pretended to be Episcopalians, others Presbyterians, and others Nonconformists of all denominations. Many exerted their talents in the invention of new sects, and they were certain to gain proselytes, being well versed in the study of human nature. They knew thoroughly how to adapt the principles they advocated, and the tenets they taught, to the tastes of their hearers, and there can be no doubt that the rise of the many strange sects which appeared at different times, from the accession of Elizabeth, was owing to the efforts of these Popish emissaries. A considerable number were from time to time apprehended, and found possessed of treasonable documents, proving that they were Papists in disguise. Some indeed were executed in consequence of having been found guilty of treasonable practices, while others narrowly escaped the same fate. It seemed but probable, from his connexion with the Jacobites, that the Reverend Simon Stirthesoul was one of these disguised plotters.

“I gave you a packet of letters from Mr Harwood,” observed Pearson, as they were standing in the evening at their inn. “If you look over them, I shall be able to tell you the best route to take in order to call on the persons to whom they are directed. Your friend made it a great point that you should deliver them in person, and I am sure that he is a gentleman you would wish to oblige.” He fixed his keen glance at Jack as he spoke. “The greater number are, I see, directed to gentlemen in Yorkshire. You may well consider it an honour to be so employed. Sir Herbert Willington, I see; Colonel Slingsby, Joe Hovingham of Hovingham Hall, Master Haxby of Haxby Grange, are all good men and true. In Northumberland too, I see you have a few to Oxminston, and Widdrington. It will take you some time to get through them all, for they’re not men who let you come to their door and ride away again without showing you hospitality. It will give more time to Jock McKillock to get the herd together.”

Deane made many inquiries of his companion with regard to the character of the people on whom he was to call, and he was somewhat surprised to find that they were all strong Jacobites, the greater number indeed being Romanists. Still, his suspicions were not sufficiently aroused to make him refuse to deliver them. This would of course have been the wisest thing to have done. He was, in truth, anxious in every way to please Mr Harwood. He still continued to indulge in dreams of some day winning the fair Alethea. He very naturally thought that if he could please her father, he would have less difficulty in so doing.

The horse Pearson had selected for Deane showed wonderful speed and bottom, and seemed scarcely fatigued when, between sunrise and sunset, he had gone over the best part of a hundred miles. When once in Yorkshire they proceeded at a somewhat slower pace, having somewhat longer time to rest at the houses at which they called. On these occasions, Pearson assumed the character of Jack’s servant, and invariably accompanied the horses to the stables, and stayed during the visit with the grooms and other servants. He was not idle, however, though he might have appeared to be so. He lost no opportunity of making inquiries as to what was going on in the neighbourhood, as well as informing himself of the proceedings of their masters.

Jack had no cause to complain of any want of hospitality on the part of those to whom he delivered Mr Harwood’s letters, but in several instances he was received with an air of stiffness and formality which showed that full confidence was not placed in him. Indeed, when on one or two occasions he was cross-questioned, having really no information to give, he was speedily again dismissed. He received, however, several letters in return, which he was especially directed to deliver in person to Mr Harwood. On looking at the covers, he was surprised to find that no superscription was placed on them.

“Never mind,” was the answer, “you know for whom they are intended. Keep them securely, and the object we have in view will be attained.”

He mentioned, at length, the circumstance to Pearson.

“It’s all right,” he replied; “a letter without an address, provided the bearer knows to whom he is to deliver it, is safer in these perilous times than a letter with one. Keep them carefully, Master Deane, and Mr Harwood will be duly grateful to you when you deliver them.”

As they advanced north, Pearson invariably left the high-road to seek for quarters at some distance from it during the night. Before lying down to sleep on these occasions, he never failed to visit the stables. Jack observed also that he remained booted and spurred during the night. Generally before daybreak they were again in the saddle, and proceeding at a rapid rate on their road. The Cheviots were already in sight, when one morning Pearson roused up Jack.

“To horse, my lad, to horse!” he exclaimed. “If you wish to retain your liberty, or your life indeed, you will put a hundred miles between you and the Cheviots before sundown. I have just had the information brought me, that you have been accused of delivering letters to disaffected persons, and that a plot has been discovered for dethroning the present king and bringing back King James. As I did not see the letters which you had to deliver, I cannot say how far the accusation is just, but to you it will come to the same thing. I have so far led you into the scrape by giving you the letters, and I have resolved to bear you company; for I doubt, without me, that you would manage to escape.”

“This is bad news indeed,” exclaimed Jack, sitting up in bed, and beginning to dress as rapidly as he could.

“But if I go south, how shall I be able to execute Mr Strelley’s commission? What will Jock McKillock do with the cattle he has brought thus far on the way? and what am I to do with the money with which I was to pay for them?”

“I have thought of all that, my friend,” answered Pearson. “Give me the money, and I will settle the matter with Jock McKillock, and the cattle shall be driven south as safely as if you were at their tails.”

Jack could not help feeling considerable hesitation as to the propriety of yielding to Pearson’s proposal. Honest and unsuspicious as he was himself, great doubt had crossed his mind as to the character of his companion. To be sure, if he persisted in continuing his journey, and endeavouring to meet Jock McKillock, he very likely might be apprehended, and in that case he would certainly lose the money in his possession; but then if Pearson was not honest, it would equally be lost. The latter saw by the working of his countenance, the doubts that were crossing his mind.

“You hesitate to give me the cash,” he observed. “You are perfectly right; at the same time, I promise you that it shall be properly spent for the advantage of your employer. Oaths are like pie-crusts, too often only made to be broken, therefore I will not swear what I will do: but accept the promise of a man who wishes you well, and you will have no cause to regret having trusted me.”

Jack at length, seeing that there was no help for it, agreed to Pearson’s proposal, and, though not without some reluctance, handed him over the money for the proposed purchase of cattle.

“It is safer in my pocket than in yours, let me tell you, Master Deane,” said Pearson, as he stowed it away in his leathern pouch. “There breathes not the man on either side of the border who would attempt to take it from me.”

Chapter Fourteen.

Adventures at the Hagg.

“There is ne’er use fashing yourself, my young friend, about the matter,” observed Pearson, in his usual unconcerned manner, “many as pretty a man as yourself has been in a far worse difficulty, and my advice now to you is to make the best of it. I could hide you away among the mountains in the north, where, should every man in Dutch William’s army be sent out on the search, they could not find you; but, I’m thinking, a lad of your spirit would not be altogether satisfied with that sort of life. Better far come with me south. There will soon be work for you to do in that quarter, such as will be more suitable to your taste, I’m thinking, than following at the heels of a drove of bullocks. I own a dairy-farm in the fens of Lincolnshire, where I have a wife and daughter, and am known as a steady, quiet-going farmer, who, may be, has a little better notion about horse-flesh than his neighbours, and bestrides occasionally a fleeter steed than most of them. No one would think of looking for me there, nor will they for you, or, if they did, it would be no easy job to find us. For that matter, indeed (your vanity will not be offended, I hope, when I say it), your countenance has so little remarkable about it, and so few people know you, that you might safely go to London without the slightest risk of detection. You should understand that some friends of ours may ask you to undertake a commission of importance in the metropolis, and I would advise you not to refuse it. All your expenses will be paid; and if you prove trustworthy and discreet, it will lead to your further advantage.”

“You have proposed so much to me, Master Pearson, that I am rather confused, and must think a little before I reply,” answered Jack. “You tell me that information has been laid against me for delivering treasonable letters between persons desirous of overturning the present order of things and of restoring King James to the throne, and that if I am not very careful I shall be taken and imprisoned, and perhaps hung. Now, even though I have really been accused, as you have heard, of treason, I am sure that I can have no difficulty in proving my innocence. I was not aware of the contents of the letters I delivered, and have certainly no wish to overturn the present Government.”

“Very possibly, my young friend,” remarked Pearson; “but it will avail you nothing to say that you did not know the contents of the letters, or that you did not do this or that. You must confess to having delivered the letters, and you cannot prove that you did not know their contents and are not anxious to support the cause they advocate. Judges and juries require proofs of a man’s innocence. Can you give proofs of yours? that is the question, Master Deane. Besides, let me ask you, suppose a certain young lady, who shall be nameless, were to promise you the best reward she can bestow, if you will join heart and hand in the cause her father supports, what reply would you make—eh, my lad?”

“You seem to know every thing, Master Pearson!” exclaimed Jack, somewhat annoyed at his companion’s familiarity, and not wishing to give a direct answer. “With regard to the probability of my being unable to prove my innocence of the accusations which may be brought against me, I acknowledge that you are right; but with respect to other matters, it is no man’s business to interfere.”

“Of course, Master John Deane, you are the best judge in your own affairs. I gave you but the advice of a friend,” answered Pearson: “what motive can I have to speak otherwise? But again let me remind you, that if you venture within the lion’s jaws it will be no easy matter to get you out again. Be wise, then, put yourself under my guidance, and you will be safe. Go your own gait, and you will find yourself shut up in prison, or, maybe, run your head into the noose. However, an obstinate man is not to be persuaded.”

“But I am not an obstinate man,” said Jack; “I believe that your advice is kindly intended, and I beg that you will understand I do not reject it. I only ask time to think over the matter, that I may decide what course I should pursue.”

It was not without a considerable amount of vexation and disappointment that Deane found himself galloping away to the south, instead of proceeding, as he had hoped, over the border into Scotland. He felt some doubt, also, as to whether he had acted wisely in confiding so completely to Pearson; and he also regretted having allowed himself to be made a tool, as it appeared too evident that he had been, of the Jacobite party. Still he did not blame Mr Harwood, and thought that probably some of the other gentlemen whom he had visited were the cause of the accusation being brought against him. Though Pearson pressed him to proceed south, he did not object to the proposal Jack made of visiting Harwood Grange on his way.

“It is the best thing you can do,” he observed. “You can then in person deliver the letters you have received, and he may better be able to explain matters to you than I am, and he will also advise what steps to take that you may clear yourself from the accusation which has been brought against you.”

Jack’s heart beat at the thought of the proposed visit. The inconvenience and disappointment which he had gone through, seemed as nothing when he contemplated again seeing Alethea. It did not occur to him that he was rushing into a trap in which he was very likely to lose his liberty altogether. They had proceeded about forty or fifty miles to the south, when a horseman was seen approaching them. He drew up as he reached Pearson, and exchanged greetings with him. He then turning round, and allowing Jack to go on out of ear-shot, the two rode alongside each other. In the course of ten minutes or so they again overtook Jack.

“Mr Deane,” said Pearson, “I have fortunately met a friend who knows the country well, and will prove a good guide to you. He is willing to return south, that I may ride to the north and make the arrangements which you were to have done with our friend Jock McKillock, for the purchase of the cattle. There is no time to be lost, and I assure you that you may trust my friend as you would me.”

Without any further remark, Pearson shook Jack by the hand, and, wheeling round his horse, galloped away to the north, while the stranger rode on alongside Jack. As Jack glanced at his companion, it struck him that he had seen him before, but where, or under what circumstances, he in vain attempted to discover. He was a strongly-built, active-looking man, considerably younger than Pearson, with a determined look and expression in his countenance which Jack did not altogether like. He did not seem either much inclined for conversation, and answered briefly all the questions which Deane put to him.

“I think we have met before,” said Jack.

“It’s very likely,” was the reply; “but you have the advantage of me, if you know where it was, for I see so many people in the course of a day, that it would be a difficult matter for me to recollect those I have met once in a way. I will give you a useful piece of advice, however: remember, the fewer questions you ask, the less likely you will be to have falsehoods told you. You have a long ride before you, and you will be wiser if you save your breath, instead of wasting it in talking.”

It is hopeless to enter into conversation with one who is determined not to speak. Jack found this to be the case, his companion generally only answering in monosyllables to all the remarks he made.

When, at length, they stopped at nightfall at a farm-house, similar to those which Pearson had selected on their way north, his companion pursued the same system, exchanging only a few words with the people of the house, and scarcely speaking to him all the evening. As Pearson had done, he visited the stables several times to see that the horses were well cared for, evidently considering it as important as did his friend, that they should be in a fit condition for a hard gallop. They travelled, indeed, a couple of days before Jack discovered the name of his companion. He at length heard him spoken to as Master Burdale.

“Yes, that’s my name,” he said, when Jack addressed him as such; “I am known here and elsewhere as Ned Burdale, at your service.”

Jack at last became heartily tired of his companion’s society: at the same time he had to confess to himself that there was nothing particularly with which he could find fault about the man, except his sulky silence. With great satisfaction Deane at length caught sight of the well-remembered patches of woodland scenery by which he knew that he was once more within the ancient boundaries of Sherwood Forest. He now, for the first time, told Ned Burdale of his intention of visiting Harwood Grange.

“My directions were to conduct you to Master Pearson’s farm in the fens,” said his companion. “I cannot be answerable for your safety if you part company from me.”

“I have no desire to do so,” said Jack; “but if you will accompany me to the Grange, as soon as I have delivered my message to Mr Harwood, I shall be ready to set forward to the place you speak of.”

“Remember, then, it’s at your own risk,” said his companion. “I have my reasons for not wishing to go there myself, but I will wait for you at a farm which we shall reach in a couple of hours, and from thence you can ride over to the Grange. I would advise you to go there in the evening, to avoid being seen by the people in the neighbourhood. We can send a messenger on before to the Squire, that he may be on the watch for you. Take my advice: don’t allow a bright eye and a rosy cheek to detain you there longer than is necessary.”

Jack, being unable to suggest any better arrangement, was compelled to be contented with his companion’s proposal.

Putting spurs to their horses, they galloped on through the forest. Now they had to pass several miles of cleared country; then again they came to more forest-land. Now they passed over a wild piece of heath; then through dingle and dale, and thick copses, and along the banks of a stream, avoiding the high-road as much as possible, and making their way wherever they could across the country. At length they entered a thicker part of the forest than any they had hitherto passed through.

“We shall soon be at the farm,” observed Burdale. “We will take a day’s rest then for the sake of our steeds; for though at a push they would have gone twice as far without knocking up, it’s as well to give them a holiday where it can be done.”

At length a grey-stone tower, with a building attached to it, round which ran a broad balcony, appeared in sight. It had evidently been a hunting-lodge in olden times, and from the balcony ladies fair used to shoot with cross-bow, or, perhaps, in later times with fire-arms, at the deer as they were driven past. An old man and woman, apparently as old as the building itself, came forth at the sound of the horses’ hoofs. They looked somewhat askance at Jack, but welcomed Burdale as an acquaintance.

“You can give us shelter for the night, Master Rymer, I hope,” he said, jumping from his horse. “Here, I will help look after the steeds, while your dame shows my companion the way into your house.”

The old couple continued to cast somewhat doubtful glances at Jack.

“Have no fear,” said Burdale; “he is of the right sort, and no risk of his peaching, even if he did find out any thing he should not know.”

With this assurance, as soon as Jack dismounted, the old man took his horse, and accompanied Burdale round the tower to the stables. The dame, meantime, beckoned to Jack to follow her. A flight of dilapidated stone steps led them up to the entrance-hall, which occupied the whole of one floor of the tower. A rough stair led to another floor above it; and Jack observed the top of a flight of steps of more pretensions, descending apparently to chambers below.

“Sit down, young sir,” said the dame, pointing to an old oak chair. “Thou wilt be hungry after thy long ride; and I will prepare a steak for you and Ned Burdale.”

The view from the window of the tower was confined on all sides by the forest, through which, however, here and there glades opened out for some distance, up which, in former days, the deer were accustomed to sweep by, and afford an opportunity to fair dames and lords to exercise their skill with their fowling-pieces. Already the sun was sinking beneath the tops of the trees; and Jack began to fear that he should not have time to reach Harwood Grange before the night altogether closed in. He waited impatiently, therefore, for the return of Burdale, purposing to set off immediately his horse should have had its food and enjoyed a short rest. His companion, however, was longer than he expected, and by the time he arrived the meal prepared by the old dame was almost ready.

“Take my advice,” said Burdale: “remain here quietly to-night, and to-morrow you will be able to visit the Grange, and give our horses sufficient time to rest, that we may continue our journey into Lincolnshire. The distance from this to the Grange is far greater than you suppose: you could not reach it till an hour or more after dark, and you would scarcely be able to find your way back through the forest by yourself.”

Unwilling as Jack was to give up his purpose of paying a visit to his friends that evening, he was compelled to comply with his companion’s wishes, for Burdale gave him to understand very clearly that he had no intention of accompanying him. A substantial meal of venison-steaks, wheaten bread, and oaten cakes, to which Jack was nothing loath to do ample justice, was soon placed on the table.

“Come, Master Rymer, you can find us a flagon of wine, too, and of the best, I know that,” said Burdale. “Come, man, rummage out your stores, you used not to be niggard of your liquor.”

The old man, after some hesitation, pretended or real, took a bunch of keys, and descended the stairs to the chamber beneath the hall. He soon returned with a flagon of wine, which his guests pronounced to be excellent. Burdale drank freely himself, and pressed Jack to imitate his example. Being generally temperate, Jack found at length that he had taken more wine than was his wont, and began to feel an unusual drowsiness stealing over him. The old couple kept up a conversation with Ned Burdale, seemingly somewhat indifferent of Jack’s presence. Now and then they addressed him.

“You belong to these parts, do you?” asked the old man, fixing his keen glance on Jack.

“I was born and bred in Nottingham,” answered Jack.

“And never been out here at the Hagg before?”

“No,” said Jack, “I never heard of the place before.”

“Well, to be sure it’s a good long distance from the town, and away from all high-roads. You would have a hard job to find it, even if you were looking for it, I suspect.”

“You have a bold heart, I hope,” said the old woman, “for those who spend a night in this house require one.”

“I am not much given to be afraid,” answered Jack, laughing; “but what makes you say that?”

“Why, for a good reason: because the old tower is haunted. We didn’t like it when we first came here, but we’ve got accustomed to it. There was an old family lived here in the time of Charles, the king whose head was cut off, when all the men of the family lost their lives in the Civil Wars, and the ladies died of broken hearts, or something of that sort. At all events, the old tower was left deserted, and for many years no one came to live in it. At length, one family came to try and see how it would suit them, but they very soon gave up; and then another and another rented the farm, and tried to stop in the tower, but they could not stand the sights they saw, or the sounds they heard, and threw it up, one after the other. At last my good man and I came here. We were told before what we were to expect, and so we made up our minds for the worst. Well, the very first night we came, as we were sitting here at supper, just as we may be now, we heard the ghosts of the family to whom the tower had belonged all talking away below us. Sometimes it was an old man’s voice, then a young girl’s, and then the voice of a strong man of middle age, and then a youth, maybe, like yourself, and young children. It was curious to hear them go on in that way. We could not make out what they said exactly, but there was a change in the tone of their voices, just as clearly as if they had been in the room with us. As to sights, I cannot say that we saw any thing; and I’m not ashamed to confess it, neither my good man nor I felt inclined to go into the chamber below, to have a look at the ghosts. They went on talking for some hours, till we heard them scuffling off to bed, so it seemed, and we therefore followed their example. This went on, as I say, night after night. I need not tell you what we saw when we did see any thing, but I will just advise you to be prepared, should you hear any strange noises; and provided you don’t go and interfere with the ghosts, depend upon it they will let you alone.”

“Thank you,” answered Jack, “for the advice. I never yet have met a ghost, though maybe I shall some day, and if I do I intend to treat it with all due respect.”

“You had better treat the ghosts here in that way,” observed Burdale, with a peculiar glance at Jack; “I have heard of them before, and I am sure they would not like any one to interfere with them.”

“Oh, yes,” said the old woman, “we have ghosts inside the house and out of it too. Did you mark that big old oak, as you rode up to the door? They say there’s a ghost lives inside it, of some man who was murdered under its branches years gone by. How he do groan at night sometimes! It has been the same ever since we came here. At first I could not sleep for listening to him, and thinking what a pain he was in: just like the pains of souls in purgatory.” This remark made Jack suspect that his hosts were Romanists.

He could hear very little more about the ghost in the old oak, but he promised next morning to examine the tree, and ascertain in which part of it the spirit resided.

“You had better let he alone,” observed the old man; “these sort of gentry don’t like anybody to come and pry after them. That’s what I think; and so I have let them alone, and he has never come to do me any harm.”

The guide and the two old people talked on for a considerable time; but gradually to Jack’s ears their voices grew less and less distinct, till his head dropped on the table, and he fell fast asleep. How long he had been asleep he could not tell, but when he awoke he found himself stretched on a pile of straw in a corner of the great hall, so it appeared to him, but no light was burning, and it was with difficulty he could distinguish objects by means of the streaks of moonlight which came through the chinks of the shutters. He had not been many minutes awake before he heard voices. They were certainly not those of the old people or of Burdale, and they appeared to come from below him. He listened attentively. He had no doubt that they were human voices he heard; in earnest conversation, too. Now high, now low; now the voice was that of a strong, hale man; now that of one shaking with age; now of a bold, eager youth; now several seemed to be speaking together. The tales he had heard that night recurred to his mind. Could it be possible that these were the spirits of the departed owners of the Hagg? Again he listened, to assure himself that he had not been misled by fancy. He sat up and rubbed his eyes—still the voices reached his ears. He was constitutionally brave.

“I will not be mocked by real ghosts or pretended spirits,” he said to himself, springing to his feet.

He felt for his weapons. His pistols were in his belt and his knife was by his side. He looked about him, and ascertained the position of the doors in the room.

“I can find my way to the top of the stairs which I saw led down into the vaults below,” he said to himself, “and I can easily grope my way down-stairs, and find out what these ghosts really are.”

To think was to act with him. The moonlight enabled him to find his way with greater ease even than he had expected, and on reaching the top of the stairs he was more sure than ever that people were talking below. Holding a pistol in one hand, he felt his way with the other, descending the stone steps, careful to make his footing sure before he advanced again. He thus, without breaking his neck, reached the bottom, when not only did he hear the voices more distinctly and catch many of the words which were spoken, but he saw a bright light shining through a chink of a door before him. He approached the door in the hope of being able to see through the chink, but this he found was impossible. As, however, he was pressing against the door, it flew open, and what was his amazement to see between two and three dozen people, either sitting or standing round a long table, with many others, strongly armed, scattered about the vault! The noise made by the door as it flew open was heard by the assembly, and several men sprang forward and seized him ere he could make his retreat.

“An eavesdropper!” exclaimed one.

“We are betrayed!” cried another.

“His mouth must be stopped,” muttered a third.

“It would be safer to kill him at once,” growled another.

“What has brought you here?” asked a fine, dignified looking man, in a handsome costume of somewhat antique fashion.

“I am a traveller, and put up here on my way to the fens,” answered Jack. “I do not wish to injure any one, but hearing voices, and having been told that the house was haunted, I came to see whence they could proceed, not believing that ghosts could make such a racket as disturbed my rest.”

“The lad is no spy, or he would not speak as frankly as he does,” observed the gentleman.

“I can answer for his honesty,” said another person, whom Jack had not hitherto noticed, rising from his seat and advancing towards him. “He is ready to serve in a right cause and be of use to his country.”

Jack on looking towards the speaker discovered that he was no other than Mr Harwood.

“Thank you, sir,” he said, “for your good opinion of me. I was, in truth, on my way to visit you, to give an account of the mode in which I have executed your commissions, and I’m sure that you will bear witness that I am not addicted to telling falsehoods.”

“A brave lad, and worth winning for a good cause!” exclaimed the gentleman who had first spoken. “Mr Harwood having answered for your fidelity, you will be put to no inconvenience about this matter, but as we have affairs of importance to discuss, and the night is drawing on apace, you must go back to your bed, and try to persuade yourself that what you have seen is merely a dream which you are not at liberty to mention to any one.”

“Though we have met here, Mr Deane, I shall be glad to see you at the Grange, to speak to you more at large than I can now,” said Mr Harwood, as he shook Jack by the hand.

Accompanied by two of the persons present, Jack returned once more to the room above, where, having advised him to go to sleep instead of listening to the voices of the ghosts, they left him. He wisely endeavoured to follow their advice.

Chapter Fifteen.

Jack again visits Harwood Grange.

The next morning when the old couple and Burdale made their appearance, they did not in any way allude to what had taken place during the night, as if they had been totally ignorant of it. Breakfast was got ready by the aged dame; and afterwards Jack stole about the building, and found his way without difficulty into the vault below. Not a trace of any of the occupants of the previous evening was to be seen, but how they had gone he could not discover. Certainly they had not come up by the steps by which he had descended, and passed through the hall.

As the afternoon approached, Jack became more impatient than ever to pay his proposed visit to Harwood Grange. Mr Harwood had spoken so kindly to him, that he could not help hoping he would not reject him as a son-in-law. At length the hour fixed by Burdale for starting arrived, and Jack eagerly threw himself into the saddle.

“Why, your horse partakes of your spirit,” observed his companion, as, clapping his spurs in the horse’s side, Jack galloped over the greensward at a rate which put his guide’s steed on his mettle.

He would willingly have gone by himself, but unacquainted with that part of the forest, he would scarcely alone have found his way in the dark. A couple of hours’ hard riding, sometimes across cultivated ground, and at others over what remained in a state of nature, brought him to the neighbourhood of the Grange. Leaving the horses with Burdale, who promised to remain concealed with them under a thick clump of trees, he went towards the house on foot. Jack found the Squire waiting for him in a sheltered walk at a short distance from the house, and having delivered the messages and letters he had received from the various persons he had visited, gave him a full account of his adventures.

“You have indeed managed admirably, my young friend,” said Mr Harwood. “You would make a first-rate diplomatist, and I shall have very great satisfaction in recommending you to a good appointment for which your talents peculiarly fit you. You will find Pearson thoroughly trustworthy, and as he advises you to stay for a short time with him in his farm in the fens, I would advise you to accept his invitation. You will meet persons there who will be able to forward your interests, and you will besides find ample amusement of various sorts during your stay. You will come in now, and take some refreshment,” he observed; “and my daughter Alethea will be happy to welcome you. We may possibly have some visitors at supper, who are engaged in a certain important undertaking, but do not mention to them, and especially to my daughter, having met me last night. I know that I can trust you, but I am unwilling to implicate others in the matter I have in hand.”

As Jack, in company with the Squire, was about to enter the house, he saw a horseman ride out of the courtyard, and kissing his hand to Alethea, who stood at a window overlooking the avenue, take the way towards Nottingham. A second glance at the horseman, though already at some distance, convinced Jack that he was his brother Jasper. He loved his brother. His first impulse was to shout out to him, and to call him back, that he might make inquiries about home, but then, recollecting the accusations brought against him, he dreaded Jasper’s rebukes in the presence of the Squire; and next, for the first time in his life, a feeling of jealousy stole over him. Had Jasper—the quiet, studious unassuming Jasper—been paying court to the fair heiress of Harwood Grange? And how had Alethea received him?

The Squire having stepped on in front to open a door, prevented him from asking any questions, and he presently found himself ushered into the hall. A shout from Mr Harwood brought Alethea into the open gallery at one end of it; and seeing Jack, she at once came down-stairs. She greeted him in a friendly way, and then, not without some embarrassment, told him that he had narrowly missed seeing his brother.

“Had I known of your coming, I would have begged him to stop and meet you,” she said, looking, however, down on the floor as she spoke. “You will, however, probably overtake him if you go on to Nottingham to-night, or you will see him with the rest of your family to-morrow.”

Jack replied that circumstances would prevent him returning home. He naturally felt disinclined to tell Alethea more of the truth than was necessary. They had little time for conversation before the servant announced that supper was ready, when two other persons were seen crossing the hall in the direction of the supper-room.

“Some friends I told you that you might possibly meet,” observed the Squire to Jack, as they took their seats at the table.

From the dress of the strangers, Jack at once came to the conclusion that they were ecclesiastics or ministers of some denomination. When he glanced at the countenance of the man opposite to him, he had little doubt that he at least was a priest of the Church of Rome. The person had a somewhat pale face and hollow cheeks, with bright intelligent eyes, and thin, undemonstrative lips. His was one of those countenances formed rather to conceal than express the thoughts of the mind. The first words uttered by the other man, who sat by his side, made Jack turn round to examine his features, for in the tones of his voice he recognised those of the Reverend Simon Stirthesoul. He looked at him again and again. The form of the features was the same, but their expression was now very different. Once Jack caught him eyeing him, as he was bending down over his plate, and he felt sure, by the cunning expression of the man’s face, that he was not mistaken. Still Master Simon gave no other sign of recognition. His dress, though different from that which he had before worn, did not stamp him positively as a priest of Rome, though its cut and colour were such as were generally worn by clericals in those days. Each time the man spoke Jack was more and more convinced that he was Master Simon Stirthesoul. At the same time, so earnest was his application to the viands placed before him, that he did not indulge himself much in entering into conversation. That was chiefly kept up by Alethea and Jack’s opposite neighbour, who devoted himself to her. His conversation indeed was agreeable, for he had visited many countries, and had shrewd remarks to make on all he had seen. Jack at length heard him describing Rome, and picturing the glories of the Eternal City.

“Ah, Miss Harwood,” he exclaimed, “there we have the blessing of pure religion, sanctioned by the authority of the ancient Fathers, by the great Apostle Peter, and by Councils, and by the infallible head of the Church—the Pope himself! What a blessing to have no dissent, no difference of opinion; all united in one brotherhood, under one loving father, and to be relieved of all care and responsibility, and to know that whatever the Church decides is a right thing for us to believe!”

From what the person said, Jack had now no longer any doubt that he was a priest of Rome; but the more he listened the less inclined he became to acknowledge the correctness of his assertion. Jack watched Alethea’s countenance, and he could not help hoping that neither did she altogether agree with him. They seemed, however, to have more effect upon Mr Harwood, for whom, in all probability, they were equally intended. His fathers had been Romanists, and he himself, though belonging to the Church of England, had never very perfectly imbibed Protestant truth. Master Stirthesoul made no remark, which surprised Jack, as the doctrines put forth by the priest were diametrically opposed to those which that worthy had himself been a short time ago enunciating to the public. There was a twinkle occasionally in his eye, but that might have arisen from the pleasure with which he was discussing the viands placed before him, and Jack could not discover whether he approved or not of the doctrines which were being laid down. Still it was curious to find two persons of apparently different opinions so closely associated with each other, as it was evident was the case.

Jack all the time was longing to have some private conversation with Alethea; but the other guests showed no inclination to take their departure; and he felt that he could not remain much longer, as his companion, Burdale, would naturally be becoming impatient. He himself could not agree with the priest’s remarks, plausible as they were. Though he had not seen much of Romanists, he had heard a good deal of what took place at Rome, and believed truly that the union spoken of was very far from being real. He had heard, too, of a Spanish army of Roman Catholics attacking Rome, and of its being given up to them to pillage, they having treated the dignitaries of the Church and the Pope himself with even less respect than did their Protestant brothers-in-arms. He had heard, too, that it was not proved that Peter had ever been at Rome, much less that he was a Bishop of that city; and he was not altogether ignorant of the existence of the Inquisition, and of the mode by which that institution endeavoured to support the Church of Rome and the dogmas it inculcated.

The more the priest praised Rome and its system, the more anxious Jack became to speak to Alethea on the subject, and to do away with any impression he might have made. He had a clear, straightforward way of looking at things, the characteristic of the best type of Englishmen. He had been led into scrapes, he had done things for which he was sorry, and he was even now suffering the consequences of doing what was wrong, but instead of attempting to get out of the difficulty by twisting and turning and prevarication and falsehood, he always endeavoured to escape by going straightforward, boldly telling the truth, and, if needs be, doubling his fist, or drawing his sword and fighting his way out. Thus the sophistries and arguments which he heard brought forward by the Romish priest, far from having any effect upon him, made him more than ever inclined to oppose the system which Rome endeavours to spread over the world. He still waited on in the hope that the two guests would take their departure, but they seemed in no way disposed to do so, and at length Mr Harwood remarked that the shades of evening were approaching, and that he would have some difficulty in finding his way through the forest, if he delayed much longer. This hint was too clear not to be taken, and, very reluctantly, he at length rose to pay his adieus to Alethea. She wished him good-bye, expressing a hope to see him on his return to Nottingham, in a friendly tone, but gave him no opportunity of saying any thing to her alone. He bowed to the two other guests, and Mr Harwood accompanied him to the door, pointing out to him the way he was to take to reach the spot where he had left his horse.

“Can she be aware of the character of those people,” thought Jack to himself, as he walked on through the wood, “or the plots which, it seems, are hatching? I wish Mr Harwood had nothing to do with them! I wonder how that he, a Protestant gentleman, can engage in such a matter. I hope that I shall hear nothing of them where I am going; and I heartily wish I had not helped the enemies of our good Protestant king by conveying those letters! Still, what has been done cannot be undone; and having been trusted by Mr Harwood, I cannot attempt to give information of what, I fear, is taking place, even though I might enable him to escape. I suspect those two men I met just now are engaged in it. I like neither of them, least of all that hypocritical-looking Master Stirthesoul, as he called himself. I wish Pearson had nothing to do with him. Indeed, Master Pearson evidently knows a good deal about the plot; and I should be thankful if I was free of him also. But what can I now do? I am in his power; and if I were to go back to Nottingham, I should be in difficulty about that poaching affair; while, if I offend him, he can at any moment inform against me for delivering those letters. Well, I must go through with it, and wait patiently for the result.”

Such thoughts occupied his mind till he reached the clump of trees within which he expected to find Burdale and the horses. The shades of evening were already approaching, and a thick mass of brushwood, which grew outside, prevented him from seeing into the interior of the wood. He had to walk round some distance indeed before he could find an entrance. More than once he gave a whistle, the sign agreed on, without receiving any answer. The idea occurred to him that Burdale had turned traitor, or, weary of waiting for him, had gone back with the horses. At length he shouted, “Master Burdale! Master Burdale! where are you?”

He was at last relieved by seeing the man leading the horses towards him.

“Why, Mr Deane, you shouted loud enough to wake up Robin Hood and his merry men from their graves!” said his guide, as he came up. “It’s to be hoped no strangers were passing whom we should not like to meet! You forgot the side of the wood where you left me. However, let us mount now and be off, for the night promises to be dark, and I should like to get into a part of the forest I know better than this while we have a little twilight to guide us.”

A ride through a forest in the dusk is a difficult matter, and dangerous withal, from the outstretched boughs overhead, and slippery roots, and holes beneath. Fully three hours were occupied in reaching the Hagg.

“Go in!” said Burdale to Jack, as they came in front of the old building. “I will take the horses round to the stables; and you will be welcome there.”

“I hope I may not see any more of the ghosts!” said Jack: “I had enough of them last night.”

“As to that, I don’t know,” answered Burdale; “but do you follow the old people’s example, and let them alone, and they will let you alone, depend upon that!”

Some loud groans were heard above Jack’s head as he spoke, and he could not help starting, so melancholy and deep sounding were they. The next instant, however, he recollected the old woman’s description of the haunted oak, and, looking round at the venerable tree, he had little doubt that the noise was produced by some branches moved by the wind, or else the passage of air through its hollow trunk.

Jack slept too soundly during the night to hear the conversation of the ghosts; but, on the following morning at his early breakfast, ere he and his guide took their departure, the old woman assured him that they had been talking as usual, making, if possible, even more uproar than she had ever before heard.

“But what was it all about?” asked Jack; “could not you hear that?”

“No, no,” she answered; “maybe they spoke in a tongue I cannot understand, for, though often and often I’ve listened, not one word could I ever make out!”

Chapter Sixteen.

Residence in the Fens of Lincolnshire.

The raw wind from the fens was driving the mist before it, and bending masses of willows, bulrushes, and tall sedges all one way—and that way right against the faces of Deane and his guide, when they commenced their devious course across the marshes, within which Master Pearson’s farm was situated. A dead level was before them, broken here and there only by a group of willows, or occasionally a few small trees which had taken root on patches of firmer ground than that with which they were surrounded, otherwise the horizon was as clear as that of the ocean. The whole country had a raw, cold, damp, and agueish look about it. It was any thing but tempting.

“Where is the farm?” asked Jack, as he pulled up for an instant to survey the unpromising country before him.

“Some miles on,” answered Burdale. “It’s lucky you have a man with you who knows the country, or you would have a bad job to get over it. If you were to ride straight on now, you would be up to your horse’s ears in slush, with very little chance of ever getting out again alive. Come, I’ll show you the way; follow me. Don’t turn either to the right hand or to the left, or you will get into trouble!”

Saying this, Burdale spurred on his somewhat unwilling horse, who seemed to understand the difficulties of the way before him. Here and there, and scattered thickly on every side, were large patches of water, sometimes expanding into the size of lakes, while others were mere pools and puddles. Now a patch of reeds was to be seen. In some places soft velvety grass, growing over, however, the most treacherous spots; now a group of low willows, scarcely six feet high; now a bed of osiers, barely three feet above the surface. There was scarcely a spot which offered any promise of ground sufficiently hard to enable the travellers to move out of the snail’s pace at which they had hitherto been obliged to proceed.

“Well, this is about the worst country I ever rode over!” Jack could not help exclaiming.

“Now, don’t be grumbling, Mr Deane; if it affords you shelter, you may be grateful for it: and the country’s not so bad after all. You should just see the pike which are caught in the rivers! they are larger than any you will see in the Trent, I have a notion. There are sheep too here: larger and bigger animals, though somewhat awkward in their gait, than you will see throughout England; but they yield very lusty wool, let me tell you. And though, perhaps, you don’t think much of the willows, of which you have passed a goodly number, they’re very useful to the people who live here. There is an old proverb they have got—‘A willow will buy a horse before an oak will buy a saddle.’”

Burdale, indeed, seemed to have a good deal of information to give about the fens; and Jack could not help thinking that he must belong to the country, or, at all events, have lived a considerable time in it. Indeed, no one but a person thoroughly acquainted with the nature of the ground could have managed to find his way across it. The water was soon over the horses’ fetlocks, and here and there up to their knees. More than once Jack could not help fearing that his guide had made a mistake, and that he was leading him into dangerous country; but he did not wish to show any suspicion of his judgment, and made no remark. Again the horses rose up out of the slough across which they had been wading and enjoyed for a short time some hard ground; but they soon had to leave it, to wade on as before. On every side was heard the loud croaking of frogs; their heads poked up in all the shallower marshes, with the object, it seemed, of observing the travellers, and then their croaking became louder than ever, as if they were amusing themselves by talking about them.

“We call those animals ‘Holland-waits,’” observed Burdale. “Their king must look upon himself as fortunate, for he has got a large number of subjects; but they’re not so bad as the midges. If you were to cross where we are on a hot day, with the sun broiling down on your head, you would wish you had a thick net over your face, for they do bite mortal hard!”

Burdale’s horse seemed better accustomed to the country than was Jack’s. After having gone a considerable distance, he left Jack some way behind. The marks of the horse’s feet had immediately been lost, by the spongy ground returning to its former state. Jack, however, thought there could be no difficulty in pushing on directly behind him. He had not, however, gone far before he found that, instead of following Burdale’s direction to turn neither to the right nor left, he had by some means got off the track. His horse began to flounder, and the more he floundered the more difficult it was to extricate himself. Deeper and deeper he sank into the mire, till Jack, fearing that he might lose him altogether, shouted out to Burdale. Burdale heard his voice at length, and hurried back to his assistance. Jack had already got off his horse into the mud, hoping in that way to relieve the poor animal, but it did but little good, and he himself was also sticking fast!

“Here, catch hold of the end of this rope!” exclaimed Burdale, as he threw one which was secured to his saddlebow. “I will haul you out; and then, maybe, we will get the horse free. You could not have followed my advice, or this would never have happened.”

Happily, Jack soon reached firm ground, and then he and Burdale together managed to get out the unfortunate horse.

“I must not in future let you get a foot behind me, Master Deane,” said Burdale. “You see that a man can as easily be lost in this fen-country as he could in a big forest, and now we must make the best of our way onward; the evening is advancing, and the night is growing desperately cold. It will require some good liquor to warm up our veins again.”

As soon as they got on dry ground, Burdale, with a whisp of dry hay and grass, wiped down the horse’s legs, and made him look in a more respectable condition than the mud of the marsh had left him in. Burdale, standing up in his stirrups, looked round in every direction to ascertain that no one was approaching.

“We’re getting near Master Pearson’s country,” he observed, “and, as there are some sharp eyes on the look-out for him, we must take care not to betray his abode.”

Hour after hour passed by, and still they seemed to have made but little progress across this inhospitable-looking country. Now again a few mounds were seen just rising above the ground, which, Burdale told his companion, were the huts of the inhabitants.

“Well, what sort of people can live here?” asked Jack.

“An odd sort, I must own; something between fish and geese. They must be waders, at all events. In some places they have boats in which they can get about: however, every place has its uses, and so has this, you will find out, before you have been here long!”

At length, as the sun was about to sink beneath the long straight line behind their backs, Jack saw before them what looked like a clump or two of trees which stood on a piece of ground a few feet above the dead level which surrounded it. Objects, too, seemed to be moving about it, which he at length discovered to be horses and cattle. A more perfect Rosamond’s labyrinth could scarcely have been contrived than that to which the path they now followed led. Before, however, they came in sight of the bower, they heard the lowing of cows and the barking of watch-dogs, and Jack, who by this time was very hungry, even thought that he sniffed a savoury odour of cooking in the damp air, that mightily urged him forward. At length, they saw before them a large rambling cottage, with dairy-buildings adjoining it, standing on a firm piece of pasture-land that formed a green peninsula rising above the black fens they had just been traversing. A row of poplars behind it, and a plantation on either side, shut it in from any one passing at a short distance. There was also a kitchen and flower-garden in front, and considerable care had evidently been taken to keep the ground around clean and fit for walking.

“You go in, and give your letter to Dame Pearson, while I take the horses to the stables,” said Burdale. “You will find it all right, for she will know well that no one could find his way here without a trustworthy guide.”

Jack had expected to find a somewhat rough, and perhaps ill-favoured, dame the wife of Master Pearson. Greatly surprised was he, therefore, when, on opening the door, he was received by a remarkably attractive, neatly-dressed woman, with a pleasant smile on her countenance, and agreeable manners, superior even to those of many ladies he had met.

“You are welcome here, Mr Deane, as a friend of my husband!” she said. “We live a secluded life, but shall be glad to see you as long as you can remain. And perhaps you will find some amusement in the sports of our fen-country. Ned Burdale will be able to show them to you as well as most people; but we are not likely to be alone, for my husband tells me that several persons are coming here, and I have been making the best preparation in my power to receive them. My little girl Elizabeth and I will soon get supper ready for you, and make you as welcome as we can. After your hard day’s ride you will then be glad to go to bed, for it is a trying country to a stranger. We came here most of the way by water, but it was bad enough even then; and I am told that coming across from inland it’s still worse.”

On entering the sitting-room, Jack found a fair, pretty-looking little girl, of about fourteen or fifteen years of age, busily employed in spinning, so busy indeed that she did not stop even when she rose from her seat to make him a courtesy as he entered.

“Ah, yes, Elizabeth is always at work,” said Dame Pearson; “it is one of the secrets of her happiness, never to be idle from morning till night. To be sure we have plenty to do, and not many people to do it out in this place, and so a good deal falls to our lot—but come, Elizabeth, we will go and prepare the supper for Mr Deane and Ned Burdale, who has come with him; and, perhaps before it is ready, others may make their appearance.”

Saying this, she, followed by the little girl, glided from the room, leaving Jack to his own reflections. He had not been left alone long before a knock was heard at the door, and Dame Pearson hurried through the room to open it. As she did so, a tall dark man, in a rough riding-suit, with pistols in his belt and a sword by his side, entered the house with the air of a person accustomed to consider himself at home wherever he might be. After exchanging a few words with the dame, while she returned to the kitchen he entered the room, and, seating himself in a large arm-chair, stretched out his legs, without taking any notice of Jack, who sat before him, while he commenced tapping his boot with the end of his sword, as if lost in thought. At length he condescended to take a glance at his companion.

“Not long arrived in this part of the world, lad, I suppose?” he said, in a tone which showed he was very indifferent as to what answer he might receive. “It is possible that you may pass your time pleasantly enough here, if you are not troubled with the ague, and are fond of the music of frogs and wild-ducks. From what part of the world do you come, I ask?”

“I last came from the borders of Scotland; a pretty long ride too!”

“Ah!” exclaimed the stranger; “what matter brought you south?”

“My own good pleasure,” answered Jack, not liking the tone of voice of the speaker. “You will excuse me if I do not explain the reason for my movements until we are further acquainted.”

“Spoken like a sensible youth!” remarked the stranger. “I will ask no further questions then, though I suspect you have no cause to be ashamed of whatever you are about.”

The conversation, if so it could be called, was cut short by the entrance of Dame Pearson and her young attendant, bearing the dishes for supper, which they placed on a table on which the cloth had already been spread. The tall stranger took his seat at it with the same self-confident air with which he had entered the room. At that moment Ned Burdale came in, and was about to take his seat at the board, when, seeing the stranger, he stopped short.

“I beg your pardon, sir! I did not know—”

“Never mind!” said the stranger; “sit down, Ned; say not a word about it, man!” and he gave him at the same time a significant glance.

Burdale obeyed; but he evidently stood greatly in awe of the person who had spoken to him. Very little conversation took place during the meal; and Jack had time to examine the countenance of the young girl who had assisted Dame Pearson in preparing the supper, and who now took her seat by her side at the head of the table. There was a bright, intelligent look about her, and a refinement of expression which Jack scarcely expected to find in a dwelling so remote from the civilised world. Her education also had evidently not been neglected, for she had apparently read a good deal, and her mind was well stored with information on various subjects. Jack did not find all this out at first; but he very soon began to suspect it. He discovered also that she had derived a good deal of her information from the dame herself, who, though apparently a mere farmer’s wife, was evidently a person of superior education, equalled, indeed, by very few ladies in Nottingham or elsewhere at that period. The stranger also treated her with considerable respect; and though he spoke in a rough way to Jack and Burdale, whenever he deigned to address them, his manner was greatly softened as he turned to the dame or the young girl. She was acquainted with most of Jack’s favourite authors; could recite many of the ballads about Robin Hood; and she was also especially well versed in Foxe’s “Book of Martyrs,” a copy of which she exhibited with no little satisfaction to him. He observed, when she brought it out, that the tall stranger looked at it askance.

“Ah,” she observed, “what fearful accounts Master Foxe gives us of the persecutions which Protestants have suffered in all lands since the Reformation which Luther was the means of bringing about! In Germany, in Italy, in Spain, and France, and, oh, I tremble with horror when I read of the sufferings of the poor Protestants in the Netherlands, under that cruel Alva! In France also, how barbarously have the Reformed been treated! I have reason to know something about it; and I’ll tell you some day, Mr Deane.”

This was said after supper, as Jack was seated at a little distance from the rest of the party, while the fair Elizabeth was nimbly plying her distaff.

“Fictions or gross exaggerations!” muttered the stranger, who overheard some of the remarks uttered by the little damsel.

At length the dame, who had observed the rising anger of her guest, came over to Elizabeth, and whispered a few words in her ear; after which she did not again allude to the subject of which she had been speaking.

“When do you expect your good man?” asked the tall stranger. “I fancied that I should have met him here to-day.”

“He has sent me word that he will be with us in two or three days, sir,” answered the dame. “He has been longer absent than usual; but he has been busy buying cattle to send over to our farm; and we expect to have a considerable increase this year.”

“Ah, yes! they thrive well on the rich grasses about here,” observed the stranger. “Well, I must wait his arrival; though how to pass away the time till he comes I scarcely know.”

“We can give you some sporting, sir,” said Burdale. “We lack not a variety—as wild-duck shooting, and fishing; and we have a new decoy establishment not far off. You may be interested in seeing that work, for we sometimes catch a great number of wild-fowl in it.”

Jack was not sorry to hear arrangements made for the sport next day, hoping that he might be allowed to join in it, though he thought to himself he would rather have gone in the company of any body else than in that of the tall stranger. That he was a person of some consequence he felt sure, from the way in which he was treated; and when the family prepared to retire to rest, he observed that the dame herself showed him up-stairs to what was called the best guest-chamber in the house. A shake-down was prepared for Jack in a corner of the hall; and Burdale made off to a room in one of the out-houses.

“We treat you now as we shall have to do while you stay here,” said the dame, apologising for the homely entertainment she had given Jack. “Before long we are expecting several guests, who come here to transact business with my good man, either to buy cattle or horses, or about certain affairs abroad. He was a seaman in his younger days, and visited many strange countries, and even now is often hankering after the ocean. However, I hope he will settle down quietly soon, for I think he must be weary of riding about the country in the way he does; but he’s a good, kind husband to me, and I have reason to be grateful. He saved my life in the time of the Civil War, and protected me from fearful dangers when all my family were killed, and I was left penniless; so I have reason, you see, to be grateful to him and love him. I should be glad if we could move back to the part of the country we came from, for this fen-district is trying to the health, though Elizabeth and I keep ours indeed wonderfully, considering the fogs which so often hang about us. But the inhabitants of Holland retain their health often to a green old age, and the country is very similar to this, only there drains have been cut in all directions, and it is only of late years that attempts have been made to drain our Lincolnshire fens. It would seem impossible to carry the water off from around us, and yet, looking to what has been done in Holland, perhaps too some day we shall see corn-fields and orchards where now we have only marshes and ponds.”

Jack, taking courage from the disposition to talk the good dame exhibited, asked her the name of the tall stranger who had just arrived.

“That is more than I can tell you, young sir,” she answered. “He calls himself Long Sam, or Sam Smart, and desires to be addressed by that name alone; but whether that is his real name or not, I leave you to judge. He is evidently a man who has seen the world, and courtly society too, though he can be rough enough when he pleases, as you will find if you offend him, and let me advise you not to do so on any account.”

Jack, much interested with the information he had received, at length put his head upon his straw-stuffed pillow. As he lay there he heard heavy footsteps pacing up and down the room overhead, which he concluded to be the one occupied by the gentleman who chose to call himself Long Sam.

Chapter Seventeen.

A Decoy described.

The following morning, with Burdale as a guide, Long Sam and Jack set off to visit the decoy which had been spoken of, mounted on rough-looking fen horses, with broad feet which enabled them to get over the soft ground at a considerable rate, while, they kept the legs of their riders out of the water. The horses were left at a hut at a little distance from the decoy, under charge of one of the persons employed in attending it. It was situated in the midst of somewhat higher and firmer ground than any they had before passed over, and was surrounded also with willow, poplar, and other trees.

The decoy consisted of a pond of a hundred and fifty acres, or more perhaps. On the surface of it floated a number of water-lilies, the aquatic ranunculus, and the flowers of other water-plants, while at the edges for a considerable distance gulfs—or canals, they might be called—had been cut, about seven yards wide at the mouth, more or less, terminating in a sharp point. About ten or twelve yards from the entrance of each canal, an arch was formed over the water of about ten feet in height, a number of other arches succeeding it gradually, as they advanced towards the inner end decreasing in height and width, the innermost of all not being more than two feet in height, and about the same in width. Over these a strong net was thrown and pegged closely down to the ground, thus forming a complete cage, with a broad entrance opening on the pool, there being only at the inner end a small door, through which the fowler could insert his hand to draw out his captives.

“This is what we call a pipe,” observed Burdale, as he exhibited the arrangement to Long Sam.

On either side of the pipe, commencing at the pond, and continuing to the farther end, was a screen formed of reeds, about five feet in height, built in a zig-zag form, and broken into lengths of about five or six feet, and at about a foot from the edge of the pipe. While the party were examining this pipe, the chief fowler, accompanied by a little dog, came up to them.

“This is our piper,” he observed; “without him we could not manage to catch any fowls.”

He was a little foxy-coloured animal, evidently very obedient and submissive to his master.

“You will see, sir,” observed the man, “we have got ten pipes to our decoy, all branching off in different directions. The reason of this is that wild-fowl, when they get up from the water, always fly against the wind, and so, if we only had the pipes on one side, it would only be when the wind came from that quarter that we could catch any fowl; so you see we have them from all sides; and thus from whatever point the wind blows, we have the chance of catching birds. Now, you see those birds swimming out in the middle of the pond there? They’re our decoy-ducks; without them we could not catch any wild ones either. I had a good job to train them. You see, the first thing I did was to shut them up by themselves, and pretty nigh starve them. I then carried them a little food; and did the same several times every day, till they knew me. At last they began to look out for me, and, instead of flying away, they were too glad to come up and take the food from my hand. Whenever also I fed them, I whistled just a faint whistle, like this. And so, at last, as soon as they heard my whistle, they knew that I was going to give them some food, and I kept on whistling all the time they were feeding in the same gentle tone. It took me, I suppose, three or four months before I could trust those birds out; and now, if I did not continue to feed them, and whistle all the time, they would soon be off with the rest. I had to train the dog, too; and that took me some time. You see, his business is to run along the edge of the pipe, show himself now and then, and then leap through those openings in the screen. Well, to make him do that, I taught him by giving him a piece of bread each time he came through; and if he would not jump, then he got no bread and no cheese, for he is fond of cheese, I can tell you.

“Now, you will understand, that if we are to catch any birds, you must not show yourself; and you, tall gentleman, if you please, will just keep stooping down all the time. No disrespect to you, master; if they caught sight of your face, not a bird would come up the pipe.

“Now there’s another thing we shall have to do: we must just each of us carry a piece of lighted turf, for the birds can smell as well as see; and they don’t mind the smoke, and that carries away any scent by which we might betray ourselves. Now, we will go round to the side from which the wind blows directly over the pond. Stoop down, master, if you please. I will first go and fasten the net over the end of the pipe, that the birds may fly into it, as I hope there will be many of them doing before long. Here we are, masters: just step softly over the turf, and keep bending down. That will do. Now don’t speak any more, but just do as I do. You will see a sight of birds in a few minutes.”

After going some little distance towards the edge of the decoy, the fowler drew aside a small shutter, it might be called, in the screen, through which he beckoned Jack and his companions to look. A number of birds, ducks, teal, widgeon, and others, were either floating lazily on the surface of the lake, or rising and circling round it, while others were bobbing their heads beneath the water, or diving in search of their prey which swam below. Again the shutter was closed, and the fowler threw a few handfuls of bruised barley into the centre of the pipe, which was soon blown down by the wind to the mouth. He now called the little piper, and sent him in, in front of the screen, at the same time whistling low—the well-known signal to the decoy-ducks. On hearing the sound, they instantly rose and flew towards the mouth of the pipe. Now the little dog ran along for a few feet in front of the screen, where the birds could see him, and then suddenly disappeared, by leaping through one of the openings. On came the wild-fowl, following the decoy-ducks and fearless of evil. Seeing the dog, the curiosity of the birds was excited, and up the pipe they began to swim. Again the dog was turned in, and again the birds followed him in his treacherous course up the pipe. The same trick was played over and over again, till the birds had been led well out of sight of the entrance of the pipe. The fowler then stepping forward in front of the screen, without making any noise which might frighten the birds still outside, waved his cap round and round. Frightened by this unexpected apparition, the birds rose from the water, and rushed at headlong speed towards the narrow end of the pipe. On they went, driven by the fowler, till they reached the very end; where, finding what they supposed to be an opening, they darted through, to discover, when too late, that they were hopeless captives within a strong net!

The scene was very exciting, especially to Jack, who had never seen it before, and full forty birds were captured together. The decoy-birds, as soon as the fowler ceased whistling, employed themselves quietly in picking up the grains of barley which floated on the water, instead of proceeding, like their brothers whom they had treacherously betrayed, up towards the end of the pipe.

“You see you have no risk of starving, Master Deane,” observed Burdale, as he assisted in ringing the necks of the captive birds. “We live like princes here, as far as food is concerned; and when the weather allows it, and we can send across the fens, we could always get a good market for our game.”

“We’re not always so lucky as we have just been,” observed the fowler; “we have a good many enemies who try to prevent our success. Sometimes I have seen a heron sit on the top of the outermost arch, just waiting to dive down and catch some fish he may see swimming below. Now as long as that heron sits there, not a bird will ever come up that pipe, not knowing what trick he will play them, and our only chance is to try another. There are some ducks, too, which nothing will tempt to come up the pipe. They are the pochard, or, as we call them here, pokers. Now they’re the cunningest birds you ever saw! If ever they find themselves within the mouth, they will suddenly dive and swim out again, generally making the other birds follow them. At other times they will stop just at the mouth, where the barley is floating about, and swim backwards and forwards till they have eaten the whole of it up, and then off again they will go, laughing at the way they have deceived us. The worst of all, perhaps, is when an otter builds his house near the mouth. At first we could not find out what was the matter when no birds would ever come near, and it was not till I caught the gentleman one day, that I found out the reason why. No birds are more timid than these wild-fowl. All the work about the decoy we have to do at night, for if they hear any sounds they’re not accustomed to, they will keep away from it. As few people ever come out here we are safe enough; but if strangers were to come, or any body was to fire a gun, we might not catch a bird for weeks afterwards. However, masters, the wind has shifted a little, and we will try another pipe; so come along.”

The next pipe was worked in the same way as the first. The decoy-ducks performed their part to admiration; Toby, the little piper, doing his in a way to gain the applause of all who saw him. His reward was a piece of cheese at the end of his day’s work, for although a number of ducks were piled up around him, not one of them would he touch.

“Oh, no, no!” said his master; “it’s one of the chief things he has to be careful about. If he had a taste for duck’s meat, he would never do for a piper.”

With a large supply of ducks for the farm, the party returned by the way they had come, Jack promising to pay ere long another visit to the decoy.

Had it not been for Elizabeth, Jack would have found his time hang rather heavily on his hands, but as soon as her day’s work was over, and she had resumed her distaff or spinning-wheel, he took his seat by her side, and either read to her, or talked to her about the books which she had read. Her quiet, gentle manner put him more in mind of his sister Kate, than of Polly or Alethea, with whom he could not help occasionally contrasting her. Not that he fancied he admired Alethea less than he had done; but, at the same time, he could scarcely help acknowledging to himself that he was greatly taken with Elizabeth’s quiet and gentle manners. It is possible that the desire to be with Elizabeth induced him to offer his services to Dame Pearson as an assistant about the farm, as he assured her he was well able to perform most of the duties of a farm-servant; and he thus had ample employment in driving in the cows, assisting in milking them, leading the horses to water, churning the butter, of which the dame manufactured a considerable quantity, and performing many other similar duties. He was very glad, however, when on the third day after his arrival Master Pearson himself appeared at the farm. Jack was anxious to hear whether the arrangements regarding the purchase of cattle for Mr Strelley had been satisfactorily carried out.

“Oh, yes, my young friend,” answered Master Pearson, “the money was honestly paid, and the cattle are now on their way south, and I will warrant they arrive as safely as if Will Brinsmead himself had been driving them. They will have no black-mail to pay, either to Master Nevis or to any other cateran who is in the habit of levying it on the road. I met a friend from Nottingham, and I’ve heard about your family; and I sent them word that you were all safe, and would come back among them some day,—so you need not make yourself unhappy on that score.”

This information greatly relieved Jack’s mind, and he was now far better able than before to enjoy his visit to the farm. Soon after the return of Master Pearson, much to Jack’s satisfaction, Long Sam took his departure. There was something about the man he did not at all like, for in general he was overbearing and dictatorial, though he could be courteous when he chose, as he occasionally was when speaking to Dame Pearson or Elizabeth. With that young lady, as has been said, Jack spent a considerable portion of his time, whenever he was in the house; Dame Pearson made no objection to his so doing. Indeed, so quiet and sedate was the little girl, that she seemed to treat him more in the light of a brother than an admirer. From the remarks made by Dame Pearson, Jack had been anxious to learn more of her early history, but whenever he introduced the subject to Elizabeth, she invariably tried to turn him from it.

“Dear mamma and I are very happy now, and quiet and contented: but we have gone through some very painful scenes, and we desire not to recall them; so don’t, I pray you, speak to me again of my early days.”

Pearson seemed to be occupying himself very busily about farm matters, and wherever he went took Jack with him. On the various pasture-lands, some partially drained, others tolerably dry by nature, a considerable number of cattle were fed. They were of all breeds, though the greater number appeared to have come from the north. There were a good many horses also—some carefully sheltered in sheds, and others roaming at large. Pearson exhibited them to Jack with considerable pride.

“I have a number of valuable animals here,” he observed, “which will fetch high prices in the London market, and I purpose early in the spring sending some up. If you will undertake to accompany them, it will give you an opportunity of seeing the big city. I may or may not go myself, but I wish to place them under charge of a trusty man who knows London well, so that you need have no responsibility in the matter. In the meantime, you shall try them by turns, so that you will be able to speak of their various qualities.”

This last proposal was very much to Jack’s taste, and from that day forward, he was constantly employed in exercising the horses. In this way he gained considerable knowledge of the fen-country, and was able to traverse it in most directions by himself, learning by degrees to distinguish even at a distance the soft and marshy places which were impassable, and to pick out the harder ground, even though covered with water. Frequently he was thus occupied from morning till night, often being sent considerable distances from the farm with messages to the surrounding towns. Though the life was a rough one, it was much to his taste; and he was recompensed for any extra fatigue by the kindly welcome he always received on his return from the dame and her young daughter. As the winter grew on, also, various guests arrived at the farm for the purpose, so they stated, of purchasing cattle or horses; but though some of them mentioned the subject in his presence, none of the cattle, at all events, were ever driven away. Jack concluded, therefore, that they would be sent in the spring to the purchasers. Now and then a valuable horse was, however, purchased; and sometimes fresh animals were brought and left there while the owners took their departure by some means towards the sea-shore, Jack supposed for the purpose of embarking and going abroad; while others proceeded towards London. Jack could not, however, help occasionally having suspicions with regard to the proceedings of the various persons who came to the farm. He himself was not trusted with their secrets, if secrets they had; nor did he wish to be so; but most of them were evidently far above the class of cattle-dealers. Some, indeed, from their conversation and manners, were undoubtedly men of rank and position in society. As the winter drew on, the number increased; and from the remarks which they occasionally let drop, Jack felt convinced that some undertaking of importance was about to be carried out. He one day hinted the subject to Elizabeth. She shook her head.

“Don’t speak of it,” she answered; “I don’t like to think about the matter. I know, as you do, that these men who come here are not cattle-dealers, but I cannot believe that my father would undertake any thing wrong or dangerous. I should like to learn what it all means, but I dare not speak to him on the subject, for though he is very kind, he does not choose to be questioned about any of his proceedings, and neither my mother nor I ever venture to do so.”

It did not occur to Jack that he might be made a tool of in any way, but yet he suspected that he might possibly be drawn into some undertaking against his better judgment. It therefore occurred to him that his wisest course would be to wish good-bye to Master Pearson and his family, and either to return to Nottingham and risk the possibility of a trial, or to throw himself upon the kindness of his future brother-in-law, Giles Dainsforth of Norwich. “He is so calm and right-thinking, that he will advise me what to do,” he thought to himself.

But then, again, when he found himself by the side of Elizabeth, he came to the conclusion that a short time longer would make but little difference, and for that time, at all events, he would enjoy her society, while he might also take a few more gallops on Master Pearson’s thoroughbred horses. He had not forgotten Alethea, however, and he nattered himself that he was as true in his allegiance to her as he had been before.

Chapter Eighteen.

Journey to London with Long Sam.

The month of February, 1696, had commenced, when one evening a rider was seen coming across the marsh from the direction of the sea. He threw himself from his horse, and called out loudly for Master Pearson. Jack recognised his voice as that of the tall stranger, Long Sam, whom he had met on his first arrival. He took Pearson, who went out to him, by the arm, and walked up and down in front of the house rapidly for some time, talking earnestly to him. Meantime, the dame and Elizabeth were preparing the evening meal. The new arrival, whose appearance was very different to what it had been formerly, now entered the house, and placed himself before the table, to partake of the food provided for him. While he was thus engaged, Pearson called Jack aside.

“Our friend here has business in London of importance, and requires a trustworthy attendant. Are you disposed to accompany him?” he asked. “You will find it, as I have before promised you, a good opportunity of seeing the great city, and all your expenses will besides be paid, while you will receive a handsome gratuity to boot. Take my advice: don’t throw the chance away. As I told you before, you will be as safe there as you are in the middle of the fens, and you will, besides, very likely find an opportunity of pushing your fortune, which you certainly will not out here.”

Jack thanked Pearson for the offer. The temptation was strong, and whatever might have been his suspicions of the tall stranger, he determined to accept it.

“You will set off to-morrow morning by daybreak, with eight horses. Each of you will take charge of three and bestride another, and you will be able to dispose of them in London or its neighbourhood for handsome prices. They will make fine chargers, and will very likely be purchased by officers of cavalry. Long Sam knows London well, and will make all the necessary arrangements for their sale.”

Elizabeth’s colour changed when Jack told her that he was about to take his departure for London.

“Going away!” she exclaimed; “I thought that you would remain here always and help my mother look after the farm when Mr Pearson is away. She much requires help. Oh, I wish that you were not going!”

“I hope to come back again soon, Elizabeth,” he answered, taking the young girl’s hand. “You have made my stay here very pleasant, far pleasanter than I expected, and I shall always remember you.”

“And I, I am very sure, shall not forget you, Master Deane,” replied Elizabeth, looking up in his face. “I have never felt sad or dull as I used sometimes to do before you came—and I have been very happy! My only fear is that you will not recollect me as I shall you; and I want to give you something to make you remember me. I have very few jewels or any thing of value of my own, besides this ring. Please, then, take it and wear it for my sake.”

She took his hand, and put on his finger as she spoke a massive gold ring of a peculiar make, with a chameleon and a vessel under full sail engraved on it.

“It is all I have to give, but I entreat you to accept it, that you may be reminded how grateful I am for the kindness you have shown me since you came to live here!”

Jack did not like to refuse the gift, and yet he thought that he ought not to accept it.

“I should ever remember you without it,” he answered. “But it is too valuable. Give me something of less cost, which I shall prize as much for your sake as this, for I shall value whatever you give me.”

“Oh, no, keep it!” she murmured. “It is the only thing I possess suited for you. I have a locket and brooch and other jewels, but they are not such as you would care for.”

Jack could no longer resist the gift. He kissed her brow and thanked her again and again, and promised never to forget her. He felt honestly what he said.

Jack slept very little all that night, thinking of what he was to see in London, and the adventures he might meet with on his journey there. Whatever suspicions might have arisen in his mind he shut out, anxious to have nothing to interfere with the pleasure he anticipated. The light of Pearson’s lamp, as it gleamed in his eyes when he came to call him in the morning, aroused him from his sleep, and he found the horses already at the door prepared for starting. The dame and Elizabeth were on foot with breakfast prepared, and they gave him a friendly farewell, as, following Long Sam’s example, he stepped out to mount his horse. A thick rime covered the ground, and a cold air blew across the fens, as the two riders with their charges took their way south. Jack, who by this time was well accustomed to the devious track across the fens, led the way at as rapid a pace as the horses could move, closely followed by Long Sam, who was now dressed as an ordinary jockey or rough-rider. They stopped to bait at various places: sometimes at the private residence of some gentleman who Long Sam said wished to look at their horses; at other times at a farm-house, and occasionally at inns, but these were generally avoided. While traversing an open country, Long Sam called Jack by his side.

“You will understand, Deane,” he observed, “that you have a very simple part to play when you reach London; but I must have your promise that you will do nothing without my orders, and that you will make all the inquiries I may direct, and gain all the information you can on certain points which I will explain to you. You will thus be enabled to render great service to an important cause, and run no risk or danger yourself.”

“As to that,” answered Jack, “I am ready enough to run all sorts of risks where there is a good object to be attained; and I would rather be trusted than asked to act in the dark, as I am now doing!” Long Sam smiled grimly.

“Others may not be so willing to trust you as you suppose,” he answered. “Indeed, it is better for all parties that you should not be acquainted with what is taking place. I wish you, however, to understand, that the men with whom I am engaged are persons of honour and character, and are not likely to do any act unworthy of their position.”

“Then there is some plot or scheme afoot?” said Jack. “I have long thought so, but could gain no information about the matter.”

“You are right in that respect,” answered Long Sam: “there is an important scheme about to be carried out; and as soon as you have given proof of your fitness to engage in it, you shall be informed as to the particulars. In the meantime, all I require is simple obedience to my directions, and then all will be well.”

After riding for some distance across somewhat hilly country, on reaching the summit of a height, he pulled up his horse, exclaiming, “Why, surely that must be London!”

Before him, spread out, and extending some way both to the east and west, were numberless streets of houses, with towers and spires rising above them in all directions, Before them, glittering white in the sunlight, rose the pinnacles of the magnificent fane of Saint Paul’s, with its lofty dome—just then verging towards completion, to the satisfaction of its talented architect, Sir Christopher Wren—while beyond could be seen, winding on through meadows and green fields, and then amidst the houses and stores of London and Westminster, the city and the borough, the blue stream of the Thames, covered with numerous boats and barges. Keeping to the right, Long Sam led his companion round the outside of London, at the back of the palace at Kensington, to the village of Hammersmith.

“We shall there find proper stables, and a careful groom to look after our horses,” he observed; “and purchasers will not object to ride down there to inspect them—they may deem them of more value than if they were brought to their doors.”

The village then consisted chiefly of a single street, with here and there a few houses on either side of branch roads. Instead of selecting the chief inn, Long Sam rode up to the door of a small house, with the sign of “The Bear” swinging on poles before it. Some good-sized stables showed that he had selected it more on account of the accommodation it could afford the horses than that which they would find within its doors for themselves.

“We’re pretty full, masters,” said the landlord, as he eyed the two travellers; “but I’ll manage to put you up as best I can, as it’s cold weather to sleep out in the lofts. I’ve got a room for you,” he said, looking at Long Sam, “where, by adding two or three feet to the bed, you will find room to stretch yourself; and you, my lad, will be content with a little closet we have got on the stairs. There’s not much air or light comes in, but it’s pretty warm, considering it’s near the kitchen chimney; and as for light, you will do well enough without that at night.”

Jack, who had been accustomed to rough lodgings since he started with Will Brinsmead, expressed himself perfectly satisfied with the accommodation which was promised him. Long Sam, taking a valise which he had before him, followed the landlord up to his room.

Jack soon found that his companion intended to make him act the part of the careful groom, the person he spoke of, for some reason or other, not being forthcoming.

“You must keep a watchful eye on the horses, Jack,” he observed, when he came down-stairs. “I have business which calls me elsewhere, and I must entrust them to you. Take care that they are well fed, and that their shoes are in good order. See that no tricks are played with them; for in this city rogues of all sorts abound. Some, for instance, on pretence of looking at them, may come in and lame them, perchance to depreciate their value; you understand me? You must watch, too, that no one, pretending to try their paces, gallops off, and leaves you to follow if you list, and to find, when you come back, that the rest have been disposed of in the same way.”

“When I engaged for a ride, Master Smart, my object was to see the big city,” said Jack, in a tone of expostulation.

“Have patience, lad!” answered Long Sam; “you will see the city soon enough, and perhaps have more time to spend in it than you expect I have the means of rewarding you in a way that will suit your taste. So let me hear no more grumbling, I pray thee!”

Saying this, Long Sam, turning on his heel, walked away from the stables, leaving Jack to groom the tired horses. Jack was fortunately accustomed to make the best of every thing, and, therefore, though somewhat hungry and tired, he set to work with whisp and brush to get the dust and dirt of the roads off the animals, and to put them into a condition to enjoy their food.

Several days passed by, during which Jack found himself almost a prisoner in the stable-yard. Occasionally Long Sam appeared, accompanied by various persons who took a look at the horses; but, strange to say, although they were lavish in their praises of the animals, no purchasers were found. At all events, the horses remained in their stalls. Among two or three who one day came together, Jack observed a person whose countenance he thought he recognised. The man turned a cold, unmeaning glance towards him as he caught Jack’s eye fixed on his countenance.

“I am sure that is Master Stirthesoul!” Jack said to himself. “He is the same man I met at Mr Harwood’s, and the same who was in Master Pearson’s company at Saint Faith’s. What can he have to do here?”

Jack resolved to solve the doubt by addressing him. Just as he was about to open his lips, the man, giving him a somewhat menacing look, turned round and followed Long Sam out of the stable. Jack saw him whispering a few words into Long Sam’s ears.

“Oh, he’s all right and faithful!” he heard the latter say. “He knows nothing, and if he did, he’s not the lad to betray us!”

Jack could not tell whether these words were intended for his ears or not. However, the visitors walked away without taking any further notice of him.

In spite of Smart’s promises, Jack began to feel very weary of confinement in the precincts of the inn, and determine on insisting that Long Sam should take his place.

“He pretends to be a groom, and therefore I do not see that he should not act as one,” said Jack to himself.

Just, however, as he was about to insist on this arrangement with his companion, Long Sam told him that he might go into the city and take a look round London, and see what he could of the sights.

“Only take care to find your way back again here before the evening,” he observed. “Keep in the broader streets, and don’t tell any strangers where you come from, or what has brought you to the city.”

It was Sunday morning; and Jack, putting on his best garments which he had brought with him, started on his walk. He took his way along a very bad road leading to the Strand, with the fields and cabbage-gardens to the right, and Hyde Park to the left, which then extended nearly to the Palace of Kensington. Fortunately the weather was dry for the season of the year, or he would have been splashed over from head to foot. Besides Saint Paul’s, a number of beautiful churches were already raising their heads by the genius of Wren in various parts of London. Seeing a number of people collecting before a church, and having never failed at home in attending Divine Service, he took courage, and followed the crowd within the building. Although he had been accustomed occasionally to see people take their eyes off their books to watch the entrance of a stranger, or to examine the dress of their neighbours, or perhaps to exchange glances with one another, he was little prepared for the style of behaviour in which the congregation of the church where he now found himself indulged. Here were collected many of the beauties, and a few of the fine gentlemen of the day. It may have been that they lost little by not attending to the preacher. So Jack thought from what he could catch of the discourse, little of which he could understand, so full of flowers of rhetoric was it. Most of his neighbours were, at all events, flirting and ogling all through the service, and as they entered and took their seats all courtesied and bowed to their acquaintance, as if they had been at a theatre. Jack could not help feeling thankful when the service was brought to a conclusion.

“If this is the way the great people worship God in this big city, I am afraid the citizens and poorer ones can pay very little attention to Him at all,” he thought.

Jack found himself looked at askance by several persons of ordinary degree, among whom he stood at the farther end of the building. At length he made his way into the open air. He much admired, however, the coaches and sedan-chairs that came to fetch away all the grand people, with little negro boys from the Sugar Islands to hold up the trains of the ladies, and pages who sat on the steps of the gaily-painted coaches, drawn, some by four, and some by six horses.

In a walk along the Mall, where, of course, no one paid the least attention to the open-mouthed country lad, Jack saw a still greater number of fashionable people. Among them was a very stout lady, carried in a sedan-chair with painted panels, and he heard the passers-by remark that she was the Princess Ann. Her chair was followed by another sedan, which, he was told, contained the Lady Churchill, whose beautiful face looked, however, in any thing but a good-humour. He saw many other sights, some of them curious enough but altogether he was disappointed with this his first day in London.

“They say that the streets are paved with gold; but that is a mistake. They could only once have been gilt, and the fine gentlemen I have met must have rolled in them, and the gilding must have stuck to their clothes.”

Jack had been looking out all the day in the hopes of seeing the king, of whose courage, wisdom, and remarkable clemency, he had often heard his father and cousin Nat speak. They looked upon him, indeed, as the bulwark of the Protestant faith in England, and notwithstanding all the efforts which Mr Harwood and his daughter, and Master Pearson and others had made to eradicate that notion from Jack’s mind, it remained in reality as firm as ever. The very reason which the king’s enemies brought forward to depreciate him, raised him more and more in his opinion. His desire was at length gratified, when, on the 8th of February, Long Sam told him, that if he would go and stand near the gates of the Palace of Kensington he would there very likely get a glimpse of the king.

“And hark you, my lad,” he said, “you must observe carefully all that happens at the time, and bring me word. Take your stand, also, with your right foot before the left, and your hand in the breast of your coat. A person will then probably come and speak to you, and you will repeat to me all he says. If he does not speak, he will give you a note, which you are to bring immediately to me.”

Jack, as directed, took up his post at the gates of the palace at Kensington. He had not long to wait, when the gates were thrown open, and some guards appeared, and then a coach with six horses, within which sat a gentleman with a long nose and prominent features, dressed in a rich riding-suit. On either side were more horsemen, who Jack heard were the King’s Dutch guards. They were followed by several Dutch officers of the court, among whom was the faithful Duke of Portland, and others of high rank. Jack had a good view of that clear hawk’s eye, and the large Roman nose and the serious countenance, which expressed little but acute penetration into the mind and motives of others, with all of which the coinage of the realm had made his subjects familiar. The sight of the great warrior and wisest statesman of the day, who knew himself to be surrounded by plots, and yet went his way with perfect coolness, had great effect upon Jack’s somewhat excitable mind. He threw up his cap, and shouted, “Hurrah! long live the King!” in as good faith as any of the many bystanders; and his first impulse was to run off, following the coach, shouting, as youths and boys are used to do after any great personage. The king leaned forward over a paper which he held in his hand, so that nearly the whole of his figure was visible at the window of the coach, which took its way towards Richmond.

Suddenly Jack remembered the direction he had received from Long Sam. Going back to the place he had before occupied, he put himself in the position in which he had been standing. Looking round, he saw a person who had come out of the palace observing him narrowly. The person, who was dressed in the livery of the palace, at length passed close to him.

“Are you Long Sam’s messenger?” he asked.

“At your service,” answered Jack.

“Where does he lodge?” asked the stranger.

“At the Bear,” was Jack’s answer.

“Take this note, and deliver it quickly,” said the stranger; “but do not move from where you now stand till I have re-entered the palace.”

Saying this, the stranger slipped a sealed packet into Jack’s hand. He immediately concealed it in his doublet, but as he did so a shade of doubt crossed his mind that all was not right. He waited, however, a few minutes till the person who had given him the packet had re-entered the gate, and then took his way back to the Bear. He could not, however, help occasionally looking round to observe whether his steps were followed. He felt that he was engaged in some secret transaction; and from some of the remarks which Long Sam had let drop, as well as the appearance of the concealed Jesuit in his society, he could not help fearing that the plot afoot was against the welfare of the king. He reached the inn, however, in safety, and described exactly to Long Sam all he had seen.

“But you must tell me honestly,” he said, “whether this matter has any thing to do with any proceeding which may injure the king. As I watched him just now, I thought of the many brave actions which he has performed, and his calmness and courage at the present time, and could not help feeling that I would rather fight for him than against him.”

“You are a foolish young man!” answered Long Sam, in a more angry tone than he had ever used towards Jack. “Follow my directions, and all will be right. I do not want to hurt your feelings,” he added, seeing that Jack’s colour came to his cheek. “And now I must leave you.”

“As to that,” answered Jack, “I have no wish to quarrel with you, or any other man; but it strikes me I have been made a ‘cat’s-paw’ of, and I tell you frankly I should like to know our object in coming to London.”

“Then as frankly I will tell you—I cannot give it,” answered Long Sam. “If you don’t know your own interests, it’s your own fault; but remain here a few days longer, and I have no doubt you will learn all you wish to know, and probably much more than I know now.”

Chapter Nineteen.

The Conspiracy.

Several days passed by after this conversation, during which Long Sam was constantly absent. Other circumstances had occurred which made Jack more suspicious than ever. He had been waiting all day for his companion, when, as Long Sam had not returned at ten o’clock at night, it being past the usual time of retiring, Jack went to his bedroom, into which, as the entrance was in rather a public position, he securely bolted himself. After he had been asleep for some time he awoke with a start, and was greatly surprised to hear voices close to him. At first, he thought himself transported back to the old house at the Hagg, and that the sounds he heard proceeded from the ghosts which were said to haunt it. However, on sitting up, and more perfectly recovering his senses, he perceived that the speakers were real personages in close proximity to him. Although a gleam or two of light came through a partition which separated him from the room where he supposed them to be, he was unable to find any chink or opening through which he could observe what the speakers were about. As he had not been placed there intentionally for the purpose of hearing the conversation, he did not feel that he was guilty of eavesdropping, or that it was his duty to refrain from listening to what was spoken. There appeared to be a number of persons collected together, two or three of whom took the lead among the others.

“My friends, I have to thank you for meeting me here to-night,” were the first words Jack heard uttered. “We have an important object to carry out, and it requires all the nerve and courage we possess to ensure its success. We have a rightful cause, and that should strengthen our arms for any deed which may be necessary. Remember we are not acting for ourselves, but under the full authority and sanction of our lawful sovereign, King James. It becomes necessary for his interests, and for our own, and for that of all England, and moreover for that of the only true and pure faith, which we profess—the faith of Rome—that the Usurper should be removed. You perceive, then, that we lift the responsibility off our own shoulders upon those who give us authority to act. I should be myself ever far from advocating assassination, or any other unlawful way of getting rid of a rival, but in this instance it seems that no other mode presents itself. I hope, then, that you are prepared to go through with the plan I have to propose, by whatever way it is to be carried out, or whatever may be the consequences.”

“Yes, yes, we are all prepared!” exclaimed several persons.

“Stay, friends!” cried another; “say not that all are prepared. We are all ready to draw our swords in a lawful quarrel and in an open manner, such as true soldiers may fight for, but there are other ways at which Sir George has hinted, and it may be that some of them are not such as honourable men would desire to engage in.”

“What mean you, Captain?” exclaimed the first speaker. “Do you dare to affirm that I propose any scheme which is not honourable and lawful? Whatever I do, or whatever I say, I act under the authority of my true and only sovereign, King James. I acknowledge no other, and therefore I feel myself at liberty to draw my sword in opposition to any one who claims the title of my king.”

“How are we to be sure that you have this authority, good sir?” asked the former speaker. “I have served under the banners of many leaders, and have always been faithful to those who trusted me; but before I draw my sword against the Prince of Orange I should like to know that it is according to the wish of James, late King of England, who by that means may recover his own.”

“Here, then, incredulous men,” exclaimed the person who had been addressed as ‘Sir George;’ “listen to the commission I have received from King James himself:—

“‘Our will and pleasure is, and we do hereby fully authorise, strictly require, and expressly command, our loving subjects to rise in arms and make war upon the Prince of Orange, the usurper of our throne, and all his adherents, and to seize for our use all such forts, towns, and strongholds within our dominion of England as may serve to further our interest, and to do from time to time such other acts of hostility against the Prince of Orange and his adherents as may conduce most to our service. We judge this the properest, justest, and most effectual means of procuring the Restoration and their deliverance, and we do hereby indemnify them for what they shall act in pursuance of this our royal command, given at our court of Saint Germain-en-Laye, the 27th of December, 1695.’

“This will, I hope, satisfy you, gentlemen, that we are not acting without due authority; moreover, you should be aware that the Duke of Berwick came over to England a few months ago, and visited many of the principal adherents of King James, who are all ready, on the signal which we shall make them, to rise in arms, and raise the standard of our lawful king. He is also at the present moment prepared to put himself at the head of an army of 20,000 French soldiers, who are drawn out of the different garrisons of the neighbourhood of Calais. There is also a fleet ready to bring them across as soon as they receive the signal which we are preparing to give. The French king has promised to support King James, and will follow with another army, which will be as soon as possible collected.”

“That appears a well-arranged, straightforward scheme, such as soldiers and men of honour can engage in,” observed another speaker.

“I am glad you think so, Captain,” observed Sir George; “and I feel very sure, that as soon as the signal I have spoken of is given, we shall have hundreds like yourselves flocking to the royal standard.”

“But what is to be that signal, may I ask?” inquired another, who had not before spoken. “I am willing to draw my sword at the command of the King, but I never like to take a leap in the dark, and am better pleased when all matters are explained clearly beforehand.”

“It is not usual for a general to give a sketch of his campaign to his subordinates,” answered Sir George, in a haughty tone. “There are certain matters of which it is better that as few as possible should be informed. I trust that this reply will satisfy you.”

“It must, by my faith!” mattered the old officer; “but, for my part, I have no taste for these secret plots; I would rather a band of brave fellows had been collected together, and that King James’s standard had been raised, and that then we had marched through the country, gathering strength in our progress.”

“To be cut to pieces by Dutch William’s soldiers, or to be surrounded and strung up like foot-pads!” observed another speaker.

“There are difficulties in our way, but they are such as brave men will gladly encounter.”

Such was the strain in which the conversation continued. As yet nothing was said which might lead Jack to suppose that any immediate outbreak was likely to occur. Yet his suspicions were aroused, and he could not help fancying that the voice of the speaker who was addressed as “Sir George” was very like that of Long Sam. If so, he felt that he himself would be in some way implicated in the plot.

At length the party appeared to be breaking up, and most of the persons who had formed it took their departure. Still some remained; and at length he heard the door bolted and barred behind those who had gone out. Those who remained poked up the fire and drew their chairs round it.

“All will go well!” exclaimed the person who had been addressed as “Sir George.”

“And now let us see to the more important part of our work. While Dutch William lives, or at all events is at liberty, King James will not move from his present position, and even the King of France cannot beard the lion in his den. As long as the Protestants have a leader they will be united, and a rising of the adherents of King James will be hopeless; but once let the head of William be laid low, and before they have time to make arrangements to secure another Protestant sovereign, King James can be brought over, and the Catholic religion again be established in the land. The end sanctifies the means, as my excellent father-confessor assures me, and I therefore have no compunction as to that matter. King James has sent over a number of his ‘gentlemen of the guard’ and others, who have come as it were on their private concerns, but who are all prepared to unite, as soon as they receive directions from me, to carry out any scheme I may propose. To those who are squeamish I have suggested merely that we seize and bring away the Prince of Orange, carry him on board ship, and thence convey him over to France: but that will never do; before he could be got to the Thames he would be rescued, and our necks would have to answer for our folly. There is but one safe plan, and that is to set upon him armed with pistols and strong pushing-swords, and thus at once to put him to death. As soon as he is dead his own adherents even will be afraid to assault us, not knowing who may next be at the head of affairs, What say you, gentlemen?—I have spoken plainly to you.”

“I have been advised on this matter before,” was the answer. “With you, I feel that which you propose is the only way of proceeding, especially if by that means we can establish again our religion in the land. If once we can gain the upper hand, we may without difficulty so oppress and keep down these Protestant heretics that we may compel them to come over to the true faith, or drive them from the country.”

“We are all agreed, then, my friends?” said the leader of the plot. “Listen, then, to the plan which I have arranged. The king, as you know, frequently drives out from his palace at Kensington for the purpose of hunting in Richmond Park, and takes boat near Turnham Green to cross the Thames to the Surrey side. I have arranged several leaders, each of whom has five men well mounted to act under him. They will be well-armed with blunderbusses, musketoons, pistols, and well-sharpened swords. There is a spot at Turnham Green where the road is narrow, with high hedges and ditches on each side, so that a coach and six horses cannot easily turn on a sudden. Just about there, also, there are some shrubs and bushes which will afford shelter to our men. We have spies in the palace who will give us exact information of the hours and days when the king goes forth in his coach; and as he has but a small body of guards with him, there will be little risk of a miscarriage. All we have now to do, is to fix the day for the carrying out of the scheme. It is well conceived, and cannot fail; and, moreover, if any of those engaged in it have qualms of conscience, I am able to promise them full absolution, should the king fall by their hands.”

Jack was horrified at what he heard. What course was he to pursue? Should he at once make his way to the palace and give information of the atrocious plot? It was not at all likely, should he do so, that he would be believed. He lay on his bed in deep distress of mind. That his companion who had brought him to London was engaged in the plot, he had no doubt whatever; indeed, he fully believed that he was one of the leaders.

While he lay thus, considering what course to pursue, he heard some of those who had been in the room take their departure. One, however, remained, and he thought he recognised the heavy footsteps of the principal speaker. He kept walking up and down the room, occasionally muttering to himself. Jack was on the point of dropping off to sleep when again the door opened gently, and another person entered hurriedly.

“Ah, Ellis, what news do you bring?” asked the occupier of the room.

“Bad news indeed, Sir George,” answered the other. “I was in the neighbourhood of the residence of the Earl of Portland two days back, when I saw Captain Fisher passing by. Although he was disguised I knew him, and, aware that he was acquainted with all our secrets, I followed him closely. I watched him till he entered the Earl’s house, and, though Lord Portland himself was out, he remained there till the return of his lordship. This made me dread that his purpose was to denounce us. I was made sure of this, when, after waiting a considerable time, Lord Portland himself came forth, and drove at full speed to the palace. Still I had no certain information of what Fisher had been about, and I therefore kept the matter secret; watching only carefully the proceedings of all those who are acquainted with our plot. I kept a watch also at the Earl’s door, and at length received notice that Captain Pendergrast had also visited the Earl; and only this very night I have obtained information that he and La Rue have both been at the palace. As you know, also, this morning the king gave orders that his coaches and guards should be made ready to go out hunting as usual, but suddenly, just at the moment they were to set forth, notice was sent to them that the king was unwell, and could not go abroad that day. Putting these things together, I am sure that the king has been warned of our plot, and that those who are in it will ere long be seized. He probably now only waits till he has learned the names of our party, and ascertained where each of us are to be found.”

“Ellis, you deserve my gratitude!” exclaimed Long Sam. “It is time then that each of us should seek his safety in flight. I shall be off this moment; and I will leave the raw youth I have brought with me from the north to pay the score as best he can. He knows nothing; and if he is taken up and clapped into prison, he can do me no harm. Will you come with me? Here’s a horse at your service.”

“Thank you, Sir George,” answered the other man, “I have business to do which must be done this night, in London, and I hope to get on board ship before daybreak and be off for France. I will not delay longer here.”

Saying this, Ellis took a hurried departure, uttering but a short farewell to his companion. Long Sam immediately followed him out of the room. Jack sat up in bed and rubbed his eyes to be sure that he had not been dreaming.

“This, then, is the plot in which Mr Harwood has been engaged,” he thought to himself. “I can serve him best by giving him information that it has been discovered. If I remain long here, I shall probably, as Long Sam observes is likely, be seized and sent to prison. Instead of paying the score, I will leave the horses to do that, and take the one which will most quickly carry me along the road to Sherwood Forest.”

Jack, on this, quickly dressed himself in a rough riding-habit, and packed his other garments into his valise. Having loaded his pistols and seen to their priming, he stuck them in his belt, and, carrying his valise under his arm, with his boots in his hand, he silently stole down-stairs. Without difficulty he found his way into the room where the conspirators had met; then, putting on his boots, he made his way to the stables. He dared not strike a light, but, knowing well the positions of the horses, and the place where the saddles were hung up, he hoped to find no difficulty in getting off. He quickly opened the stable-door, and was about to enter, when a deep voice exclaimed, “Stand, or you’re a dead man!”

He felt sure the person who spoke was Long Sam.

“Don’t fire,” he answered, calmly, “you will gain nothing by so doing!”

“Then tell me what you are about to do, youngster,” exclaimed Long Sam, stepping forth, leading a horse by the bridle.

“I have as much right to take a midnight ride as you have,” answered Jack. “I don’t wish to stop you, but if you go your way, I claim a right to go mine.”

“You are crowing loudly, my lad!” said Long Sam, with a curse.

“I have no wish to crow,” answered Jack, “but if you have to ride to save your life, I wish to do the same to save my liberty. If you attempt to stop me I will give the alarm, and you well know what the consequences will be. You wish to make a tool of me—you will find that if you still attempt to do so, you will cut your own fingers.”

“You are a sharp lad,” answered Long Sam, or Sir George Barclay, for Jack before long had reason to know that such was the real name of his late companion. “You have found out a great deal more than I supposed. However, I believe you honest: and now make the best of your way out of this city. If you can give notice to any of our friends that they are in danger, you will be rendering them an important service, which, perhaps, some day or other they will be able to repay; and if not, you may rest satisfied that you have performed a kind action.”

Saying this, Sir George led his horse through the gateway of the inn, which was left ajar, probably by pre-arrangement, and disappeared in the darkness. Jack quickly saddled the steed which had been bestowed on him by Master Pearson, and took his way northward by the road along which he had come to Hammersmith. As soon as he was at a distance from any houses, he clapped spurs to his horse and galloped over the ground at as fast a rate as the bad state of the roads would allow.

Chapter Twenty.

A Ride for Liberty.

While Jack is galloping towards Sherwood Forest, we will give a short description of the plot which had been designed for the overthrow of William of Orange and the restoration of James the Second to the throne of England, and the re-establishment of Romanism throughout the realm.

The adherents of James, who desired to retain him on the throne of England in spite of his attempts to establish a despotic government, and to restore the Roman Catholic religion in the country, were called by their opponents “Jacobites.” A large number of them belonged themselves to the Church of Rome, and, instigated by their priests, many of whom, in consequence of the liberality of King William, were allowed to remain in the country, were with other discontented persons continually plotting for the restoration of King James. At length, the two plots which have been hinted at in the previous pages were concocted. One, in which Mr Harwood and a number of noblemen and gentlemen of honourable character were engaged, had for its object the rising of the Jacobites generally throughout England, while Louis the Fourteenth undertook to send an army of 20,000 men to their assistance. This was about the year 1693. At the same time, another plot of an atrocious character was either proposed to James or suggested by him. He had himself, by this time, become thoroughly imbued with Jesuit principles, being surrounded by priests of that order. At all events, there is no doubt that the plot met with his cordial sanction. The plan proposed was to assassinate William as he was on his way to hunt in Richmond Park. While the country by his death was thrown into a state of confusion, the Jacobites were to fly to arms and the French army was to cross the channel.

Towards the end of 1695, the Duke of Berwick, a natural son of Charles the Second, came over secretly to England to try the temper of the Jacobites, Louis having promised to send his troops across immediately that they should rise. The Duke landed in Romney Marsh, where he took up his abode at the house of a smuggler of the name of Robert Hunt. By means of this man he was enabled to transmit the information he received to France. It appears, however, that the Jacobites were unwilling to risk their lives by rising while William remained firmly seated on the throne, dreading the arm of that bold and sagacious monarch.

There is no doubt, that in consequence of the failure of the Duke of Berwick’s attempt in England to induce his friends to rise in arms, James and Louis agreed to the plot which had before been suggested for the assassination of William. The king was to be murdered on the 15th of February, as he was leaving his palace at Kensington to hunt in Richmond Park. Now it appears that a few days before this, James left Paris, and journeyed to Calais, where he set himself at the head of an army of about 20,000 men, who were drawn out of the garrisons which lay near the frontier. A considerable fleet also assembled there from Dunkirk and other ports, while transports, and more men-of-war to convoy them over, were also brought together. Several regiments indeed were already embarked while James waited at Calais, and no one can doubt that he remained there to receive the first notice of the projected assassination. Louis had communicated to the various courts in which he had ministers, the facts that he had acknowledged James King of England, and that he purposed to invade that country to re-establish him on the throne. At this time William had a large fleet at Spithead, and an army attached to him, while the larger part of the nation were desirous that he should remain their king. With all of these facts Louis was well acquainted, and there can be no doubt that he was himself also aware of the intended assassination, as he had far too much sense to suppose that while William lived any invasion of England would have been successful.

The chief promoter of the scheme for the invasion of England was Sir John Fenwick, a baronet of good family, but it does not appear that he was in any way connected with the assassination plot. Sir John Friend, a city knight, was also implicated in this plot. The Earl of Aylesbury and Lord Montgomery, with many others, were also connected with it. Charnock, Sir William Parkyns, Rookwood, Lowick, Cranburn, Knightley were among the chief persons engaged in the assassination plot.

The conspirators were to be scattered about Turnham Green in taverns and ale-houses, and to be brought together upon a signal being given. Each body of them was under a leader, so as to give the proceeding the air of a military act. While some were to attack the king’s guards, others had been especially selected to shoot at the king himself. James had sent over a number of his own body-guard to be in readiness to support the conspirators. It appears, however, that the military men engaged in the work were very unwilling to undertake it, unless they received a commission from James himself. This document was therefore drawn up and signed by the king, and on seeing it, some of them imagined that the undertaking in which they engaged, although of a somewhat desperate character, was as honourable as that of entering into a campaign in regular service. Some, however, felt great doubts about the matter, as they could not help viewing it in its true light. Among these were two captains, Pendergrast, an Irish officer, and Fisher, an Englishman, and a Frenchman named De la Rue, who without any agreement with each other, at different times gave information to the Earl of Portland of the contemplated assassination of the king.

William at first was very unwilling to believe in the plot, and it was not without difficulty that the Earl of Portland could persuade his Majesty not to go forth on his hunting expedition on that eventful 15th day of February.

The greater number of the conspirators not having received such early information as did Sir George Barclay, continued to meet, even on that very day, hoping still to carry out their plan on the following Saturday. They were nearly all seized, most of them in their beds, before they had received any notice of the discovery of the plot.

Charnock, who had been a Fellow of Magdalen College, Oxford, and had become its Popish vice-president, was an indefatigable agent of the Jacobites. So completely imbued had he become with Jesuitical principles, that he had persuaded himself that he had full right to murder the king, having as he supposed a commission from the person he considered the legal proprietor of the throne. He offered to disclose all he knew of the consultations and designs of the Jacobites, if his life were spared, and the reply of King William is worthy of note: “I desire not to know them,” feeling assured probably, that many were in it whom he hoped still to win over by generosity and kindness.

Sir John Friend and Sir William Parkyns were next tried, and were executed, on being found guilty, at Tyburn, on which occasion three of the non-juring clergy attended them, and had the audacity at the place of execution to give them public absolution, with an imposition of hands in the view of all people, for the act in which they had been engaged.

Sir John Fenwick, was captured shortly after the discovery of the plot, while attempting to escape to France. His trial lasted for a considerable time. He was, however, clearly found guilty, and executed. He richly merited the fate he met, for although he did not propose to assassinate the king, his aim was to bring over an army of foreigners, and subjugate those of his countrymen who differed from him in opinion, and to re-establish the Romish faith in England.

The people had before this been grumbling at the British fleet being detained so long at Spithead by contrary winds, but it was the presence of this fleet which contributed greatly to prevent James from attempting to cross the channel with an army placed under his command by the French king. Immediately also on hearing of the plot, a number of seamen who had remained concealed for fear of the press-gangs, came forward and volunteered on board the various ships which had commenced fitting out. Indeed the discovery of this abominable Jacobite plot had such an effect upon the nation generally, that many who formerly pitied the condition of the exiled king, were now completely alienated from him, by this means producing a more perfect establishment of King William on the throne.

John Deane’s residence in the fens, and the experience he there gained in finding his way across country, assisted him greatly in the ride he was now taking northward. He had carefully noted every spot as he came by with Long Sam, and he was thus able to ride forward without having to inquire the road. His nerves were well strung and he was constitutionally brave; but never before had he felt so uncomfortable as he now did. Every moment he expected to have Long Sam galloping after him; and he felt very sure that those who contemplated the assassination of the king would not hesitate to kill him, if they fancied it would conduce to their safety or interest to put him out of the way. He could not help expecting also to be stopped by adherents of King William who might have heard of the plot and would naturally inquire why he was thus spurring onward away from London. They might, he thought, suppose that he was one of the conspirators. It could be shown that he had been associating with those who had engaged in the plot. He might thus probably from being unable to prove his innocence, lose his life along with them.

He rode on through that long winter’s night without stopping. His horse was well trained, having both spirit and bottom; and thus daylight found him still pressing onward. At length he was obliged to pull up at the sign of the Fox and Chickens, a small roadside inn some fifty miles or more from London. The landlord eyed him askance as he led his horse into the stable, and began carefully to rub down the animal, to prepare it for its food.

“Will it please you to take some breakfast, my master?” asked Boniface, with a peculiar expression. “You seem to have ridden pretty hard since sunrise?”

“Yes,” answered Jack; “my poor beast has borne me well. He has a few more miles to go before I can stable him for the night; and he needs rest and refreshment more than I do after his gallop over these bad roads.”

“I will go in and tell my dame to get breakfast for you,” said the landlord, “while you are looking after your horse. I like to see a man treat his beast well, as you are doing; and you deserve the best rasher my dame can cook for you.”

The landlord was as good as his word; and when shortly afterwards Jack entered the inn, he found a dish smoking on the board, and a tankard of good ale standing by its side. His anxiety had not deprived him of his appetite; and he resolved, if his horse could hold out, to push on till nightfall. He, however, was not perfectly satisfied with the manner of his host, and could not help fancying that he suspected him of being either a highwayman or a fugitive from justice; and every time the door opened, he expected to see a bailiff or a Government official of some sort enter, to interrogate him as to what he was about and where he was going. He fully experienced the truth of Shakspeare’s saying, “Conscience does make cowards of us all”! As soon, therefore, as he thought his horse was in a condition again to take to the road, he started up, and paying his score, walked out to the stables. The landlord followed him, and touched him on the shoulder.

“I like your looks, young master,” he said; “but still there are one or two things about you which might excite suspicion. I would advise you, therefore, not to stop at any large town, if you have again to put up before you reach your destination.”

Jack, while he thanked the landlord for his kind intentions, put on an indifferent air, as if his advice was unnecessary, and springing into the saddle, wished him good-day, and trotted at an easy pace till he was out of sight of the inn. He then once again put spurs to his steed, and away he flew along the road Master Pearson had not over-praised his horse when he told him that at a push he could cover a long distance, for, bad as was the road in many places, the good steed never stumbled nor hesitated, but kept up his pace, as if well aware that much depended on the progress he could make.

The farther north Jack advanced the better he knew the country; and as he found that it would be impossible to get to the other side of Nottingham that night, he turned aside off the high-road, to put up at the house of a miller, where he had several times stopped when making holiday excursions from Nottingham. The man was hearty and good-natured, with a buxom, kind wife, and a pretty little daughter. He thought he might there possibly gain some information of what had taken place at home, and be guided accordingly. He might probably also, should his own good steed be unable to proceed, obtain another horse from the miller, on which to continue his journey to Harwood Grange. It was getting dark as Jack rode up to the mill, and he found the miller knocking off work and disconnecting his water-wheels.

“Don’t you know me, Master Simpson?” said Jack, as the miller stared at him from beneath his well-powdered brows.

“Ay, in troth, that do I! Mr John Deane, if I mistake not,” answered the honest miller. “Why, lad, you seem to have ridden hard this evening! What is your pleasure?”

“A night’s rest, and some food for my horse and myself,” answered Jack, dismounting. “You will give it me, like a kind man, and ask no questions. I have business of importance which takes me some distance from hence, and I’m afraid if I were to ride on through the night with my tired steed, that we both of us should roll in the mud before day dawns.”

The miller made Jack welcome; and, having stabled his horse as usual, he was soon seated opposite pretty Margery Simpson, by the side of the kind dame. Jack had to confess that he had not been at home for some time, in order to make inquiries respecting his friends at Nottingham. He could, however, gain no information; but the miller told him that as soon as the roads dried up a little with the March winds, he purposed going there. It struck Jack, therefore, that by this means he might communicate with his family, and fortunately having some paper in his valise, he was able to write a few lines to his brother Jasper. He told him of his welfare, and that he purposed immediately going on board a man-of-war, and seeking his fortunes at sea.

“I will not enter into my reasons, brother Jasper,” he wrote; “but I find the land not suited for me, and I wish to prove my loyalty to our brave King William, and to seek for adventures on the ocean, where, I have an idea, more gold, and as much honour is to be gained as on shore.”

Jack sent his best love to his father and mother and sisters, and begged that they would not forget him, or condemn him, whatever they might hear to his discredit. He carefully sealed this letter, which Master Simpson promised faithfully to deliver either to Jasper, or to Polly, should the former be absent from home.

“Now, Master Simpson, I will ask you still another favour; the moon will be up in four or five hours: let me sleep till then, and allow me to rise and proceed on my way. I shall thus reach the end of my journey soon after daybreak, where I can get further rest for myself and horse.”

Although the good miller at first objected to this, Jack induced him to agree to let him take his departure. The air was bitterly cold, for the wind was from the north and a sharp frost had set in, and Jack feared lest a snowstorm should come on and impede his progress. He was therefore thankful that he had started at that early hour, hoping without impediment to reach Harwood Grange. His good steed, after a few hours’ rest, carried him as well as when he first started from Hammersmith, and the sun had only just risen as he rode up the avenue to the Grange. He was anxious to make as little disturbance as possible, and he therefore at once rode up to the stable, and begged the groom to attend to his horse while he went up to the house. The man, who did not know him, seemed indisposed at first to obey his orders.

“It is a matter of importance,” said Jack; “and I may have but little time to rest my tired beast.”

As the housemaid was just opening the front door, Jack entered, and learned that the Squire was already on foot, and that Mistress Alethea would soon be down to breakfast. Jack hurried into the Squire’s own room, where he was examining several fire-arms, placed against the wall.

“Mr Harwood,” he exclaimed, “I fear that you are in danger! If you have been connected with those engaged in the conspiracy to bring over a foreign army, and to dethrone King William, let me urge you to fly or to conceal yourself. The plot has been discovered!”

Mr Harwood turned deadly pale on hearing this, and trembled in every limb.

“I am deeply thankful to you for the warning you have given me,” he answered. “But what am I to do? I cannot leave my daughter, and know not where to conceal myself.”

“Mistress Alethea will surely find a welcome and shelter in the house of my father,” answered Jack. “I will endeavour to assist you to escape to a place of safety. It may be that no one will search for you here; but if you think it more advisable to go abroad, I will accompany you either to Yarmouth or Harwich, where you may take ship and get across to France.”

Mr Harwood overwhelmed Jack with thanks, and gladly accepted his offer. Their plans were scarcely arranged when Alethea entered the room. She showed far more courage than her father had done on hearing of the discovery of the plot, though anxious about his safety. She at once declared her intention of accompanying him.

“That cannot be, my child!” said Mr Harwood. “You know not the difficulties and dangers I may have to go through; and though you might be willing to share them, they must of necessity be greatly increased should you be with me. We have friends in this neighbourhood who will, I am sure, take charge of you. With them you will live happily and securely; and I trust that in a short time, when this matter has blown over, I may be able to return once more to England.”

Jack’s heart beat violently when he heard these remarks of Mr Harwood.

“Oh, yes!” he exclaimed; “I feel sure that my mother and sisters will gladly afford all the protection Miss Harwood requires. I wish that I could accompany her to Nottingham. Could I not do it, and rejoin you, Mr Harwood?”

“What, and run the risk of being apprehended yourself?” exclaimed the Squire. “No; I will send Alethea under the escort of two trusty grooms with her tirewoman, and will throw myself on the kindness of your family. Already I am deeply indebted to them, and shall but add to the obligation.”

The Squire spoke with some hesitation. Even at that moment his aristocratic feelings influenced him, and he felt as if he was honouring the Deane family by thus confiding his daughter to their charge. Some time had thus passed when the Squire recollected that Jack must require food.

“It would never do to set forward without being prepared,” he observed. “Take your breakfast with Alethea, while I go and put together such valuables as it may be prudent for me to carry; and you, my daughter, will take the remainder, for I know not, should I be informed against, what will be the fate of the old Grange and of the estate my fathers have held for so many centuries.”

Jack, as he sat by the side of Alethea endeavouring to eat his breakfast, in vain tried to utter the sentiments with which his heart was full. Whenever he attempted to speak he hesitated and stammered, and his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth. Alethea was more serious, naturally, than he had ever seen her before.

“I foresaw that it might come to this,” she said, at last, to Jack. “But, do you know, I rather glory in suffering for what I believe to be a right cause!”

“But oh, Miss Harwood,” exclaimed Jack, now able to speak, “surely no cause would justify the means by which the conspirators have attempted to carry out their project—to murder the great and brave king! Surely nothing can justify assassination!”

“Oh, no, no!” exclaimed Alethea. “But surely those with whom my father was associated have not attempted to commit so fearful a crime?”

“Most certainly the crime was contemplated,” answered Jack. “I heard the whole plan discussed, but whether Mr Harwood’s especial friends were acquainted with it or not, I cannot say; but of one thing I feel very sure, from what I heard, that James was well aware of the project, and sanctioned it by the countenance he gave to those who undertook to carry it out.”

“If I were sure of that,” exclaimed Alethea, with a tone of indignation, “my whole feelings towards King James would be changed! While I thought him an honourable and an injured man, and the rightful sovereign of these realms, my feelings were in his favour; but if his principles would allow him to act as you describe, then I cannot but feel that the nobles and commons of England were right in their dread of having such a man to reign over them.”

“I wish Mr Harwood had seen matters in that light before he allowed himself to be drawn into the plot!” said Jack. “Perhaps, however, he may now be induced to do so. If so, when those who have principally engaged in it have suffered the penalty of their crimes, he will probably be allowed to return home, and live quietly as heretofore. For my own part, as I have been consorting with the king’s enemies, though unknowingly, I have determined, from henceforth, to fight for him and his friends, and to try my fortune on the ocean. It will be more to my taste than being pinched up in breastplate and helmet, and having to fight on shore. I may there win a name and fame, Alethea; and perchance when I come back I may look forward to—”

Whatever Jack was going to say was interrupted by the entrance of Mr Harwood. As may be supposed, he had but a small appetite for breakfast, though pressed by his daughter, who in every way tried to keep up his spirits, to partake of it. The steward and head groom were ordered to accompany Miss Harwood into Nottingham, while his own fleetest hunter was to be got ready to start as soon as Jack’s horse was sufficiently rested.

In vain Jack waited for an opportunity to finish the sentence he had begun, for having, as he thought, broken the ice, he hoped to get yet farther in, but just as the party were rising from breakfast, which had been put off to a later hour than usual, a visitor was announced, and Jasper Deane entered the room. His surprise at seeing Jack was very great. They greeted each other, however, as affectionate brothers, though Jasper refrained from asking Jack questions which it might have been disagreeable to him to answer in the presence of Alethea and Mr Harwood.

“I am sure, Jasper, you will answer for our parents being ready to receive Miss Harwood,” said Jack, “during the temporary absence of her father. I have brought him some news, with which I need not trouble you, which requires him to leave home immediately.”

“Why not trust me?” answered Jasper; “surely I would not betray Mr Harwood’s secrets!”

“For your own sake it may be better for you not to know them,” answered Jack. “It is time that we should be on our road. Bear my duty to my father and mother and my love to our sisters, and I will write to them of my proceedings as soon as I have an opportunity.”

Jack saw that Mr Harwood was impatient to be off, while he himself knew the importance of losing no time in getting to a place of safety; he had no opportunity, therefore, of asking Jasper questions as to what had taken place at Nottingham, nor did he himself wish to tell him what he had been about. He merely mentioned his letter entrusted to the miller. “That will tell you more about my intentions,” he observed. If a pang of jealousy crossed his heart when he saw his brother ride off by the side of Alethea, he quickly banished it, and immediately afterwards he and Mr Harwood, with their valises strapped to their saddles, were making their way through the forest to the east.

Chapter Twenty One.

John Deane turns Sailor, and joins the “Weymouth,” Captain Jumper.

At no time for many years had there been greater activity in the chief naval ports of England than in February, 1696. All the ships in the service were ordered to be brought forward, and as many more as could be obtained were purchased for the Royal Navy. Officers and men eagerly offered their services; indeed the enthusiasm of all ranks and professions was very great. Numerous seamen from the merchant service joined the navy, and there was no lack of volunteers eager to be employed. A squadron lay in the Medway, fitting out as quickly as stores could be brought on board them and the men could be collected. Among them was the “Weymouth,” a ship of forty guns, commanded by the well-known Captain Jumper. Her sails were bent, and she only waited for her powder to be brought on board to go to sea, as soon as she could fill up with her proper complement of men. A boat had just come alongside, and the first lieutenant reported that she contained a number of volunteers.

Among the first who stepped on board was a fine, active-looking young man, though, to the nautical eye, he had not much the look of a sailor.

“Where have you served before, my man?” asked Mr Cammock, the first lieutenant; “and what do you know of seamanship?”

“I have served nowhere, please you, sir,” was the answer, “but I am ready to learn. And I know how to handle a cutlass, and shoot a partridge or pheasant flying.”

“You are the lad for us then,” answered the officer. “What is your name? We will enter you as a landsman; but you will soon make an able seaman.”

“John Deane, at your service, sir,” answered our friend; for he it was who, having put his purpose of joining the navy into execution, had volunteered for the “Weymouth.”

It was the first time he had ever stood on the deck of a ship. No wonder then that he gazed about him with a look of astonishment, at the guns thickly ranged on either side; at the numerous brass swivels and other pieces which graced her quarters and forecastle, and the high lanterns of brass astern; at the numberless ropes which led here and there from the masts and spars, with their ends neatly coiled down on deck; at the seamen, in their loose dresses, shirts, and trousers, with belts round their waists, contrasting with the officers in their three-cornered hats and long coats, laced with gold or silver, large embroidered belts by which hung their rapiers—each dressed rather according to his fancy and means, than to any authorised uniform.

A number of other men were then called up. Among the first was one whose countenance Jack thought he knew. He looked at him several times, till at length it struck him that it must be the very man who had guided him to Pearson’s farm in the fens—Ned Burdale. There was the same sturdy, independent look, bold eye, and manner. What, however, had induced him to enter on board a king’s ship, Jack could not divine. At all events, he felt it would be wise in him not to claim acquaintance with a person of so doubtful a character.

He little expected to find any body else whom he had met before; but he had not been long on board, when a seaman came up to him, and, putting out his hand, exclaimed—

“What, Jack Deane, don’t you know me?”

“Yes,” said Jack, at last, wringing him by the hand; “but I should not have recognised you in that dress and with that ugly cut down your cheek, if I did not remember your voice.”

“Yes; I have seen some service already,” answered the seaman. “I have a bullet through my leg, and this pretty little remembrance on my cheek; but it’s what we have to expect. We’re paid for it, you know; and besides, we give as good as we take, and that’s a consolation.”

“But what made you come to sea?” asked Jack. “I had no idea you had any fancy that way.”

“I may ask the same question of you, friend Deane,” said Smedley, for it was Jack’s old poaching acquaintance. “The honest truth is, I found Nottingham too hot to hold me, and so here I am come to serve his majesty. It is a pretty hard life, I will own; but I have brought myself into it, and so I have determined not to grumble.”

“Well, I have my own reasons, too, Smedley, for coming to sea,” said Jack, “but you will excuse me if I don’t explain them. I hope we may both do our duty, and fight bravely for our country. That’s what I have come to sea for, with the hope of seeing a little more of the world than I should if I had remained at Nottingham, or continued to drive oxen between Scotland and Stourbridge.”

Smedley, who had already been some weeks at sea, was able to give Jack a good deal of instruction in his duties, and found him an apt scholar. Jack was determined to make himself a seaman as soon as he could. From morning till night he was employed in picking up information, and he soon gained some knowledge in the arts of knotting and splicing. He quickly, too, found his way aloft; and though at first he felt rather giddy at the mast-head, his eye soon got accustomed to look down on the deck below, and he could run out on the yards in a short time with any man on board. He soon, indeed, surpassed Smedley himself. The man he took to be Burdale, from the way he walked the deck, was evidently accustomed to a sailor’s life.

So rapidly were the ships got ready for sea, that in a short time a large fleet was collected in the Downs under the command of Admiral Russell. He had under him Lord Berkeley, Admiral of the Blue, and Sir Cloudesley Shovel, Vice-Admiral of the Red; Mr Aylmer, Vice-Admiral of the Blue, with two Dutch squadrons under two rear-admirals.

As soon as the fleet was collected, they set sail for the coast of France, arriving shortly afterwards off Dunkirk. It was here that the celebrated French Admiral, Jean Bart, held the command of a French fleet. As the English fleet passed Calais, three or four hundred vessels of all sorts were seen with their sails bent ready for sea. As soon as the French saw the English fleet approaching Dunkirk, several of their men-of-war ran close up to the pier. Hopes were now entertained by the English crews that some fighting would take place. Sir Cloudesley Shovel, with several captains, stood in towards Dunkirk, to see if there was any possibility of burning the fleet. This, however, was declared to be impracticable, and Admiral Russell therefore sailed back to Dover, leaving a squadron under Sir Cloudesley Shovel, to watch the movements of the enemy. A short time after this, Sir Cloudesley Shovel, who had returned to the Downs, was ordered to take with him the bomb-vessels, and such small ships as he should think necessary; and attempt the burning of Calais with the transports, and other ships in that harbour.

Calais was soon in sight. The English could see the harbour crowded with vessels, which as they approached, however, ran close up under their batteries where the ships could not get at them. The wind was off shore, which gave them smooth water; and the squadron, in gallant style, beat up as near to the town as the water would allow. They now anchored, their men-of-war protecting the bomb-vessels, which instantly commenced throwing shells into the place. It was a fine sight to see them, like vast rockets, rising in the air and curling over, until they fell into the devoted town.

For several hours the fiery shower continued. Now flames were seen to burst out in one part of the town, now in another; and now the vessels in the harbour caught fire; several in succession exploded. As each of the enemy’s vessels blew up, the English crews burst forth with loud cheers, and redoubled their efforts. The enemy were not idle, but the English ships were so placed that not many of the French shot did damage. The shipping in the harbour suffered most, as the chief aim of the English was to destroy them, and a large number of privateers were blown up or burned. A strong wind was blowing when the action began, and it continued increasing, till the squadron could with difficulty hold their position before the town. Still the English persevered. A large portion of the town was burnt down, and a considerable amount of shipping was destroyed. Such would have been the fate of the whole, had not the gale at length compelled Sir Cloudesley Shovel to throw out a signal for retiring. This was done in good order, and the squadron returned to the Downs.

Soon after this, a squadron of which the “Weymouth” formed one of the ships, was sent to cruise off Dunkirk, where it was understood that Jean Bart, with several ships of war, was still lying ready for sea. Rear-Admiral Benbow was placed in command of this squadron; but on his arrival before the place, he found the number of ships he had with him too small to guard both channels; the weather, also, proving extremely foggy, Du Bart slipped out, and, steering to the north-east, fell in with the Dutch Baltic fleet of about a hundred sail, escorted by five frigates, all of which he took, and above half the merchantmen. In the midst of Du Bart’s victory, he was surprised by the appearance of the Dutch outward-bound Baltic fleet, under the convoy of thirteen men-of-war, which so closely pursued him that he was obliged to abandon most of his prizes. He burned four of the frigates, and putting their crews on board the fifth, turned her adrift, which, with thirty-five of the merchant-ships, were retaken. A fast galley brought this news to Admiral Benbow, who immediately steered in pursuit of the French squadron. The “Weymouth” was one of the leading ships.

Jack Deane, who was now rated as an able seaman, was constantly at the mast-head looking out for the enemy, eager as any on board to come up with them.

“Several sail ahead!” he shouted out one morning at daybreak.

There was no doubt that this was the enemy. The signal was thrown out accordingly, and the English crowded all sail in chase. The wind, however, which was in their favour, began to fall, and, greatly to their disappointment, it became almost a calm. The Frenchmen, however, retained the breeze, and were soon again out of sight.

In vain the English seamen whistled for a wind. Noon passed by, and still they remained becalmed. Whether it was their whistling or not produced the breeze, one sprung up towards evening, and the brave Benbow steered after the French. Again they were discovered, and again lost sight of. Once more their white canvas was seen ahead, and hopes were entertained that they would be overtaken before they could reach the shelter of Dunkirk, towards which they were steering. They, however, made good use of their heels, and before a shot could reach them they had run into Dunkirk.

The fleets of England were, however, enabled to punish the French severely for their audacious project of invading our “tight little island,” and for their still more nefarious plan, which had been hatched under the sanction of their king, for assassinating the constitutional and Protestant monarch whom her people had chosen, and imposing on them in his stead a Papist and a tyrant.

Jack kept his eyes and ears open, and picked up all the information he could as to what was going forward in all directions. He had resolved when he joined to become an officer, and he knew very well that the only way of accomplishing his object was to attend strictly to his duties, to be obedient to his superiors, and to gain all the information in his power.

Among the novelties which had lately been introduced into the ships of the Royal Navy were brass box-compasses. These were placed in front of the steering-wheels, and were a great improvement upon the former contrivances for the same object. A large number of ships having been wrecked on the Eddystone Rock, off Plymouth, an application was made to the Trinity House to erect a lighthouse on it, which was begun that very year, and it was supposed that it would be completed in the course of the next three years. The masters and owners of ships agreed to pay a penny per ton outwards and inwards to assist in defraying the expense.

A register for thirty thousand seamen was established. They were to be in readiness at all times for supplying the Royal Navy, and were to receive a bounty of forty shillings yearly. On the 29th of January of that year, the “Royal Sovereign,” built in the reign of Charles the First, and at that time the largest ship ever built in England, was by accident burned at her moorings in Gillingham Reach, in the river Medway.

“Well, Deane, and how do you like a sea life?” asked Smedley, after Jack had been some time on board.

“I will tell you when I’ve been longer afloat,” answered Jack. “From what I have seen of it, I am ready to stick to it; that’s what I’ve got to say. And how do you like it?”

“To confess the truth, I am getting rather tired of it,” answered Smedley. “I thought it would be an easier life than I find it, but this cruising up and down the Channel and blockading the enemy’s ports is trying work, and often I wish myself on shore again, taking a stroll or galloping through Sherwood Forest.”

“That’s because you have not a right object in view,” answered Jack. “Now I have made up my mind to take the roughs and smooths as I find them. If I get shot or wounded, it is the fate of many a better man; and if I escape, I hope to fight my way up to wear a cocked hat and laced coat.”

“That’s very well for you, Deane, because you were born a gentleman,” said Smedley. “I came to sea because I could not help it: all about that poaching affair, and the burning of the houses.”

“I wish we had never engaged in it, I own,” said Jack. “It has cost me dear; and what I regret most is the injury it did my character in the place, and the annoyance it must have caused my family when it was found out.”

“What do you mean?” asked Smedley. “I do not understand you.”

“Why, that the man who met us on that night, and showed us how to spear the salmon, told me that a warrant was out against me for poaching and firing the huts, and that if I went back to Nottingham I should be sent to prison,” answered Jack.

“He told you a lie, then. Your name has never been mentioned in connexion with the affair; and to this day, unless you have told any body, I am very sure that no one in Nottingham knows any thing about it.”

“Then what object could Pearson have had for saying so?” said Jack.

“I have an idea,” said Smedley; “I may be right or I may be wrong; and from what you have told me of the man, he has just wanted to keep you from going back to Nottingham. Why he did so I cannot exactly say, except that he probably wanted to make use of you in some way or other.”

The light at length burst on Jack’s mind, and at once he saw the danger of getting into bad company. Had he refrained from joining in that fatal expedition, he would not have met Pearson; and if he had not met Pearson, he would never have been drawn into the plot which had so nearly cost him dear. Perhaps even his life might have been sacrificed in consequence! He did not say this to Smedley, because he had determined not to say any thing to him about the plot in which he had been unintentionally mixed up.

“It shall be a lesson to me through life,” he thought. “If a person once associates with evil-disposed people, he knows not how soon he may be led to do as they’re doing.”

Often he thought of honest Will Brinsmead and his wise sayings, and the advice he had bestowed on him. Jack was every day becoming far more thoughtful than he had been hitherto. He was living among a wild, careless, rough set of men. Most of them were brave and honest; but there were rogues and cowards among them. The greater number lived only for the present moment, and were utterly thoughtless about the future. Now, John Deane felt that he must either be drawn in to act as they were acting, and to become like them, or he must keep himself as much as possible aloof from them. This, however difficult it might be, he determined to do.

In former days laws had been passed, not only to maintain a discipline in the navy, but for regulating the moral conduct of the men. There were regulations against profane swearing, or gambling, or fighting, or quarrelling; and orders were issued for the performance of Divine Service, not only on Sundays, but on weekdays, and on every occasion before going into action with an enemy. Unhappily, however, by this time this had become a dead-letter; and a general indulgence was allowed to the seamen in all the vices which have been mentioned. The men were also badly and tyrannically treated; and often their pay was kept back from them. The provisions were frequently very bad, and the greater number of men who were sent as surgeons on board the ships were grossly ignorant of their professional duties. Still the love of adventure existing in the breasts of English lads, the opportunities which seamen enjoyed of obtaining prize-money, and the efforts of the press-gangs, kept the Royal Navy tolerably supplied with men. A large number also joined, whatever can be said to the contrary, from patriotic motives, desirous of maintaining the honour of the British flag, protecting the commerce of the country, and guarding their native shores from foreign aggression. Such was the feeling which animated the breasts of thousands when Jack Deane joined the navy. Such is the feeling which has induced many thousands more on various occasions, when their country needed their services to assist in manning her fleets.

It was a great relief to Jack Deane to find that he still maintained an honourable name in his native town, and he at once wrote home in a strain he had not before ventured to use, telling his father, to whom he addressed his letter, that he had come to sea for the sake of fighting for the cause of King William, and that he hoped when he returned home to present himself in the rank of an officer.

Chapter Twenty Two.

First Sea-Fight.

John Deane had soon the opportunity he had long wished for, of engaging in a naval fight. As the “Weymouth” was cruising in the Channel, a sail was seen on the lee bow. Captain Jumper immediately ordered the ship to be kept away, and clapped on all the canvas she could carry in chase. The stranger, on seeing this, bore away, but the “Weymouth” was a fast ship, and rapidly came up with her. The drum beat to quarters, and the ship was prepared for action. Shot were brought up from below and placed in the racks ready for use. The powder-magazine was opened, and the powder-boys were sent up with their tubs and arranged in rows along the deck, ready to supply the seamen who fought the guns with powder. The slow-matches were got ready, and pistols, boarding-pikes, and hangers served out to the men. Jackets and shirts were discarded, and the crew stood ready, dressed alone in their trousers, with belts round their waists in which their pistols were stuck, and their hangers attached. There could be no doubt that the stranger was an enemy, though he had not yet shown his colours.

Few would have supposed that the crew who now stood at their guns were about in a short time to be engaged in deadly fight. Jokes of all sorts were passed along the decks, and peals of laughter were indulged in, till silenced when they became too uproarious by the officers. Jack found Smedley standing close to him, both having been appointed to the same gun. A handkerchief was bound round his head to keep his hair, which in the fashion of seamen in those days was worn long, away from his eyes. He was as cool and collected as the rest of his shipmates, but did not seem inclined to join in the jokes in which they were indulging.

“You seem somewhat out of spirits, Jem!” said John Deane. “What makes you so grave? we’re sure to thrash the enemy, however big he may be.”

“Just the thoughts of home, Jack,” answered Smedley. “I was thinking just now whether I should not have been better off attending to my father’s business, with the prospect of marrying pretty Mary Smithers, than out here, stripped to the waist, with a chance of having my head carried off before the day’s over!”

“Nonsense, Jem!” answered Deane; “you should not let such thoughts trouble you. Your head is as firm on your shoulders as that of any other man on board.”

“Ay, but how many other men will lose theirs?” said Smedley. “I cannot help thinking of home at all events, and though I may come out of this day’s fight unscathed, I often wish I had remained quietly at home, without hankering after the sea. It all comes of that wild life we boys led in the forest. We did many things we ought not to have done, and it’s to those I owe being out here. However, I will try to do my duty and bring no discredit on our native town.”

“I am sure you will not do that,” said Jack; “and I hope I shall see you throw up your cap with the rest of us, when the enemy strikes to our flag.”

As the “Weymouth” drew near the stranger it was seen that she was a very large ship, considerably larger than the former, and probably carrying many more guns, with a more numerous crew. Still this in no way daunted the courage of the British seamen, but only made them the more eager for the attack. Most of them had already engaged in many a hard-fought battle with superior numbers, and come off victorious. They knew what British pluck and British muscle could do, and that if they could handle their guns twice as fast as the enemy could haul in and out theirs, that even should they have only half the number of their antagonist, they might still hope to beat her.

Jack had frequently spoken to the man whose countenance he thought he knew when he first came on board, but the latter denied ever having seen him before. Jack now saw him standing at a gun not far from the one where he was stationed. The man looked very pale, and, like Smedley, was not joining in the jokes of his shipmates. Jack watched his countenance, and now was more convinced than ever that he was Burdale.

As the “Weymouth” drew near, the stranger hoisted French colours, and finding that escape was impossible, hauled up her courses, and fired a gun in defiance, which was answered by one from the “Weymouth.” Both of the shots, however, fell short of their aim. The combatants, without again firing, now rapidly drew near each other, with their flags and streamers flying and their trumpets loudly sounding. Men armed with muskets were stationed in the large heavy round-tops, each holding a dozen or more soldiers, while others were stationed in the topgallant forecastle, and others at the poop. Guns were also placed inside the forecastle, as also under the poop, with their muzzles turned in-board, so that should the enemy attempt to board, the decks might be swept by their fire. These guns, however, were not loaded with round-shot, but with langrage, which, by scattering around, might kill a number of persons at each discharge. The wind was moderate, the sea tolerably smooth. Captain Jumper stood in the mizen-rigging directing the movements of his ship, while the other officers were stationed in different parts in command of the guns, some on the upper and main-deck, others on the forecastle and poop. The surgeons were below in the cock-pit, getting ready their instruments, and lint, and bandages, and preparing the tables on which amputation when necessary might be performed. Here also were restoratives arranged, for those who might faint from loss of blood. They had taken a look at the enemy, and aware from her superior size that the fight would be a desperate one, were coolly talking over the amount of work in store for them. Not a word was now spoken along the decks, for all jokes were silenced by command of the officers. The captains of the guns stood ready with their slow-matches in their hands, prepared to fire at the signal being given. Already the two antagonists were within range of each other’s artillery, but both waited to get still nearer that the greater effect might be produced by their fire. John Deane could not help holding his breath, as did many a brave man on board, not from any sensation of fear, but from intense eagerness for the moment when the combat was to begin. They had not long to delay. Captain Jumper had contrived to place his ship in the position which British officers of all ages have wished to hold with regard to the enemy—that is, broadside to broadside; and now he saw that the wished-for moment had arrived. “Fire!” he shouted. The word was echoed along the decks. The trumpets now brayed out their loudest sounds of defiance. The captains of the guns applied their matches, and the loud roar of artillery broke the silence which had hitherto reigned over the water. The Frenchmen were not slow to answer, and their shot came crashing on board with terrible effect. Many a fine fellow who had been laughing and joking with the rest was laid low. The white splinters were flying on either side, and ropes which had just before been trim and taut hung in festoons or flew out in the breeze, while many a shot-hole was seen through the sails. Without a moment’s delay the guns were hauled in. The powder-boys sprang up from their tubs and handed out the powder, which being quickly rammed home, the shot was thrown into the muzzle. Again the guns were run out. No order was now required for firing, but as rapidly as the guns could be loaded they were discharged towards the enemy.

Thus for some time the English ship ran alongside her huge antagonist. Her name painted on her stern was the “Fougueux,” and thirty ports were counted on each side. Jack Deane stood at his gun, hauling it in with right good will, and running it out still more eagerly as fast as his arms and those of his mates could work it, thinking of nothing else, and not looking round, even to see what had become of any of those near him. Now and then he heard a groan or a cry, and as he turned round to hand on the powder or the shot, he saw perchance a poor fellow amidst the smoke struggling on the deck. Next moment there was a loud crash close to him, and he found himself sprinkled over from head to foot with blood. He felt no pain, and scarcely knew whether it was his own or that of a shipmate. No sound was heard, but he saw that the man who had stood next to him the moment before was no longer there, but a few feet off a human being lay stretched on the deck. He was about to stoop down to help the man during the interval that the charge was being rammed home.

“Let him alone,” said the captain of the gun; “he has drunk his last glass of grog. See, that’s his blood which has turned you into a red Indian. Hurrah, lads! we’ll revenge him, and all those who lose the number of their mess to-day!”

All this time the small-arm men were not idle. Showers of bullets were flying from the tops and forecastle, returned from those of the enemy.

Now an attempt was made by the “Fougueux,” by bracing up her yards, to cross under the stern of the “Weymouth.” This, however, was quickly prevented by Captain Jumper, by a similar manoeuvre, as he had no intention of giving up the advantageous position he held.

It was impossible to ascertain the effect which the fire of the British ship was producing among the French crew, but Jack could not help fearing that a considerable number of his shipmates were either killed or wounded. Those who were wounded were immediately carried below, while the killed were borne to the other side of the deck, and slipped overboard through the ports, in order to avoid discouraging the survivors. Still the fight continued with unabated fury.

“Fire away, my lads!” cried Captain Jumper; and his words were echoed by the officers in all directions. “We will sink the enemy or go down with our own colours flying. Never let it be said that the ‘Weymouth’ had to strike to a Frenchman!”

The speech was a very short one, but it had its effect in encouraging the crew. Scarcely a minute afterwards a fearful sound was heard. It was that of an explosion. And the ship trembled from stem to stern, while those on the quarter-deck saw the poop lifting up into the air, sending some of those on it overboard, and killing several others.

“Fire, fire!” was shouted; “the ship’s on fire!”

“We have water enough alongside, my lads, to extinguish it!” cried the captain, in an undaunted tone; and in an instant those of the crew not actually working the guns were hurried up with buckets, with which they soon put out the flames. The Frenchmen shouted, thinking that they were about to gain the victory, but they were answered by a loud cheer of defiance from the British seamen.

It became now absolutely necessary for the “Weymouth” to stand away from the enemy for a short time to repair damages. The only fear of the British sailors was that in the meantime the enemy might attempt to escape.

“No fear of that, lads!” cried the brave captain, who knew what they were speaking of. “See, we have made too many shot-holes between ‘wind and water,’ and in a few minutes the main-mast will go by the board, if the wind increases.”

This was very evident, for while the “Weymouth” put her helm down, to stand away from the “Fougueux” for a short distance, the other immediately ceased firing. The survivors of her crew were probably engaged in attempting to repair the damages she had received. This gave the English leisure to perform their own work without interruption.

Jack as he was leaving his gun to go aloft, looked round him. Of those who had stood but lately by his side, several were missing. Smedley was nowhere to be seen. He inquired among the crew of his gun.

“Yes; a shot struck him and he was carried below, but whether mortally wounded or not, no one could tell.”

As he passed up the hatchway, the man whom he took to be Burdale lay on the deck. A bullet which had found its way through a port had struck him down. He was bleeding also from a wound in his shoulder. Jack sprang forward to assist him, but just at that instant the men who were appointed to carry the wounded below, lifted him off the deck, and bore him from his sight.

The decks now presented a very different scene to that which they did a short hour ago. Fore and aft they were covered with blood, and in many places they were blackened and torn up by the shot which had ploughed its way across them. The beams and stanchions in every direction were shattered and broken, and the whole ship showed the severity of the action in which she had been engaged.

“We may be in a bad state enough,” Jack heard an old seaman say, “but if you were to go on board the enemy, you would see matters ten times worse. Their decks, depend upon it, are slippery with gore all over, and for one man we have lost, they have lost five.”

There was little time, however, for talking. The officers were shouting here and there, giving their directions, and the men were springing aloft to obey them, or running wherever they were summoned. In a short time the ropes were knotted, the yards braced up, the damage done to the poop partially repaired, and the “Weymouth” again stood towards her opponent. As she approached she was received with a hot fire, which she returned with interest, while the big guns once more with loud roars sent forth their shot. The soldiers and small-arm men rattled away with their musketry, and the swivels, culverins, and other small guns, in rapid succession added to the uproar by their sharper reports. Bullets, round-shot, and langrage were flying thickly around.

“Depress your guns and fire at her hull!” cried the captain, seeing the effect that had already been produced on the enemy.

As the Frenchmen’s fire grew slacker, that of the English became more and more brisk. Scarcely had a gun been discharged when it was again hauled in and once more sent forth its deadly missile into the hull of the enemy. Just as the action re-commenced, the enemy’s main-mast went by the board. A loud shout burst from the throats of the British seamen. Scarcely had it died away when the mizen-mast followed; and now the stout ship was seen to be heeling over. A cry ran along the decks, “She’s sinking, she’s sinking!” Still her guns continued to send forth her shot, though with far less frequency than at first. Another and another broadside was fired into her; and now it became evident that there was truth in the belief that she was about to go down.

“Cease firing!” cried the English captain. “Not another shot will she discharge at us.”

As he spoke the bow of the “Fougueux” was seen to rise out of the water. Loud shrieks and cries rose from her decks. Her stern gradually sank.

“Lower the boats!” cried the English captain. “Be smart, my lads: we must save the poor fellows’ lives.”

Unhappily, several of the English boats had been almost knocked to pieces. Those which could yet swim were immediately lowered. John Deane jumped into one of the first that reached the water. Ere, however, they could get up to the foundering ship, the sea had washed over her deck. Down—down she went, carrying with her all her wounded and a large number of those who had escaped unhurt. The rest had thrown themselves into the water, some to swim, some holding on to planks or broken spars: but of these, many who had delayed leaving to the last, were drawn down in the vortex of the sinking ship. As the first English boat reached the spot, the streamer at her fore-royal-mast-head was alone to be seen fluttering for a moment above the eddying waters, and then downwards it was drawn after the mast to which it had been attached. Some were still striking out bravely towards their late antagonists. The boats were soon among them, taking up all they met. Many, however, sunk before the very eyes of the English sailors, as they pulled towards them. The boats were soon loaded, and returned to the “Weymouth,” fearing lest they should be swamped should they take on board any more of the struggling wretches. Having handed up those they had saved, they once more returned; but, in the meantime, many of those they desired to help had sunk beneath the waves: and out of a crew of six or seven hundred who had lately manned that tall ship, scarcely three-score remained alive. They confessed that upwards of a hundred had been killed and wounded since the commencement of the action, owing, as they acknowledged, to the rapidity with which the English fired at them. Thus the hard-won prize was lost.

Chapter Twenty Three.

After the Battle.

The brave crew of the “Weymouth” had enough to do to repair their own damages to escape a similar fate. As it was, the “Weymouth” was in a perilous condition from the number of shot-holes she had received in her hull, and probably had a gale sprung up, she also would have gone to the bottom of the ocean. Exhausted by the action as the men were, they still laboured away, as British seamen are ever ready to do, to repair damages, and to keep the ship afloat. A course was then shaped for Plymouth Sound.

As soon as Jack was able to go below, he inquired anxiously for Smedley. He had been carried to the cock-pit. Jack went there. It was the first time he had ever entered that place of horrors, and his heart sank, and he almost fainted at the sickly odour which reached him. As he approached it, cries and groans reached his ears. On the table lay a poor fellow stripped naked, looking already a corpse, on whose leg the surgeons had been operating. His leg, with several other limbs, lay in a basket of sawdust beneath the table. The blood had completely left his face, which still bore the marks of the agony he had suffered, which in those days there were few means of alleviating. One of the surgeons was pouring brandy-and-water down his throat, while another was applying burnt feathers and other restoratives to his nose.

“It’s of little use, I’m afraid,” said the elder surgeon: “he has slipped through our fingers after all!”

At first Jack did not recognise the countenance of the sufferer. He looked again: the features were those of Smedley! The surgeon spoke too truly; the previous loss of blood, and the agony he had suffered during amputation, had been more than his system could bear, and the lamp of life was already flickering in its socket. For an instant he returned to consciousness. Jack went up to him and took his hand, while the surgeons continued to apply their remedies.

“Shall I bear any message to your friends at Nottingham, poor Jem?” he asked.

A slight pressure of the hand was the only answer the sufferer could make. A sigh escaped his bosom. The surgeon put his hand upon his wrist.

“He has gone, poor fellow! there’s no calling him back!” he observed. “Here, take the body away, and put Ned Jones in his place. His arm must come off, if I mistake not!”

Jack turned away with a sad heart. In the cots around were numerous forms. He was about to return on deck, when he recognised among them the countenance of Burdale. The man’s eyes followed Jack, and seemed to ask him to return. He went up to him.

“Can I do any thing for you?” he asked. “We have met before, I think?”

“We have; but you cannot help me much, I suspect. Still, I thank you kindly for the offer. I knew you also when you came on board, and was glad to find that you had escaped the trouble into which I thought you would have fallen.”

The ice was thus broken, and Jack, while wishing to be of use to the wounded man, whose time on earth he thought was likely to be short, determined to gain all the information he could from him respecting Pearson, and the circumstances which had brought them together. As soon as the ship had been put to rights, those who could be removed were carried to the main-deck, and placed in a part screened off, called the sick-bay. Here Jack had an opportunity of visiting his wounded acquaintance whenever he chose. The man grew weaker and weaker, and seemed indeed to suspect that his own end was approaching.

“Deane,” he said, “there’s nobody on board this ship I can trust but you; for though you know little about me, I know you to be an honest young gentleman, and very different from the greater number of wild blades on board. I have a wife and child living at Carlisle, and the poor girl does not know what has become of me, and never will, unless you will undertake, should you ever get on shore, to inform her. I had to leave the country in a hurry to save my life: for when they took to hanging a poor trumpeter for that affair of Sir George Barclay’s, I felt very sure if I was caught hold of they would not spare me.”

“What! were you engaged in that fearful plot?” asked Jack.

“Ay, lad, was I: you may well call it fearful!” answered Burdale. “And I should think you were too, Master Deane, whether you knew it or not.”

“I am afraid that I was, though I did not know it,” said Jack. “Still no man could have hated the thoughts of what was proposed to be done more than I did. But how were you mixed up with it, Burdale?”

“Why, just in this way,” was the answer. “The man whom you know as Master Pearson, though he has as many different names as there are days in the week, was once one of the most noted smugglers on the coast, and I for several years served under him. We also took two or three trips to the Spanish Main, where we had varied fortune; Master Pearson on all occasions got the lion’s share. I was a youngster, and could not look after my own interests in those days. We came back with a couple of chests of gold, and plate, and jewels. Somehow or other my master seemed to think that he had had enough of the sea. He met a lady, a real lady she was too, though I don’t know her name, and he married her, and for the sake of her company he determined to remain on shore. He knew better how to make money than to keep it; and so did I for that matter, and in a short time the greater part of it was gone. However, he promised his wife not to go to sea, or we should soon have replenished our coffers. He set up, therefore, as a farmer and drover, though he did other turns of business as occasion offered. He understood as much about horses as he did about ships; and, as he had been accustomed to levy taxes on all merchantmen he met, with very little regard for the flag they carried, he now took to levying black-mail on shore. I, of course, joined him. What else could I do? Pearson also hoped to make friends at court; and as he fully believed that King James would come back to rule over the land, he heartily entered into the Jacobite plot, which has so signally failed.”

“Then was it he who stopped our cattle as we were bound for Stourbridge Fair?” exclaimed Jack, suddenly.

“There’s no doubt about it!” answered Burdale. “He made old Will pay pretty dear for his protection.”

“Then were you the horseman I met, who advised me to offer payment?”

“Ay, my lad, that I was,” was the answer. “I wonder you did not know me again when I came to you as a guide to conduct you to Pearson’s farm in the fens.”

“I thought it was you, and I was right.”

“Yes; but I had good reason for not telling you so,” said Burdale.

“Then who is Master Pearson?” asked Jack.

“Did you ever hear of the famous northern cateran, Ben Nevis?” asked Burdale.

“Indeed have I!” answered Jack.

“Ay, and you know him well,” said Burdale; “your friend and he are the same. I would not tell you this, even though it would not matter to me, but I feel sure that you and he are not likely to meet again. In the fens he is known as Master Pearson, but he has gone by a dozen different names at various times, and taken up almost as many different characters. Both sea and land are much the same to him, though I think the sea was most to his taste. If it had not have been for his wife, he would have stuck to that probably. Next to Captain Kyd, I don’t suppose there has been a more successful man out on the Spanish Main than he was; and I should not be surprised but what he will take to the same calling again, if England once becomes too hot for him. I think differently now that I see death coming on to gripe hold of me, to what I did when I was in health and strength, and I tell you, John Deane, you are fortunate in getting clear of him. When he first met you, he wished to get you to join his gang, thinking that you would be ready enough to do so from the way in which you were engaged. He would have invited Smedley and the others, but he saw at a glance that they were not lads to suit him, and so he kept his eye upon you. When he saw that you were not likely to be drawn in for that sort of work, he found employment for you in Sir John Fenwick’s plot, and if it had not been for that, I can tell you that Mr Strelley and Will Brinsmead would never have seen the cattle he had undertaken to send south. As it was, it answered his purpose to send them safe. You were thus still further deceived about him. He was employed, as you know, by Squire Harwood and other Jacobite gentlemen—not that he cared for one side more than the other, and if King William’s party had paid him better, he would have served them just as willingly. I say this because it’s the truth, which you wish me to tell you; and I forgive him for all the harm he did me, for it was he who first led me away from an honest course when I was a mere lad, and tempted me to take to smuggling, and in the end to turn pirate and land-robber. I am thankful that I at last got free of him. If it was not for my wife and child in my quiet little cottage in the north, I would not complain of dying now, shot down for my brave king and country. But when I think of them, it’s hard and bitter to go out of the world, and leave them to suffer the neglect and poverty which too likely will be their lot!”

The speaker’s voice grew fainter and fainter as he went on with his narrative, till Jack could with difficulty hear what he said.

“I promise you, Ned, I will act the part of an honest shipmate, and try and find out those you love, and look after them. Besides, you know, your widow will be entitled to a pension, and I will put down her address and write to her as soon as we get into port, that she may apply for it.”

“Ah, that’s a comfort; are you sure you are right, Jack?”

“I have heard several of the men talking about it, and I’m confident I am not wrong,” answered Deane. “The wives of seamen killed in action are always provided for, and a proper thing it should be so. It’s one of the reasons, I have an idea, that our brave fellows fight so well. God looks after the fatherless and widows, and as long as our country professes to be a God-fearing nation, she must obey His commands.”

Burdale put out his hand. Jack pressed it, and promised him again that he would not forget his wishes. Before another sun shone over the world of waters, poor Ned’s spirit had winged its flight away from his once sturdy form; and before the ship entered Plymouth Sound, several others who had been wounded in the action breathed their last.

Chapter Twenty Four.

Cutting-out Expedition—John Deane is Promoted—Capture of two Galleys.

It was no easy matter to find a place in which to write a letter on board. Jack, however, got a board for a desk, and, sitting down near a port on the deck, wrote to Ned Burdale’s widow, according to the address given him, telling her of her husband’s death, and directing her how at once to apply for her pension. He promised also to go and see her if he could possibly manage the journey, and bring a few things which Ned had left to her and her boy, begging her, if she ever moved away, to write to him at Nottingham, that he might know how to find her.

So busily were all hands employed in refitting the ship, aided by extra carpenters and riggers, that Jack was unable to obtain even an hour’s leave on shore. Immediately the ship was ready for sea, Blue Peter was hoisted, the anchor was run up to the bows, and under all sail she stood down the Sound.

Captain Jumper was worthy of his name. A more active officer was not to be found; and he soon made himself as much feared by the French as were Admiral Benbow, Sir Cloudesley Shovel, Sir George Rooke, and Captain Dilkes, who was soon to become an Admiral. Under such a commander John Deane had many opportunities of distinguishing himself. A squadron, of which the “Weymouth” formed a part, was sent in to attack the Island of Rhé and Belleisle, accompanied by several bomb-vessels. Saint Martin’s was bombarded, and several small towns and villages were burned and plundered. The loss the French suffered on this occasion induced them to go to great expense in defending their coast, the cost to them being far greater than was that to the English in attacking it. Jack volunteered on all occasions of this sort, and on all cutting-out expeditions, and had thus an opportunity of bringing himself before the notice of his captain. As the “Weymouth” was standing off and on the French coast, several vessels, supposed by their size to be privateers, were seen at anchor within a small harbour, guarded by a fort. As these vessels, if allowed to get out, would probably commit great havoc among the English merchant shipping, it was very important to destroy them. An expedition was accordingly planned by Captain Jumper for that purpose. It was likely, however, to be a dangerous one, as the boats could not get in without passing under the fire of the fort, while the privateers themselves were likely to be prepared with springs on their cables, and guns ready to receive their assailants. Captain Jumper therefore resolved, as is usual on such occasions, to send in only those who would volunteer for the expedition. He had no lack, however, of men ready to undertake it. The more daring and desperate, the more it suited the taste of his brave crew. He had himself proposed to go in command of it; but his second lieutenant begged that he might have that honour. Among the first who volunteered was John Deane. The captain ordered four boats to be prepared, carrying in all fifty men. John Deane was in the boat with the first lieutenant, Mr Cammock, the leader of the expedition. The third lieutenant and two master’s mates commanded the other boats. To mislead the French, the frigate stood off shore as evening approached, so that they might be led to believe that she had gone altogether. The night being very dark, her return could not be discovered. Jack and his shipmates, in the meantime, were busily employed in re-sharpening their hangers, and looking to their pistols and ammunition, putting in fresh flints, and seeing that they were not likely to miss fire. By midnight the ship came off the mouth of the harbour. The wind was off shore, so that she could lay to, and, at the same time, no noise which might be made in lowering the boats would be heard on shore. The boats were quickly lowered and manned, and with muffled oars their brave leader, Lieutenant Cammock, pulled with steady strokes towards the harbour. The outermost vessels were to be first attacked. While two of the boats boarded one, the other two were to attack the next. Their aim was to pass the fort without being discovered. If they were seen, they were to pull rapidly by, in the hopes that in the darkness the shot might not hit them.

Desperate as the work in which they were engaged was likely to prove, John Deane felt a strange pleasure in the undertaking.

The dim outline of the shore was seen before them, and on one side the straight line of the fort appeared up against the sky, though as yet the masts of the vessels could not be discerned. There was no doubt, however, of their being on the right course. Not a word was spoken. The men scarcely dared to breathe as they pulled on, so anxious were they to avoid discovery. Like a snake coiling its way among the grass, the line of boats advanced steadily up the harbour. The fort was passed. Deane thought he could hear the footsteps of the sentry as he passed up and down; but as yet they were not seen or heard. Probably not dreaming of an enemy approaching the harbour, he had neglected to turn his eyes down towards the entrance. Now he burst forth in a song about his distant home and its vine-clad hills. Jack could almost hear the words as they came floating over the still water. The boats had got some way up the harbour, and now the vessels which were to be attacked appeared before them. Suddenly a sharp report of a musket was heard. It was fired from the fort. The sounds of the oars borne from the harbour must have reached the sentry’s ears. Another shot succeeded it from the same direction. The boats glided rapidly on. Lights were seen on board the vessels, and several sharp reports of muskets told them they were discovered. Not a moment was to be lost. The first vessel was a large ship, probably mounting between twenty and thirty guns. Mr Cammock ordered the boat next to him to board her along with him, while the two latter boats were to attack the vessel astern of her, which was not much inferior in size. The Frenchmen, roused from their sleep, started up on deck to meet the English climbing up the sides with their cutlasses in their teeth. Jack, following Mr Cammock, was among the first on board. They were met by a party of the French, led by one of their officers. On every side pistols were flashing and steel was clashing furiously.

“Clear the decks of them, my lads!” cried Mr Cammock, as with his hanger he rushed towards those who opposed him.

The Frenchmen gave way, so furious and sudden was the attack. Some leaped overboard, others jumped down below, and others cried for quarter. The lieutenant ordering the crew of the other boat to cut the cable and make sail, cried out to Jack and his own boat’s crew to follow him, that they might take the next vessel. All obeyed with alacrity; but the work was far more serious than that which had just been performed, for the Frenchmen were on the alert and prepared to receive the borders. In spite, however, of the pikes thrust at them, and the pistols fired in their faces, the English climbed up the sides and made good their footing on deck. Jack, with his trusty hanger in his hand, kept close to the side of the brave lieutenant. The Frenchmen gathered thickly before them, and a tall figure, whom by his dress Jack saw was an officer, led them on, assailing Mr Cammock with great fury. His sword was about to descend on the head of the English lieutenant, when Jack, rushing between them, received the blow on his own blade, returning it with such interest that the French officer stretched his length on the deck. The fall of their leader discouraged the rest of the crew. Although they once or twice rallied, they were driven forward. Many were cut down, and others cried out for quarter. There was no time to be lost in getting the vessels out, for it was very evident that a greater number of the crew was on shore; and from the lights which appeared on every side, and the shouts which reached them, it was probable that they were coming off to the assistance of their shipmates. The next vessel appeared to have still fewer people on board.

“We cannot get her off,” observed Mr Cammock, “but we can burn her, perhaps.”

“I will do it!” cried Jack. “Who will follow me?”

Several men instantly volunteered, and Jack, jumping into the boat, led the way on board. The Frenchmen, perhaps, were not expecting an attack, for they made no resistance. Jack had snatched a slow-match as he left the other vessel. With this, light was set to different parts of the ship on board which he now found himself. The astonished crew were either drunk or frightened, and did nothing to put out the flames, but were seen to lower a boat and jump into her. The work accomplished, Jack returned to the last vessel which had been taken just as the cable was cut and sail was made on her to carry her out of the harbour. So rapidly did the flames of the vessel which had been set on fire burst forth, that even she with difficulty escaped from them, while, as they glided down the harbour, they were seen to extend to several other vessels near.

“Deane, you have rendered an important service to-night,” said Mr Cammock, as Jack returned on board.

“I can make a favourable report of you to the captain, if we get safe out of this, as I hope we may.”

Scarcely a quarter of an hour had passed since the first vessel was attacked, and four prizes, the reward of British valour, were now being carried off down the harbour with a considerable number of prisoners on board. They were not, however, to escape without molestation. The other vessels which had hitherto escaped the flames, opened their fire upon them, as did the fort; but the number of vessels, which kept some little way apart from each other, prevented the French gunners from taking very good aim. Several shots, however, struck the prizes. The French prisoners on board were the chief sufferers. They, poor fellows! shrieked out to their countrymen, entreating them not to fire, as nothing they could do would stop the desperate Englishmen from carrying off the vessels. Their voices, however, were probably not heard, and their entreaties were certainly not attended to. The breeze, blowing directly down the harbour, carried the prizes quickly clear of the fort, and in a short time they were alongside the “Weymouth,” which made sail, and stood off with them towards the English coast.

Jack’s heart beat high when the next morning he was summoned on the quarter-deck, where the captain and several of his officers were standing together. Jack stood hat in hand before the captain.

“Mr Cammock has spoken highly of your coolness and courage last night, John Deane,” he said. “He tells me also that you saved his life by coming between him and an officer who would have cut him down. From what has been told me, I believe you will do honour to the quarter-deck, and I will therefore from this day rate you as a master’s mate. It is the first step in the ratlines, and I have no doubt, if you go on as you have begun, that you will in time reach the top.”

Jack’s heart beat high at these words. He had hoped some day to become an officer, but he had not expected so soon to attain his wishes, and he was determined the captain’s words should be verified, and that he would lose no opportunity of distinguishing himself. He had already a fair store of prize-money, so that he was able, without writing home, to fit himself out as became an officer, not so difficult in those days as in later years. He had no great fancy for gold lace suits, but a good serviceable coat and cocked hat was more according to his taste. He could now, however, write home with some degree of satisfaction, to say that he had become an officer, and that he hoped by sticking to the service to rise in the profession he had chosen. He certainly had a longing at times to go home and see those he loved so dearly. Often a vision of Alethea rose up before him, but still not without some doubts as to the position he held with her.

It would be impossible to describe all the exploits performed by Captain Jumper and his brave crew during the time the “Weymouth” was in commission. Few ships remained a shorter time in harbour than she did, and the crew might with a show of reason have complained of the hard work they had to go through. They were, however, well satisfied with the amount of prize-money which fell to their lot. Jack, in his new position, got a good share of it, and found himself better supplied with cash than he had ever before been in his life.

Some time passed away, when one day the “Weymouth” was standing towards the French coast in the direction the wind blew to Saint Martin’s, the scene of some of her former exploits, when two vessels were seen to leeward. From the cut of their sails and general appearance they were known to be French.

Every stratagem is considered lawful in warfare. Captain Jumper therefore hoisted the French ensign, and as he was running down before the wind, the cut of his own sails could not so clearly be discerned, by which the character of the “Weymouth” would have been discovered. The two vessels for some time made no attempt to escape, believing probably that the stranger in sight was really French, and wishing for some reason or other to speak her. By yawing occasionally—that is moving the ship’s head from one side to the other—the French ensign was visible to the two vessels to leeward. Thus the “Weymouth” was able to get within gunshot of them before her character was discovered. Quickly bracing up her yards, she poured a broadside into her two opponents, which were close together. They were found to be two large galleys, which carried some twenty guns on the upper-deck, and several on the quarter-deck, while between-decks were small ports, out of which their oars projected. They now began to work their oars, in the hopes of placing themselves on the quarters of the “Weymouth,” but before one of them could do so, so tremendous a fire was poured into her that she was rendered unmanageable, many of the unhappy galley-slaves having apparently been killed, and her rudder shot away. The other galley attempted to make her escape, but the “Weymouth,” following her, treated her in the same way that she had done her consort, and she was compelled to strike her colours.

Boats were now lowered to take possession of the prizes. Deane was sent on board the first, which lay almost a wreck on the waters. As he clambered up the sides he gazed with horror on the scene of slaughter which the decks presented. Numbers of the unhappy galley-slaves, chained to their benches, lay cut in two, with limbs shot off, and fearfully mangled in every possible way. Groans and cries ascended from the survivors, though many had already, more fortunate than them, ceased to breathe. A number of the crew had also been killed and wounded, and the galley herself appeared to be in a sinking state. Deane made a signal to the “Weymouth” to this effect, and begged that other boats might be sent to rescue the crew. Calling on those who had charge of the slaves, he ordered them immediately to knock off their shackles, he and his men holding pistols to their heads, as they seemed rather disinclined to obey the order. As soon as the poor fellows were released, he had them at once placed in the boats, greatly to the anger of the French crew, who considered that they ought first to have been carried off. It is true that many of the slaves were ruffians of the lowest order, sent to the galleys for their crimes; but Jack knew well, also, that many were Huguenots, whose only crime was adhering to the Protestant faith. At that moment it was difficult to discriminate between them, and he therefore determined to carry off all at once. The first cargo were quickly conveyed on board the “Weymouth,” when the boats returned for the survivors of the crew, with whom Deane and his men had remained. He could not help looking anxiously for the return of the boats, for every moment the water was rising higher and higher in the hold of the prize. Again and again he urged the crew to man the pumps, and endeavour to keep their vessel afloat, but they were in no way disposed to do this, probably fearing that if the English returned in time, they might save her altogether from sinking, and carry her off as a prize. This the Frenchmen were anxious that their conquerors should not do.

Once more, as the boats were seen approaching the galley for the remainder of the crew, Deane went round the between-decks to ascertain if any of the wounded slaves still remained alive. A low groan reached his ears from a man who lay stretched out under one of the benches. The chain was still round his leg. Deane raised up the man’s head. Though wounded, he was still perfectly conscious, and had become aware of the dreadful fate awaiting him had he been overlooked. Deane shouted to those on deck to come to his assistance. By the sound which the water made rushing into the hold of the vessel, he was very sure she would not float many minutes longer. To leave the poor man was contrary to his nature, and yet to release him without knocking off the shackle was impossible. The glance he had of the countenance of the wounded man convinced him that he was not one of the low class of criminals which formed a portion of the gang of galley-slaves, but that he was probably a Huguenot. Deane heard those on deck shouting to the boats to make haste as the galley was about to sink. At that moment one of his own men, finding that he was not on deck, sprung down below to look for him. Deane at once ordered him to bring the French master-at-arms with his keys or chisel to emancipate the unfortunate prisoner. The Frenchman pretended not to understand him, but a pistol placed at his head quickly made him come below and take off the shackle which held the slave to the bench. Jack in a moment, bearing the rescued man in his arms, leaped up on deck just as the boats came alongside. The French crew made a spring into them, for already they felt the galley sinking beneath their feet. Jack had only just time to lower the man down and spring in after him before the galley, rolling heavily, settled down under the water. The boats rapidly pulled away from her, and in another minute she and the mangled remains of humanity with which her decks were covered were hid beneath the waves.

The rescued galley-slave warmly expressed his thanks to Deane for having preserved his life. He had been struck on the head by a piece of one of the oars shattered by a shot, and stunned. Little blood having flowed from the wound, his strength was unimpaired.

“You have saved my life by your activity, young sir,” he said, in broken English, “and I am grateful to you; but, alas! when too probably all I once loved on earth, my property, and my friends, will never again be restored to me, I have, I own, but little to live for!”

“Cheer up, sir,” answered Jack; “your Huguenot countrymen are always welcome in England, and I doubt not that you will find many friends among them; and at all events the English will receive you as one, if you are, as I conclude, also a Huguenot.”

“Yes, indeed I am!” was the answer. “The faith of the Gospel has sustained me under all the trials and hardships I have gone through. Though at times I have been cast down and fainted, I have once more gained courage and determination to await calmly whatever Providence has had in store for me.”

On getting on board, Deane took the Huguenot to the captain, and explained who he was. He, therefore, and others whom he named, were separated from the rest of the prisoners, and treated as friends rather than as captured enemies. Some of the slaves were, however, ruffians, whom it was evident it would not be safe to leave at large. They therefore were treated as the rest of the prisoners.

As the other galley was taken possession of, a ship was seen standing out from under the land towards the “Weymouth,” attracted probably by the firing, and the English seamen exultingly hoped that they should have another action to fight, and gain another prize. The Frenchman, however, on discerning the fate of the two galleys, again kept away, and ran back towards the land, taking shelter under the guns of the fort, from which it would have been difficult to cut him out. The “Weymouth,” with her prize, now stood up Channel. As she had now been several years in commission, great hopes were entertained that she would be paid off. Her crew were not disappointed; and, being ordered into Portsmouth, those who had lived and fought for so long together were once again separated and scattered in all directions.

Chapter Twenty Five.

The Galley-slave, and who he was.

Jack took an especial interest in the unfortunate man whose life he had saved on board the galley. From his manners and language he guessed at once that he was a gentleman, although his hair was long and matted, and his countenance had that sickly hue which long confinement and hard labour had given to it. He visited him in his hammock, where he lay alongside other wounded men. The stranger recognised him at once.

“Ah, my brave friend,” he said, “this is indeed kind in you, to come and see me! I know not whether my days on earth are already numbered, but as long as I remain here, my heart will never cease to beat with gratitude to you!”

Jack replied that he should have done the same for any human being, but that he was very thankful he had been of service in saving the life of one who appeared to be a gentleman and a man of feeling; especially one who had gone through so many hardships as he had.

“Ah, indeed I have!” he answered. “Because I loved Protestant truth, and desired to worship God according to the dictates of my conscience, I was cruelly deprived of my property, and my wife and child snatched from me—while I was carried off, and after undergoing numberless hardships, was sent on board a galley, associated with many of the greatest villains and most hardened wretches in the country! I was not entirely alone with them, however, for many other Huguenots were suffering with me, and we were thus enabled to support and console each other. But, alas! I might have borne the loss of my liberty, and my property, and the sufferings and hardships I had to go through, but I could not bear the thought of being separated from my beloved wife and our sweet daughter, and never being able to gain tidings of them. Even now I know not whether they escaped from France, or whether they suffered as did many who were attempting to fly from the country. Sometimes I fancy that they are alive, but whether the child and mother are still together I know not, or whether they have been separated by our cruel enemies. The fate of our little girl often presses heavily on me. I think sometimes she may have been seized by the Romanists and brought up in their faith, as have many children who have been taken from Huguenots.”

Jack did his best to console his new friend, and assured him, as he had done before, that he would be kindly treated in England, and that perhaps his Protestant countrymen could give him some tidings of his wife.

“My only hope is that she may have returned to Holland,” he said, “to which country she belonged, though she had resided many years in France. It was also my father’s country, but by right of my mother I inherited a property in France—though little did I think at the time when I went to take possession of it, that it would have cost me all the suffering I have endured! As I had become a naturalised Frenchman, so as a Frenchman I was treated; but I love the country of my ancestors and my wife’s country, and would gladly return to that. Indeed, could I effect my escape, I would do so, as I have some property there which the French have not been able to take from me.”

Jack listened with great interest to this account.

“I was acquainted a few years ago with an English merchant at Norwich, one Mr Gournay, who has been very kind to the Huguenots; and as he has correspondents in all parts of the country, and throughout Holland also, and many other places on the Continent, if you will tell me your name, and describe your wife and child, I will write to him, and I have no doubt that he will make inquiries in that direction for you,” he said.

“Thank you, thank you, my kind friend!” said the wounded man. “Your promise gives me hopes which I dared not before entertain. My name is De Mertens. My dear wife was tall and graceful, and noted for her beauty, and our little girl was called Elise, or, as you would call her in England, Elizabeth.”

“This is indeed very strange!” exclaimed Jack; “for I met a lady at the house of the very gentleman I spoke of—Mr Gournay—who told me that her name was De Mertens, and that her husband had been carried off to the galleys, while, I grieve to tell you, for it will pain you much to hear it, the little girl had been snatched away from her just as she was embarking, and since then she has been unable to gather any tidings of her. She begged me to make inquiries, which I did as far as I was able, but circumstances compelled me to leave the country soon afterwards, and I was not able to gather any clue to her lost child.”

“My wife still alive! and under the charge of kind friends!” exclaimed the wounded man, sitting up. “This is indeed joyful news! though alas that it should not be without its alloy! Yet the kind Providence which has preserved my wife, may have preserved our child to be restored to us. But what do I see, young man?” he exclaimed, seizing Jack’s hand. “Let me look at that ring on your finger. It is strange that it should be there. Did my wife give it you?”

“No,” replied Jack, somewhat astonished; “I did not receive it till some time after I last saw Madame de Mertens. It was given to me by a young girl, the daughter of a farmer and his wife, at whose house I was residing for some time. She was a sweet, dear little girl; and when I came away she told me that she had nothing else to give, and she insisted on placing that ring on my finger. She said she had worn it round her own neck since she was a child, and though she valued it greatly, she should be unhappy if I would not take it. Directly after I received it I purposed restoring it to her, as I did not think it right to deprive her of it, but was unable again to return to the farm before I came away to sea.”

“This is indeed wonderful!” exclaimed Monsieur de Mertens. “Oh, let me entreat you to describe the little girl to me!”

Jack did so, and did not draw an unfavourable picture.

“The description is indeed like what I should suppose my sweet little girl to be by this time. Fair, with bright blue eyes, light hair, and gentle, winning manners; but you tell me that she was the daughter of a farmer and his wife?”

“For such she always passed,” answered Jack; “but often I thought so rough a man as the farmer could not have so sweet and gentle a child; and from what I have since heard, I am inclined to believe that she was not really their child.”

“Oh, no, no, I am sure she was not!” exclaimed Monsieur de Mertens, clasping his hands. “She must be my own dear little daughter! Oh, what joy and happiness it will be to see her again with her dear mother.”

“If I can possibly get leave when we go into port, I will promise to accompany you to Norwich, where you will, I trust, find Madame de Mertens; and after that we will pay a visit to the fens and ascertain if little Elizabeth Pearson is really or not your child,” said Deane.

“Thank you, thank you!” answered De Mertens. “But let me look at that ring again. I cannot be mistaken about it!”

Jack took off the ring, which De Mertens eagerly examined.

“Yes, yes!” he exclaimed; “it is one I myself gave her mother, telling her that it was an heirloom, and that she should bestow it upon her daughter. I doubt not that she fastened it round her neck before she fled from home, that should she and the child be separated, she might again recognise her by it. And you say the little girl you met was called Elizabeth? That would be the name of my dear child in English, and as she could speak quite clearly at the time of our separation, she would certainly have told those into whose hands she fell her Christian name, though it is possible that she might not have known the name of her parents.”

As may be supposed, after this interesting conversation, Jack and Monsieur de Mertens constantly discussed the subject as they sailed up the Channel. At length the Isle of Wight hove in sight. Each well-known point and headland, village and town, was welcomed, as the frigate ran round the back of that lovely island, and at length anchored at Spithead.

Chapter Twenty Six.

Visit to Norwich and to the Farm at the Fens—A bitter Disappointment.

As soon as the ship was paid off, Jack took his new friend on shore, and procured for him a proper costume and other necessaries. He had himself a considerable amount of prize-money to receive, and instead of spending it as did many of his shipmates, throwing it away lavishly on every side, he visited the nearest horse dealer’s in order to purchase a couple of stout animals to carry him and Monsieur de Mertens on their way. The horse dealer was rather astonished when the naval officer, whom he naturally supposed knew as much about horse-flesh as he himself did about the management of a ship, indignantly refused a couple of spavined animals which he offered for sale. Several others were brought forward, which Jack in like manner rejected. At length he fixed upon two beasts which, after passing his hands over their shoulders and down their legs, he thought might suit for the purpose of carrying them safe to Norwich, and from thence on to Master Pearson’s farm.

“The finest animals in my stud!” exclaimed the horse dealer, as Jack ordered them to be led out. “Fit for chargers for the Duke of Marlborough himself, or suited to carry any noblemen as hunters across the country.”

“I have not so long ploughed salt water as not to know something about ploughing the land,” answered Jack; “don’t you see the hay-seed still in my hair? Come, come, Mr Crupper, the horses will carry us along the roads without coming down on their knees at a decent pace, and if you like to take the sum I offer, we’ll have them, if not, we will soon go and seek another dealer who is not so ready to pass off his broken-kneed beasts on poor ignorant ‘Jack-tars.’”

The dealer, seeing that Jack was not to be taken in, at length agreed to the price offered.

In a short time, with their valises strapped to their saddles, their pistols in their holsters, with serviceable swords by their sides, the travellers took their way towards London. In those days not a few highwaymen beset the roads, especially those leading from the chief naval ports to London, as they were pretty certain of finding seamen and officers travelling up and down—those travelling towards the metropolis, generally with an ample supply of cash in their pockets. Hounslow Heath, over which they had to pass, was one of the spots most frequented by those knights of the highway. It did not matter much that the horses possessed but little speed, as De Mertens, not having ridden for so many years, was unable to proceed at a fast rate; and even Jack found that it was far pleasanter not to attempt going as fast as he would once have wished to have gone over the road. They were therefore obliged to sleep at an inn about half-way between Portsmouth and London, hoping to get into the big city at an early hour the next day. Jack’s chief puzzle was to know where to find a lodging. As may be supposed, he had no fancy to go back to the only one he knew of at Hammersmith, although on their way they should pass not far from it. He felt very sure, however, that he might do so without any risk of being discovered, for instead of the rosy-cheeked lad he then was, he now wore a full black beard, while his countenance was thoroughly well bronzed, and there was a bold, dashing look about him which often marked the naval officer of those days who had seen hard service. As De Mertens had no wish to remain in London, they agreed to pass through the city, and to stop for the night at Hertford, or some other town to the north of it. On passing across Hounslow Heath they encountered more than one suspicious-looking gentleman, armed to the teeth, and mounted on a strong active horse. But probably Jack’s appearance made the highwayman, if such he was, think it more prudent to allow the travellers to pass unquestioned. That sort of gentry, even in those days, in spite of all their boasting, were generally cowards at heart, and took good care not to attack those whom they did not feel sure they could intimidate or overcome without difficulty.

Jack did his best to keep up the spirits of poor Monsieur de Mertens, who as he approached Norwich became more and more-nervous, dreading to hear that some accident had happened to his wife—that she was ill, or perhaps had died. Then he dreaded the effect which his sudden return might have on her; and more than all he pictured to himself her sorrow, when at their meeting she would be unable to present to him their beloved child.

On reaching Norwich Jack took his companion to the inn at which he had put up with Will Brinsmead, and begged him to remain there while he himself went on to the house of Mr Gournay, that he might prepare Madame de Mertens for his appearance.

Jack now began to feel very nervous himself. He would ten times rather have boarded a French ship, with pistols flashing and cold steel flourishing round his head, than go through the necessary interview with the wife of his friend. He first made his way to Mr Gournay’s counting-house, that he might inquire for his intended brother-in-law Giles Dainsforth. Mr Gournay himself had returned home, but the clerks were still there. Giles Dainsforth was not among them.

“Oh, did you not know that he left us last year to go to Nottingham, to be married to Mr Deane’s daughter? They sailed some time since for Mr Penn’s new colony in America, which they call Pennsylvania,” was the answer. “Several friends have gone out there from thence, and it’s one of the most flourishing settlements in the New World.”

Jack accordingly hastened to Mr Gournay’s residence, and first asked to see Mrs Gournay. She received Jack very kindly, though she expressed her regret at finding that he was following a profession in which he was likely to shed the blood of his fellow-creatures.

“Young man, thou hadst better have taken a quill in thine hand, to labour as a clerk in a counting-house, or have remained a drover to conduct cattle up and down the country, than used a sword to deface God’s image, as I fear too often thou must have done.”

Jack did not wish to argue the point, but he assured her that he had no pleasure in killing his fellow-creatures, and that he had the consolation of believing that the navy had been the means of preventing a Popish King from coming over and re-establishing papacy in the country; and that he also in his humble way had been of some benefit to his fellow-creatures. “For instance,” he said, “I was the means not long since of saving the life of a gentleman, a French Protestant, whom I have brought with me to see you.”

Jack then explained who his companion was. Good Mrs Gournay was overjoyed.

“Mr Deane,” she said, “we must break it gently to dear Madame de Mertens. She has been, especially lately, in delicate health, and any sudden surprise might be injurious to her. I will go and gradually tell her of what has occurred, and do you return to the inn and bring Monsieur de Mertens here. By the time that he arrives, it may probably be safe to allow them to meet.”

It was very long since Jack had trod the ground with the elastic step with which he hastened back to bring his friend to Mr Gournay’s house. He felt, indeed, very proud at the thought that he should thus have been the means of restoring two loving hearts to each other, and still more proud he felt he should be if he could discover their long-lost child. This he had great hopes of doing. And as he thought of Elizabeth Pearson’s manner, her way of speaking, and many other little circumstances, he recollected that her accent was somewhat that of a foreigner. There was an intelligence and refinement, too, which he should not have expected to find in a young girl in her position in life, except, however, that Dame Pearson was herself very superior to any farmer’s wife he had ever met, and was evidently a person who had belonged to a higher rank of society. He was also sacrificing himself for the good of others, for had he been left to his own disposal, he would, in the first place, have hastened on to Nottingham to enjoy the society of his own family, and, more than all, as he thought, to renew his acquaintance with Alethea Harwood. Often and often had her lovely countenance risen up before him, and he had enjoyed the hope that she would one day become his. At the same time it must be owned that another sweet face frequently presented itself before him, and though he had never associated it with the thought of love, yet surely it was one which must of necessity be very dear to him. It was that of little Elizabeth Pearson, so gentle, so bright and intelligent, and so confiding! He had now arranged to go and visit her, not for his own satisfaction, but for that of the friends who had hopes of discovering in her their long-lost daughter.

Leaving Mistress Gournay, Jack hurried back through the narrow streets of Norwich to the Bear Inn, where he found Monsieur de Mertens anxiously waiting for him. His friend trembled as he took his arm and led him out of the house.

“A kind friend will inform your wife of your arrival, and by the time we reach her house Madame de Mertens will, I trust, be prepared to receive you,” said Jack.

“But she will, I fear, scarcely know me,” said the poor man. “You cannot tell how anxiety of mind and physical hardships have changed me. When we parted I was young, and full of life and spirits, and now my hair is grey, the colour has left my cheeks, and I tremble in every limb!”

Jack tried to console him by assuring him that he had greatly improved in his appearance since he had been freed from the galley, and that he was sure his wife would know him by the expression of his countenance and the tone of his voice, even should she discover the change of which he spoke.

“Alas!” he said, “our joyful meeting must, however, be tinged with sorrow when she cannot present to me our dear child. May Heaven grant that through your assistance, my kind friend, that dear one may still be restored to us!”

“I have little doubt about it, my dear sir,” answered Jack, who was not apt to indulge in what he called the “sentimental mood.”

“I am sure that if little Elizabeth Pearson turns out to be your daughter, you will have reason to be thankful, even though she may not be the polished young lady she would have been had she remained under the charge of her mother.”

Thus conversing they reached the door of Mr Gournay’s mansion, and Jack had almost to drag in his poor friend, who appeared totally overcome by the agitation of the expected meeting. Mrs Gournay had kindly stationed a servant at the door to open it as soon as they were seen coming up the steps. She herself then came down, and taking Monsieur de Mertens by the hand, led him forward to the room where she said his wife was waiting to receive him.

The meeting need not be described, nor does it matter much whether the affectionate husband and wife thought each other greatly changed. It was not until they had been some time together that Madame de Mertens ventured to speak of their long-lost daughter; and then she heard with grateful joy that her husband entertained a hope of her recovery, with the aid of John Deane. When her husband showed her the ring which Jack had given him, and which she herself had fastened round her child’s neck, all doubt as to the fact of Elizabeth Pearson being their child, vanished. Both she and her husband were eager at once to set out to the farm in the fens; but good mistress Gournay would not hear of her commencing so fatiguing a journey, nor was her husband indeed at all fit to undertake it at that time. Jack offered to go alone, but of that Monsieur de Mertens would not hear. It was finally settled that they should start together after a day’s rest.

The two horses which had brought them to Norwich not being well suited for the continuance of the journey, Mr Gournay placed at their disposal two of the strongest animals he could procure. He also prepared a palfrey, and directed a groom to accompany it, that Elizabeth might be able to return without delay to the arms of her mother. When the hour arrived for their departure, Monsieur de Mertens declared himself fully able to undertake the journey, and urged Jack to push on over the roads as fast as their horses could go, so eager was he naturally to solve any remaining doubts with regard to the existence of his long-lost child. Jack had been so thoroughly acquainted with all the country round the farm, that as he approached the neighbourhood of it, where the high-road ceased and the devious tracks across the marshy land commenced, he had no difficulty in finding his way. He heard, however, that since he had been there engineers had come over from Holland, and were engaged with large gangs of workmen in draining the fen-country. He was able to traverse, therefore, many places which had before been impassable, and deep canals had been cut through others, which could only be passed by means of wooden bridges at considerable distances from each other. Still he felt sure that he could not mistake his way to the farm. The nearer, however, he approached the spot where he expected to find it, the greater difficulty did he experience in making his way. Several times he had to pull up his horse, and look around him to consider which direction he should take. Whenever he thought he was right, he pushed on across the country. Although there were many hard places, there were still many wide districts of fen-land, in no way changed in appearance to what it had been when he left it, and often with difficulty he avoided riding into bogs, out of which it would have been almost impossible to extricate the horses. At length, to his great satisfaction, he reached a group of willows which he remembered well. He was now sure that he could not be mistaken. His own heart beat quick. He saw by the working of Monsieur de Merten’s countenance the agitation with which he suffered, as at length he pointed out to him in the far distance the trees which grew round the farm-house to which they were bound. Jack took the lead, his companion following close behind him. Already he could distinguish the windows of the house, and he expected every moment to see the old dogs, which once knew him so well, come out barking loudly, and then when they should recognise him, leap up, as they had been accustomed to do, and lick his hands. He hoped to see Dame Pearson or Elizabeth appear at the door, attracted by the noise, to observe the approaching horsemen. In vain he waited however. Not a sound was heard. No barking of dogs, either in anger or in welcome, reached his ears. As he advanced his heart began to sink. There was an air of desolation about the place which it had never been accustomed to wear. No cattle were to be seen in the neighbouring meadow. Many of the fences were thrown down. There were no fowls in the farm-yard. No pigeons circled around the barn. An ominous silence reigned over the place. Still he went on. He felt that he must speak to his friend. Yet it seemed to him almost cruel to utter the words which he had to say.

“You must be prepared for a disappointment, my dear sir. I fear that the former inhabitants of the place have left it. We may, however, be able to learn where they have gone.”

The ground was now sufficiently hard to enable them to gallop on. On reaching the front door he threw himself from his horse and struck loudly against it. A hollow sound was the only answer returned. He lifted the latch, for the door was unlocked. He gazed round the room where the dame and Elizabeth had been accustomed to sit, after the chief labours of the day were over, with their distaffs or spinning-wheels—that very room where he had last parted from the young girl! The lighter articles of value had been removed, though the heavy pieces of furniture still remained in their places, thickly covered with dust. It was evident that for many months no one had entered the house. Green mildew was on the walls. The very floors were covered with damp.

Poor Monsieur de Mertens sank down on a seat, overcome by the bitter disappointment which he experienced. Jack endeavoured to re-assure him, by telling him that he knew several persons in the neighbourhood, and that he should probably be able to ascertain from them where Master Pearson and his family had gone. Before leaving the house, however, he would go over every part of it, to try and discover any thing which might give them the desired information.

The examination of the house was a very melancholy one, for not a sign could he discover to afford the wished-for clue. One of the rooms was locked. He hesitated about attempting to break it open. At length, on searching around, he found a bunch of keys. They had evidently been dropped by accident, and unintentionally left behind. Among them he discovered the key which opened the door of the closed room. He at first almost dreaded to enter, though he could scarcely tell why. At length he mustered courage. He breathed more freely when he found that the room was simply filled with bedding and bed-clothes and household implements. They had been placed there probably for the purpose of being afterwards sent for and brought away, and if such was the intention of the occupants of the house it had by some reason been frustrated. There were many signs, however, of a hasty departure, though why Master Pearson had suddenly gone away with his wife and reputed daughter Jack could not determine.

He feared, however, from the contents of the room which he had examined, that they must have gone to some distance, or otherwise these articles would probably have been sent for and brought away. Not a particle of food was to be found in the house, and it was therefore impossible for them to remain for the night, and Jack believed that there was time to return to the nearest village where accommodation could be obtained. He there also hoped to gain some information regarding Master Pearson’s movements.

With heavy hearts the two horsemen mounted their steeds and took their way across the marsh. Night however closed in upon them before they were clear of it. At length a light appeared before them. It seemed to come from a cottage window close down to the ground. Jack was on the point of riding towards it, when he knew by the hesitation shown by his horse that he was approaching treacherous ground. At that instant the light vanished—again to appear, however, at a little distance farther off.

“Ah, how foolish I was to be tempted by such a ‘will o’ the wisp’ as that!” he exclaimed. “We must keep away, my dear sir, to the left, and I hope ere long that we shall escape from this treacherous neighbourhood.” He had been through a good many trying scenes, but he had never felt more perplexed than he did at this moment. He was grieved too, and sick at heart. Somewhat surprised also, perhaps, to find how much he felt the absence of Elizabeth, though he soon persuaded himself that it was more on his friend’s account than his own. After riding some way, Jack did what under such circumstances is the only course to pursue. Going first himself, he allowed his horse to follow the path which his own instinct dictated; and by so doing, in the course of an hour the hoofs of his animal once more trod hard ground. In a short time afterwards a twinkling light appeared, far brighter, however, than the “will o’ the wisp” which had before deceived them, and they rode up to the very inn which Jack had hoped to reach. The landlord was well pleased to see two well-equipped cavaliers arrive at his humble hostel, and under took to supply them with every thing they required. Jack’s first inquiry, however, after Master Pearson, made him look more suspiciously at them.

“Master Pearson?” he said, “the farmer who lived out there in the fens? Ah, curious things have been told about him since he went away. I cannot exactly make out what to say about it.”

“But where has he gone?” asked Jack eagerly; “can you tell me that?”

“No; nor no one either, master,” he answered. “It’s the better part of six months gone, when Bill Green, who was riding across the fen, made his way to the farm and found not a human soul there. Why they had gone, or how they had gone, or where they had gone, no one from that day to this can tell. The only thing we know is, that they did not come by this road, and so it is supposed that they made for the sea-coast. There was Master Pearson, and Mistress Pearson, who all said was a very good woman, and their young daughter; but not a servant or a follower of any sort did they take with them, that we know of. None of the farm-servants belonged to this part of the country, and they had all gone away some time before. Altogether the matter was a mystery, and is a mystery still to my belief.”

This information given by Master Bowleggs, the landlord of the Goose and Goslings, was very unsatisfactory to Jack and his friend. They feared from the circumstantial way in which it was given them that it was too likely to be true. Jack had therefore great difficulty in keeping up the spirits of his companion. He undertook to make further inquiries in the neighbourhood, and to devote himself to the search for Elizabeth.

Leaving the anxious father at the little inn, Jack the next day rode off to call on the different people with whom he had been acquainted during his stay at the farm. Several days were employed in this manner, but none of those on whom he called could give him the slightest information. They all believed that Master Pearson had left the country, and some supposed that he had gone to one of the plantations in America, but that was only a surmise, as he had for some reason or other left no trace of the direction he had taken. Very unwillingly, therefore, Jack and his companion returned to Norwich.

Poor Madame de Mertens suffered greatly from the disappointment she felt at the account which her husband and John Deane brought. Her kind friends, however, entreated her to keep up her spirits, pointing out to her how thankful she should be at having her husband restored to her, and that the same kind Providence which had given her that blessing might yet further increase it by sending back to her her long-lost daughter.

Jack’s mission at Norwich having been accomplished, though not in the satisfactory way he had hoped, he set forward to Nottingham. The greater part of his journey was speedily accomplished, and wishing to learn how matters were going on in that town, and also to arrive at home at an early hour of the day, he put up at his old friend the miller’s, where he had stopped on his last visit to Harwood Grange. He had some difficulty in making the miller believe who he was, for from his dress and the arms he carried, the good man at first took him to be a highwayman, and even his dame would not believe for some time that he was the same lad she had known but a few years back. As far as he could learn, all his family at home were well, though the miller told him of the death of several people he knew. He inquired, not without some hesitation, about Harwood Grange and its owner.

“Ah! the Squire. He had to go abroad some years ago, about the matter, it was supposed, of Sir John Fenwick, whose head was cut off, you mind. Well, the poor gentleman never came back again, and it is believed that he took on so, about leaving his native land and horses and hounds, that he at last died. Certain it is that his daughter came into the property, and is now mistress of the Grange. Not that she lives there though, for I heard that she was going to marry some young gentleman in Nottingham, and she has taken up her abode there. Well, it is as well that she should give the Grange a master, for it is a pretty property, and it requires a gentleman to look after it.”

This news was not over pleasant to Jack. He was sorry, certainly, to hear of the death of Mr Harwood, but the account of Alethea’s intended marriage made his heart sink somewhat lower than it had ever sunk before. His only hope was that the miller’s story might not be true. He could not believe that all his bright dreams should prove to be cruel unrealities just as he was returning home. He therefore answered the miller with as indifferent an air as he could, but the effort was somewhat vain, and the good dame, observing that he must be tired after his long journey, recommended him as soon as supper was over to seek his bed.

Chapter Twenty Seven.

Returns Home.

Next morning John Deane set out to Nottingham, mounted on his strong horse, with a hanger slung to a sash over his shoulder, a laced coat, having an undoubted nautical cut about it, with a cocked hat, his waistcoat with long flaps, also richly embroidered. Altogether, with his hat cocked rakishly on one side, though he was unaware of the fact, he presented a gallant and bold appearance. He was just crossing the bridge over the Trent, into the town, when he saw a party of ladies and gentlemen on horseback approaching him. First came a gentleman in a laced riding-suit, wearing a fair peruke with a buckle, as the mode then was, engaged in low conversation with a young lady in a cherry-coloured riding-habit, her long hair hanging in loose curls over her shoulders. In the first he recognised his brother Jasper, and in the lady, the fair Alethea. She glanced slightly at Jack’s bronzed countenance, surrounded by a bushy beard and whiskers, and well-knit figure. He drew his horse on one side to let the party pass. But though she looked up a second time, she evidently did not recognise him, nor did his brother.

Following them came another young gentleman with his merry sister Polly by his side. She was laughing loudly, as was her wont, either at her own jokes or at something her companion had said. Jack fully thought that she at all events would find him out, but she was possibly too much engaged in her own pleasant thoughts to do so, for though she gave a look at the naval gallant whom she was passing, she took no further notice of him.

“I won’t stop them,” thought Jack, “but go home and have a talk with father and mother first; and if Jasper is the gentleman who it is said is going to marry Alethea, the sooner I’m off to sea again the better! It looked something like it, for it’s certain he never used to dress so bravely; and, by the way he was looking at her, I cannot help thinking it’s too true. Well, I wish him every happiness. There’s no use repining; and I don’t see how I could have expected it to be otherwise. Of course he would fall in love with her; and she certainly never gave me any reason to suppose that she cared especially for me.”

Such were the thoughts which occupied his mind as he rode up to the well-known door of his father’s house in the market-place. The servant who opened the door bowed respectfully to the gallant stranger who was inquiring for Mistress Deane, and Jack had actually entered the parlour, where his mother was sitting with her knitting in hand, and been desired to take a seat, when he wonderfully astonished the old lady by springing up and throwing his arms round her neck. She knew him then well enough; and after giving him a maternal embrace in return, holding him by both hands, she looked again and again into his honest countenance, as if to trace his well-known features.

“Yes, Jack,” she exclaimed, “you are my boy! I would not believe any one who told me otherwise, though the sun and the sea air have given you a more brazen face than I ever expected you would wear, and you have grown into a big, sturdy young man, well able to fight the king’s enemies.”

Old Mr Deane soon afterwards entered, hearing that a stranger had been inquiring for him. He confessed that if Mistress Deane had not been there to swear to him he should scarcely have known his own son.

Jack did not allow any thoughts which would mar his happiness to intrude while he sat between his kind parents, each of them holding one of his hands in theirs, while he gave them an account of his various proceedings since he had last written, among which he described his rescue of the Dutch gentleman, and his visit to Mr Gournay. His mother told him of Mr Harwood’s supposed death abroad.

“Yes, dame. It was not so unfortunate, however,” observed Mr Deane; “the poor gentleman was so deeply implicated in the Jacobite plots, that he would have lost his property if he had come back; but through the interest of many friends, and I may say I was one of them, we contrived to preserve his estates for Alethea. Poor man! his last days were very sad. He went to James’s court at Saint Germain’s, where he expected to be received with respect, as having suffered in the cause of the king. He wrote me an account of his visit. The palace in which James resided was magnificent. A handsome pension was allowed him by the French king, and he had guards, and a large establishment of hounds and huntsmen, and every means of amusing himself. He was, however, surrounded by ecclesiastics who ruled every thing, including the king himself. Nothing indeed could be more dull than the life spent by the courtiers, their sole employment appearing to be backbiting each other. Mr Harwood soon found also that he himself had committed a great crime in the eyes of those by whom he was surrounded. He was a Protestant. He, with all the other Protestant Jacobites who appeared at the court, were treated with the greatest indignity by the Roman Catholics. In every instance the Roman Catholic was preferred to the Protestant, and in every quarrel the Roman Catholic was supposed to be right. Several Protestant clergy who had given up their livings, and sacrificed every thing in the cause of James, were grossly insulted by the Romish priests. When they requested to be allowed to hold a service for their Protestant countrymen, their prayers were refused. The Protestant ministers were kept away from the death-beds of the Protestants, who were allowed to be beset by the Romish priests; these men endeavouring by all the arts they possessed, and often by force, to win them over to their church. Several Royalists, indeed, who died, were denied a Christian burial, and were thrown into holes dug in the fields at the dead of night, without any form or ceremony. The unfortunate Earl of Dunfermline, who had lost every thing for James, and had fought bravely for him at the battle of Killiecrankie, was treated in this way. While alive, he had been grossly insulted on several occasions. A number of Scotch officers who had served under him, requested that they might be formed into a company, and that he might be placed at their head; but this was refused on the plea that he was a Protestant, and therefore unfit to command men serving a Catholic prince. Those only who at the last gasp, scarcely conscious what was being done, were turned into Catholics, by having the consecrated wafer thrust into their mouths, were buried with all the pomp of the Romish Church. Poor Mr Harwood expressed his fears that he should be treated in the same way. He died at last of a broken heart, though he was able a short time before his death to remove from the court. His account shows us how James would have acted had he recovered the English throne, and we may be truly thankful to heaven that he was prevented from obtaining his wishes.”

Mrs Deane and Jack heartily responded to this sentiment.

“You know Alethea, Jack? a pretty, sweet girl she is, I can assure you; though you saw so little of her, that you might not have discovered her good qualities,” continued the old gentleman.

Jack’s heart sank somewhat. He expected to hear his father give an account of the intended marriage of Alethea to Jasper. The old gentleman went on for some time enlarging on her beauty and accomplishments, and other attractive qualities.

“Your father means to say, Jack, that it has not been her fortune which has captivated your brother Jasper, for you must know that he has won her heart, and in the course of another week is to possess her hand. You have just come in time for the wedding. I am sure it will be a great pleasure to you to see Jasper made happy, as it adds greatly to our pleasure to have you back again amongst us.”

Poor Jack’s heart sank down to zero. His worst anticipations were thus realised. For some moments his head was in a whirl, and he knew not what to say. He speedily, however, recovered himself.

“I am thankful to hear of Jasper’s expected happiness,” he forced himself to say at last. He said it sincerely in one sense, for he loved his brother, and he felt that if Alethea was not to be his, he was glad that she should become Jasper’s wife.

The time passed so rapidly, that he was surprised when at length the riding-party returned just in time to get ready for dinner. His brother and sister were truly glad to see him. Alethea received him with some little embarrassment, not that she was conscious of having given him any encouragement; but she recollected how she had endeavoured to draw him into the Jacobite plot, and she fancied that she was the principal cause of separating him from his family and sending him away to sea. Polly and her intended husband, who was something in her own style, soon, by the racket they made, and the shouts of laughter in which they indulged, drove away any thing like sentiment, and set every body at their ease. Kind cousin Nat shortly made his appearance, and holding Jack at arm’s length, scanned him all over.

“I was not quite certain when I first saw you whether you were a buccaneer from the Spanish Main, or some other cavalier of fortune; but I now see that you are my own honest, good Jack, in spite of your somewhat ferocious appearance!” he exclaimed, shaking him by both hands. “You should get yourself, however, trimmed and docked, Jack, and you will be much more presentable in polite society.”

Jack had not come without a few curiosities and trinkets which had been collected on board the prizes, or taken on shore. He was thus able to bestow some acceptable presents upon the intended brides.

Again the old house in the market-place was the scene of festivity. Two couples were to pledge their faith to each other, and guests from far and near assembled to do honour to the occasion. Jack wrung Jasper’s hand.

“I wish you every happiness the world can give you!” he exclaimed, though as he spoke his voice trembled and the tears stood in his eyes.

Alethea looked more beautiful and attractive than she had ever done before, and Polly was more merry and full of life, not a bit abashed by the ceremony through which she then had to go. Jack performed his part well throughout the whole of it, and in the evening no one danced more lightly and merrily, or laughed louder than did he. At supper he sang some of his best sea-songs; and every one declared that Jack Deane was one of the finest young fellows who had appeared at Nottingham for many a long day.

Nottingham at that time could boast of some of the most agreeable society to be met out of London. It had been assigned as the residence of Marshall Tallard, the opponent of the great Duke of Marlborough at the battle of Blenheim, who was now a prisoner of war with a number of other gallant and polished French officers, who bore their captivity with resignation and cheerfulness, making themselves perfectly at home, and doing their best to amuse those among whom they lived.

Several curious traditions of their stay in the town still linger there. It was a French prisoner who first observed celery growing wild on the rock on which Nottingham Castle stands, Alainon Franchise, and having cultivated it successfully in his own little garden, he made that pleasant addition to English tables, from that time forth common every where throughout the kingdom. French rolls were also introduced from a receipt sent by the Marshall himself to a baker in Bridlesmith-gate.

It had been arranged that cousin Nat should reside with Jasper Deane, to whom he purposed giving up his practice when he should retire, which he expected to do in the course of a few years.

Jack was received in a friendly way wherever he went. The errors and wild pranks of the boy were entirely forgotten, when it was known that he had been fighting bravely for his king and country, and that he had by his own good conduct gained the rank he already held in the navy.

Jack, however, very soon got tired of leading an idle life. Routs and card-parties were not at all to his taste, and although Nottingham was not destitute of damsels possessed of a fair amount of beauty, he did not find himself attracted by any of them. He had speedily taught himself to think no more of Alethea, but in her stead another young and pretty form often rose up before him. He met with no one indeed, in his opinion, to be compared with sweet little Elizabeth Pearson, or rather, as he believed she should be called, Elise de Mertens. He made up his mind, therefore, to leave home at a short notice and hasten down to Portsmouth, where he saw in the columns of the Post-boy that a fleet was fitting out, under the brave Admiral Benbow, for the West Indies.

Chapter Twenty Eight.

Serves under Benbow in the West Indies.

It was early in March in the year 1702. As Jack Deane was approaching London, he heard a postman shouting, “Sad news! sad news!”

“What is it?” asked Jack.

“The king is dead!” was the answer. “Our good King William is no more!”

Jack, on making further inquiry, learned that the king had, on Saturday, 21st, gone out to hunt, as was his custom, near Hampton Court, when his horse fell, and he fractured his collar-bone. The injury was not considered serious, and he was conveyed to his palace at Kensington. Having been, however, in a very weak state, he did not rally, and it was evident to those around him that he was near his end. On the 8th of March one of the best and most sagacious of English monarchs breathed his last, holding the hand of the faithful Duke of Portland. His voice had gone ere that; but his reason and all his senses were entire to the last. He died with a clear and full presence of mind, and with a wonderful tranquillity.

On the accession of Queen Anne, the Jacobites remained quiet, under the belief that she would leave the crown to the son of James the Second, now known as the Chevalier Saint George. They were not aware of the sound Protestant principles of the great mass of Englishmen, and that any attempt to bring back a Romanist member of the hated House of Stuart, so often tried and found utterly unfit for ruling, would have produced another civil war. Those infatuated men, the Jacobites, did not conceal their joy at the death of the Protestant monarch. Banquets were held among them to celebrate the event, and some had the audacity and wickedness, it may be said, to toast the health of the horse which had thrown William. Another toast they drank was to the health of the little gentleman dressed in velvet, in other words, the mole that raised the hill over which Sorel (the king’s favourite horse) stumbled.

Jack Deane on hearing these things felt as if, had he been present, he should have been very much inclined to challenge those who showed this disrespect to a sovereign whom he had learned to honour and love.

The fleet had taken its departure some time before John Deane reached Portsmouth, but he found a fast frigate on the point of sailing to carry despatches to the admiral, the “Venus.” Admiral Benbow’s object in going out to the West Indies had been to detain the Spanish galleons. When war was declared on the accession of Queen Anne, a French admiral had also sailed from Brest for the same station, with fourteen sail of the line and sixteen frigates, to meet the galleons and convoy them to Cadiz. Although the brave Benbow’s squadron was far smaller than that of the French, he kept a sharp look-out for the enemy. He had performed many services in the West Indies to the merchants by capturing privateers and protecting their settlements from the attacks of the enemy.

Admiral Benbow’s ship was the “Breda,” of seventy guns, and her youngest lieutenant having died of fever, Jack Deane, greatly to his satisfaction, found himself appointed to that ship. Early in July, the admiral sailed from Jamaica, with seven sail of men-of-war, in the hope of joining Admiral Whitstone, who had been sent from England with a reinforcement to endeavour to intercept the French squadron which had sailed under Monsieur Du Casse. The admiral on the 10th of August, being off Donna Maria Bay, received advice that Du Casse had sailed for Carthagena and Portobello. He instantly went in quest of him, and in the evening of the 19th, discovered off Santa Martha ten sail of ships. On his nearer approach he found the greatest number of them to be French men-of-war. Four ships of from sixty to seventy guns, one great Dutch ship of about thirty or forty guns, and another full of soldiers, the rest being of a smaller size. They were steering along shore under their topsails. The admiral made a signal to form a line of battle ahead, and bore away under an easy sail, that those to leeward might the more readily get into their station. It was the admiral’s intention not to make the signal of battle but only of defiance, when he had got abreast of the enemy’s headmost ship. Before he reached his station, however, the “Falmouth,” which was in the rear, began to fire, as did also the “Windsor” and “Advance,” and soon after the Vice-Admiral was engaged; and now an act was performed which has rarely happened in the British Navy. After exchanging two or three broadsides, the “Windsor” and “Advance” luffed to windward out of gunshot, and left the admiral exposed to the fire of the two sternmost ships of the enemy, by whom he was very much galled. Neither did the ships in the rear come up to his assistance with the alacrity he expected. In spite of this, the brave Benbow continued to engage the enemy from four o’clock until night, and although the latter then ceased firing, yet he kept sight of them, intending to renew the action in the morning. On the following day at daybreak he found himself close to the enemy, with the “Ruby” only near enough to support him. Unintimidated by the misconduct of those who had so shamefully deserted him, he pursued the enemy, who were using every effort to escape. The “Ruby” in a short time was so dreadfully knocked about that he was obliged to order her to return to Port Royal. Two more days passed away, and still the brave old admiral kept up the pursuit. On the morning of the 24th, he got up with the sternmost ships of the French, and although receiving but little assistance from the rest of the squadron he brought them to close action. Round-shot, and chain-shot, and langrage came flying on board the “Breda,” the British seamen sending back much the same sort of missiles as those with which they were complimented. Volumes of smoke from the guns rolled out of the ports. Still undaunted, and excited by the example of their brave admiral, the British sailors fought on. At length a shot swept across the quarter-deck, on which the admiral was standing. He was seen to fall. His right leg was shattered by it. Immediately he was carried below. He urged the surgeons to dress the wound as rapidly as they could, and then being placed in his cradle, he directed himself to be brought once more on the deck. There, in spite of the agony he was suffering, he continued to give his orders. One of the last he issued was to direct the other captains to “keep the line and behave like men.” Great was his grief, vexation, and rage, when the recreant captains came on board and declared that enough had been done, and that it would be dangerous to follow the enemy. In vain the old admiral pleaded with them. They persisted that by so doing they would ensure the destruction of their ships and crews. Wounded and sick at heart he had at length to yield to them, and he issued the order for the squadron to return to Jamaica. Here the brave old admiral was carried on shore, and shortly afterwards died of the wound he had received. The captains who had refused to support him were tried by a court-martial, and two of them were carried home and shot on the decks of their ships, as soon as they arrived in an English port.

To return to John Deane. Soon after the “Breda” reached Port Royal, as she was likely to remain there for some time, and he was anxious for active employment, he got re-appointed to the “Venus,” which was sent to cruise for the protection of British commerce.

As soon as the frigate was clear of the island, a bright look-out was kept for the French privateers or any other of the enemy’s vessels. The frigate had been cruising for a week or more, and had already got some distance from Jamaica, having during the time captured several small vessels, some of which had been destroyed and others sent to Port Royal, when one forenoon a large ship was descried to leeward. All sail was crowded in chase, and as the frigate had the advantage of the wind, the stranger being almost becalmed, she soon came up with her.

As soon as the breeze reached the stranger, without hoisting her colours, she made all sail in an attempt to escape. Various opinions were offered as to her character. Some thought she was a Spanish galleon, though how she should have come thus far north was a question not easily answered. Others believed she was a large French merchantman, and some pronounced her to be a privateer. She was a fast craft, at all events, for as soon as she felt the breeze she slipped through the water at a rate which made it doubtful whether the “Venus” would come up with her. This made the English still more anxious for her capture, as, in the first place, if a merchantman, she was likely to have a rich cargo on board, and at all events she might be converted into a useful cruiser.

It was a general opinion in those days that the French vessels were faster sailers than the English, and certain it is that many of the best models of men-of-war were taken from the French. The Genoese, however, were reputed to be better ship-builders than either. A stern chase is a long chase always. The stranger persevered in her flight, in the hope that some accident might secure her escape. The English pursued in the hope that an accident to the chase might enable them to capture her.

The day wore on, and fears were entertained that the chase would escape during the darkness of the night. Every stitch of canvas which the frigate could carry was set on her, while the sails which could be reached were kept constantly wet, that no wind might pass through them. The crew cheered with glee when they found that their efforts were not without good effect, and that the frigate at last was overhauling the chase. At length she got near enough to fire a bow-chaser. The shot took effect, and cut away several of her braces. This allowed the sails to fly wildly in the air. In consequence, the frigate now came up more rapidly, and, as she did so, continued firing with good effect. The chase at length let fly all her sheets, and hauled down the French flag, which had just before been run up. As soon as the frigate hove to, Lieutenant Deane was ordered to board the prize with a boat’s crew. She proved to be a rich merchant vessel outward-bound to the French colonies on the Main, with a large and valuable assorted cargo, and was evidently a prize worth taking.

The captain of the “Venus” was ordered to send in his prizes, as he should take them, to Port Royal, but as long as he had sufficient men to fight his ship not to return himself. It was important, however, that so rich a prize should be carefully navigated, and he accordingly ordered his junior lieutenant—John Deane—to take charge of her with a crew of fifteen men, to carry her into Port Royal. Ten of her former crew volunteered to assist in navigating her, and they were allowed to remain, while the rest, with the captain and officers, were carried on board the “Venus.”

Jack now found himself for the first time in his life in command of a large ship. As may be supposed, he had not been asleep all the time he had been at sea, and he already possessed a very good knowledge of seamanship, as well as of navigation. He had no doubt, therefore, that he should be able safely to carry his prize to her destined port.

Two midshipmen were sent with him to act as lieutenants, and an old quarter-master to do the duty of boatswain. Jack was a great favourite among all with whom he had served, both with his superiors and with those beneath him. His two young midshipmen—Dick Lovatt and Ned Hawke—had become particularly-attached to him, while Will Burridge, the old quarter-master, would have gone through fire and water to serve him.

On one occasion, Burridge, whether he had had too much Jamaica rum on board or not it was difficult to say, managed to fall overboard into the harbour swarming with sharks. As the tide was running strong at the time, Burridge had already been swept some distance from the ship before he was perceived. Jack, regardless of the sharks, leaped overboard, and swimming towards the sinking seaman, kept him up, splashing about so as to make the monsters of the deep keep at a respectful distance till a boat arrived to take them both on board. Jack declared it was not a thing to be talked about, any body might have done the same, and therefore it was not mentioned at the time of its occurrence. It however raised Deane’s character among the crew, and made them all ready to volunteer in any expedition where he was to lead.

As soon as the damages which the prize had received were repaired, the frigate stood on her course, and Jack made sail for Port Royal. The prize was called the “Coquille,” and carried twelve guns, so that Jack hoped, should he be attacked by one of the enemy’s privateers, or any small man-of-war, he might make a good fight of it, and beat off his opponent if he could not take her.

The first day the weather was very fine; the wind then fell, and there was a dead calm. The sun struck down with intense heat on the deck of the vessel, making the very pitch in her seams bubble up. The crew began to feel the effects of the heat, and moved languidly about the decks, exhibiting a listlessness very different to their usual activity. Jack with one of his officers was sitting below at dinner, when Hawke, the other, who had the watch on deck, entered the cabin.

“I thought it as well to tell you, sir,” he said, “that I don’t quite like the way the Frenchmen are carrying on. I have observed them for some time past whispering together, and I cannot help thinking that they expect to find us napping, and to set on us and try to retake the vessel.”

“It’s as well to be prepared,” answered Jack. “Thank you for your forethought. But it will scarcely be right to put them in irons, unless we have evidence of their intention. I will tell Burridge, and hint to the men to be on the look-out, so that we shall be even with the Monsieurs if they make the attempt which you fancy they purpose.”

Burridge soon made his appearance in the cabin, hat in hand, and receiving his directions hurried back to speak to the English crew. Jack and his two young officers, having loaded their pistols and stuck them in their belts, and fastened on their swords, made their appearance also on deck. The Frenchmen seemed to be watching them; but if they had any sinister intentions, the preparations which Jack had made to oppose them compelled them for the moment to keep quiet.

Chapter Twenty Nine.

Hurricane—Captured by Pirates.

Jack had not had much experience with the West India climate; but he had heard enough of the signs preceding a hurricane to make him somewhat anxious about the state of the weather. Gradually a thick mist seemed to be overspreading the sky, while there was not a breath of wind sufficient to move a feather in the rigging.

“We shall have the wind down upon us presently,” he observed to Hawke. “We will clue up every thing, and strike the topgallant-masts. If the wind does not come it will be no great harm, as it will only give the Frenchmen something more to do; and if it does come, and we have all this gear aloft, it will be carried away to a certainty.”

The order was immediately issued, and the hands flew aloft to carry it out. Before, however, the canvas was all secured, a white line of foam was seen rushing towards the ship, extending on either side as far as the eye could reach. On it came, rising in height, while a loud roar burst on the ears of the crew.

“Down for your lives, men, down!” shouted Jack, as the ship, struck by the furious blast, heeled over.

Some obeyed the summons and slid down on deck in time; but others, who did not hear the order, remained aloft, many in their terror clinging to spars and shrouds, unable to move. Over heeled the stout ship. The masts like willow-wands bent, and then, snapping in two, were carried away to leeward. The lower yards dipped in the water, and most of those upon them were torn away from their grasp, while others were hurled to a distance from the ship. For a few minutes she lay helplessly on her beam-ends, then happily feeling the power of her helm, which was put up, the canvas at the same time being blown away, her head paid off, and righting herself she flew before the gale. In vain the poor wretches who had been hurled into the water shrieked for help. No human help could reach them! In a few minutes they were left far behind, while the ship, lately so trim and gallant, was hurried on, too likely to meet that destruction which overtook many other stout vessels at that time. More than half the English crew had been lost, and only one of the Frenchmen, so that their numbers were now more equal.

On flew the ship. The sea torn and thrown up by the force of the hurricane, loud-roaring billows foamed and hissed on either side, while darkness soon came on to add to the horrors of the scene.

Undaunted, Jack and his crew exerted themselves to clear away the wreck of the masts and spars. The fearful working of the ship, however, made it too probable that if not very strongly-built, she would spring a leak and go down. Every instant the seas grew higher and higher, and it was with difficulty that she could be kept before the wind. Her boats were washed away by the seas which broke on board, and though often she was in danger of being pooped by those which dashed against her stern, still she floated on.

When morning at length dawned, the hurricane began to abate. The wind ceased almost as rapidly as it had commenced; but the once stout ship, now almost a wreck, rolled heavily in the still tumbling seas. As yet little could be done to get her put to rights. She was still at a considerable distance from Jamaica, and with his diminished crew, Jack saw that it would take some time to rig jury-masts, and thus enable him to shape a proper course for Port Royal. As soon, however, as the sea went sufficiently down, and the ship became steadier, he ordered the crew to commence the work. His own men willingly obeyed; but the Frenchmen walked forward sullenly, declaring that there would be no use in exerting themselves, and positively refusing to work. While they were acting thus, Burridge brought him word that several had, by some means or other, got hold of fire-arms and hangers, and were evidently prepared for mischief.

“We must watch our opportunity, and try to disarm them,” observed John Deane. “Work they must, by some means or other, or else they must be put in irons.”

To do this, however, was no easy task, considering that there were as many Frenchmen as Englishmen, and the former were evidently desperate fellows. Hawke was fortunately able to speak French very well, and Jack directed him therefore to address the mutineers, and ask them again whether they would assist in putting the ship into order. A flat refusal was the answer, and thus the whole day was occupied. The following night was one of great anxiety, as it became necessary to keep a constant watch over the Frenchmen, lest they should suddenly attack the English and attempt to regain the ship. Jack did not allow himself a moment’s rest, but continued, with arms by his side, pacing the deck, while a constant watch was kept on the movements of the mutineers.

Dawn at length broke; and soon after the sun rose above the horizon its bright rays struck on the sails of a large vessel which was seen standing towards the “Coquille,” with a light breeze then blowing. Jack anxiously watched her through his glass, hoping, from the cut of her sails, that she might prove an English man-of-war. As she came on, he hoisted on the stump of the main-mast the English ensign reversed, the signal of distress. On the nearer approach of the stranger, however, Deane observed that the English flag was not hoisted in return, which would have been the case had she been a friend. If she had been at sea during the hurricane, she had escaped wonderfully well, for her masts and yards were as trim as if she had just come out of port. Her decks, too, seemed crowded with men. In a short time, running under the stern of the “Coquille,” she “hove to,” and a man with a speaking-trumpet hailed from her deck, demanding the name of the vessel, and where she was bound to.

“A prize to Her Majesty’s ship ‘Venus,’ and bound for Port Royal,” answered Jack.

“And very little chance you’ll have of getting there,” replied the man with the speaking-trumpet, “We will send a boat aboard you and see about the matter.”

In another minute two well-armed boats were lowered from the stranger, and soon came alongside the “Coquille.” Their crews jumped on board.

“You have been caught in the hurricane, I see,” said the man who seemed to act as the officer. “What is your cargo?”

Jack told him.

“Lucky for us, then, that you did not go down,” was the answer. “And now set to work and get the ship in order. You must understand that you are a prize to the ‘Black Hawk,’ belonging to a company of gentlemen adventurers. There’s no use grumbling: it’s the fortune of war. And now bear a hand and get your ship to rights as fast as you can. We will help you, and carry you safely into port, though not the port maybe you were bound for.”

Jack’s heart sank within him when he heard this. Resistance would be utterly useless. Even had the Frenchmen remained faithful, the pirates, for such he had little doubt they were, numbered ten to one of his own diminished crew. At first he and his young officers felt disposed to refuse to work, but Burridge, an experienced old seaman, strongly advised them to obey.

“There’s no use whatsomever, sir, to quarrel with these sort of gentry,” he observed. “They would as likely as not make a man walk the plank if they’re angry with him, and if we don’t try to please them they will probably send every one of us to be food for the sharks before another day passes over our heads.”

Jack saw the wisdom of this advice, so, putting the best face on the matter he could, he ordered his own people to commence the work he had been about to carry out when the pirate appeared. The Frenchmen were quickly made to change their tone, and the pirates, observing that they did not work with as good a will as the English, kept pricking them on, every now and then, with the points of their swords, amusing themselves greatly at the sight of the grimaces which were made in consequence of this treatment.

Poor Jack! this was the greatest trial he had ever gone through in his life. After having fully expected to enter Port Royal in triumph with a fine prize, thus to have it snatched from him by a band of rascally pirates! Still he did the best to keep up his spirits, hoping that some opportunity might occur to enable him ere long to make his escape.

“It cannot be helped,” observed Burridge, “and ‘what cannot be cured, must be endured,’ as my old woman used to say when she allowed the porridge to burn on the fire. It’s a long lane too, you know, sir, which has no turning, and though maybe these gentry will make us do a few things we shall not like, still, as long as they don’t cut our throats, we will manage some day or other to get clear of them.”

The pirates, to do them justice, were not idle themselves. A considerable number more now came on board to help get the ship into order, as it was very evident to them that she was a valuable prize. As soon as sail could be made on the ship, Jack and his officers were ordered to keep to their cabins, as he supposed, to prevent them ascertaining the direction which the ship was steering. This, so far, proved satisfactory, as it proved that the pirates had no immediate intention of taking their lives. Three days thus passed away, when from the perfectly smooth way in which the vessel glided on, Deane suspected that they were entering some harbour. The midshipmen were of the same opinion, and Hawke volunteered to try to reach the deck, to ascertain where they had got to. On going out, however, he found a sentry at the door, who ordered him back, telling him, that without the captain’s leave they would not be allowed to leave their cabin. In a short time longer, the sound of the anchor let go, and the perfect stillness of the ship, convinced Jack that he was right in his conjectures. Soon after this a person they had not before seen came to the cabin.

“Now, friends,” he said, “if you are wise men, you will enter with us and cut the service to which you have belonged. We don’t serve either king or queen, and have only ourselves to obey, while instead of handing over the profits of our labours to others we keep them for ourselves. We have a jovial life of it. No lack of adventure and excitement, and as much gold and silver as we can pick up, though, to be sure, we now and then have a little fighting for it, but that only adds to its value. What say you, lads? Will you join us?”

“Thank you for your polite offer,” answered Deane, “but we are well content with the service in which we’re engaged, and have no fancy for changing it. We, too, have plenty of fighting, and can generally scrape up as much gold as we want.”

“Enough is as good as a feast,” observed Burridge; “and I’ll tell you what, sir, with due respect to you, we would rather serve Queen Anne than King Mobb Sogg, or any other king in or out of Christendom; and though you gentlemen buccaneers are very fine fellows, we have no fancy just at present of becoming one of your number.”

“It would have been better for you if you had made up your minds to follow my advice,” answered the pirate officer; “I should have been able to set you at liberty at once and let you wander all over our island. As it is, you must be content to remain shut up on board, or maybe on shore, where we have a sort of prison which is sometimes useful.”

Jack and his companions were in no way ill-treated, except in being confined to the cabin, while an abundance of provisions were brought to them. From the noises they heard they judged that the cargo of the vessel was being taken out of her, and they hoped when that was done that some change or other might take place in their condition. They had no fancy to remain prisoners for ever, and they determined that if not released by their captors, they would endeavour if possible to escape by themselves. Burridge had been allowed to join them in the cabin. He told them he was afraid that the rest of the crew had joined the pirates, as they had all left the vessel shouting and singing, and apparently in very good-humour. He alone had refused to do so, in spite of the threats of punishment which the pirates uttered.

“I have sworn to fight for our country and for our new queen, and I intend to do so as long as there is life in me,” he observed.

In those days the bands of buccaneers which had made themselves a terror to the Spaniards had been dispersed. At the peace of Ryswick, finding that their occupation was gone, and that they would not long receive the support of the English government, many of them accepted offers of land in the plantations and became settlers. Those who were unwilling to lead a quiet life turned regular pirates, mostly hoisting black flags, with some hideous device, such as skulls and crossbones, and attacked all nations indiscriminately. Deane fully believed that he had fallen into the hands of characters of this sort, though he was surprised that they had hitherto treated him and his companions with so much leniency.

At length an officer visited them. He was a fierce-looking fellow, with his broad-brimmed hat and leather cocked on one side. A huge belt was slung across his shoulders, in which two or three brace of pistols were stuck. A hanger was by his side, with a silk coat covered with gold lace, while his face was adorned with a large moustache and a long black beard.

“Well, my hearties,” he exclaimed as he entered, “I hope you like being shut up here like dogs in a kennel! It’s a strange fancy if you do; to my mind, it would be better to have your freedom and enjoy yourselves on shore. What would you say, now, if I was to offer it you?”

“We should be obliged to you, master,” answered Jack; “for we should like to stretch our legs on shore amazingly.”

“Ah, that’s sensible!” answered the visitor; “but you must agree to my terms if you do.”

“That may alter the case,” said Jack. “Let us hear your terms though, and we may judge whether we can accept them.”

“Ah, they’re easy enough!” said their visitor. “All you have to do, is to swear to be faithful to our fraternity, and if you’re ordered to draw your sword and fight on our side, you will do it, even though our enemies should be your former friends.”

“This is only mockery!” exclaimed Jack. “If you tell us to draw our swords against our countrymen, we tell you at once, we would die rather than do so!”

“Then you must remain prisoners, and be treated as such,” answered their visitor. “However, as this craft will prove a fine cruiser, we are going to fit her out for sea, and if you don’t choose to go in her, you will have to come on shore.”

The pirate continued talking much in this way for some time, but without producing any effect upon his hearers. At last he got angry, and, slamming the door after him, went on deck. He soon returned, however, with a dozen men, whom he ordered to take charge of the four prisoners and to convey them on shore. They were accordingly marched up on deck, where for the first time Jack was enabled to examine the place into which the ship had been carried. It was a large lagoon, the entrance from the sea being so narrow that he could with difficulty make it out. Cocoanut and palm-trees thickly lined the shore, between which a few huts were seen, but no rising ground was visible, and Deane conjectured that they were on one of the quays which are to be found in the neighbourhood of Saint Domingo, and which had been the resort for many ages of pirates. The boat in which they were placed proceeded up the lagoon for some distance, when they were landed on one side of it, and surrounded by their guards and marched up away from the water. In a short time some huts of considerably larger dimensions than those they had already seen were reached, and one of them was pointed out as their future prison. It was close to the other houses, and was one of the largest in the village. Being ordered to go in, the door was closed behind them. It had, however, the advantage of a window, which, though strongly grated, gave them light and air, and enabled them to look out. It was, in other respects, a very undesirable residence, the furniture consisting of merely a couple of rough stools and a bench, with a rickety table.

“I am afraid, sir, we’ve fallen out of the frying-pan into the fire,” observed Burridge, as he surveyed the apartment. “On board we had our beds to sleep on, and decent furniture, but here we have nothing to boast of, of that sort, while I’m afraid it will be more than ever difficult for us to get away.”

It seemed but too likely that they were to be starved into compliance with the pirates’ wishes, for hour after hour passed away and no provisions were brought them. At length Burridge, who had been examining the place, expressed his belief that they might be able to work their way through the roof, and so get out.

“If they attempt to starve us, it’s a thing we must do,” he observed; “and it will be hard if we go foraging about the island and cannot find any food; and then if it’s impossible to get off, we must e’en before morning get back into our present prison, and maybe it will not be discovered that we have ever left it.”

The two midshipmen were delighted with this proposal, though Deane doubted somewhat that it would be carried out. Their only amusement was looking out of the window, which there was room for two of them to do at a time; but it was too small to allow more than that number to look out of it together. Now and then people were seen moving about, and passing at a distance from the prison; but no one came near enough for the prisoners to speak to them. Jack determined to do so if he could, however, that he might try to ascertain something more of the character of the people among whom they had fallen. He had been looking out for some time when he saw a person approaching, whom, by his dress and gay sash full of pistols, his hat with a feather, and the rich, jewelled hilt to his sword, he concluded was an officer. The man turned his face for an instant up to the window. Although his hair was somewhat grizzled and his beard bushy and long, partly concealing his face, the conviction flashed across Jack’s mind that he was no other than Master Pearson, as he called himself, with whom he had parted in the fens of Lincolnshire! The man turned away and passed on; but from his gait and manner, Deane felt still more convinced that he was not mistaken. Instantly a number of thoughts crowded into his mind. Was he there alone, or had he brought with him his wife and reputed daughter? Robber and outlaw as he might be in England, Deane still thought he was not debased enough to place them in so dangerous a position; and yet if they were not with him, where could he have left them? The one redeeming quality of the man was his devotion to his wife and the affection with which he seemed to regard the little Elizabeth.

Jack felt more than ever anxious that he might get out of prison that he might solve this question. Still, if it was Pearson, he had no wish to make himself known to him. He felt also a disinclination to mention the circumstances by which he had become acquainted with the man to his companions. He thought over and over again how he should act; but at the end of the time had arrived at no conclusion.

Chapter Thirty.

Imprisonment in the Pirates’ Island—The Lovers’ Meeting.

Notwithstanding the fears of the prisoners, the pirates seemed to have no intention of starving them, for in a short time a man came to the hut with an ample supply of cooked meat and a basket containing several bottles of wine.

“There, mates,” he said, “our captain sent you these things, and advises you to think over the matter our chief mate spoke to you about the other day. You will judge how we fare ourselves by the way we treat you.”

As there was food enough to last for some time they naturally expected they should not receive another visit during the day. As soon, therefore, as they had satisfied their hunger, Burridge continued his examination of the roof, and found, by removing the bamboo rafters, he could without difficulty force his way out through it. He proposed, therefore, as soon as it was dark, to get out and find his way down to the shore, as, in all probability, the island being but small, he could do so without difficulty. He thought then that if a boat or a small vessel could be found, they might all manage to get on board and make their escape without being discovered.

“You see,” he observed, “all is fish which comes to the nets of these gentlemen, and they will take small craft as well as large vessels. They are very likely to have captured a small schooner or sloop, and to have brought her into the harbour. They’re certain also, if they have done so, not to keep any strict watch over her, and if we ’bide our time we shall find a way of getting on board without interruption. I have heard of the doings of these gentry, and, depend upon it, some night they will be having a carouse when no one will be on the look-out.”

These remarks of the honest boatswain raised the spirits of his companions, and they determined, at all risks, to take advantage of the opportunity should it occur. The midshipmen proposed that the whole party should go together; but this Jack over-ruled, considering that should any body come to the hut and find it empty, search would be made for them, whereas by only one being absent, discovery was less likely. As soon, therefore, as it was dark Burridge made his way through the roof, and they heard him drop gently to the ground on the other side of the hut. He immediately afterwards came round to the window.

“All right, sir,” he said; “I saw the glimmer of the water when I was on the top of the hut, and I shall easily find my way to it. The pirates are carousing down by the huts on the shore, for I heard their voices singing and shouting, so I shall have a good chance of not being found out.”

Saying this Burridge glided away through the cocoanut grove by which the village was surrounded.

His companions waited anxiously for his return.

“If he is taken, I have a fancy they would not hesitate to send a pistol-bullet through his head,” said Hawke. “I wish that I could have gone with him, Mr Deane.”

“You would only have shared his fate, and so have gained nothing, and done him no good,” answered Jack. “Let us wait patiently: he has his wits about him, and he will take good care not to be caught.”

Two or three hours passed by and still Burridge did not make his appearance. His companions grew more and more anxious, both on his account and on their own. If he was taken their prospect of escape would be much lessened. In Jack’s mind also a new difficulty had arisen. Even supposing that the opportunity should occur of escaping, he could not bring himself to leave the island without ascertaining whether Dame Pearson and Elizabeth were residing on it. Before therefore he could go he must settle this point, one almost as difficult as that of escaping.

At length a voice was heard under the window.

“All right,” said Burridge, in a whisper; “I’ll tell you all about it as soon as I’m safe inside again.”

He soon made his way up to the top of the hut, and getting through the hole replaced the thatch and bamboo rafters before he jumped down to the ground.

“I was right,” he said, “and made my way down to the harbour. It is farther off though than I supposed; and I heard people moving about, so I had to be cautious; and more than all, they have two or three of those Spanish bloodhounds with them, and it’s a wonder the beasts did not find me out, and if they had come across my track they would have done so to a certainty. However I got down to the shore safe. I counted six or seven vessels in the harbour, besides two or three small ones, and several boats hauled up on the beach. So far as a craft is concerned, we have only to pick and choose. Then comes the difficulty of getting on board and finding our way out of the harbour. If we had been on deck when we came in we might have done that more easily, but to get out at night without knowing the passage will be a hard job indeed. However, it must be done by some means or other.”

It was agreed at last that they must wait for a moonlight night, when by sounding with a boat they might hope to get the vessel, in which they finally expected to make their escape, safe through the passage. It would also be necessary that the pirates should be indulging in a carouse and be off the watch, and that the wind should blow down the harbour. Every time the men who brought them their provisions came Jack sent a message to the captain, begging that they might be released, and allowed to wander at their will throughout the island. Several days had passed, however, and no answer had been returned.

Deane possessed an iron frame, but the anxiety which he endured began to tell greatly upon him, and for the first time in his life, he felt that he was becoming seriously ill. The thought occurred to him that it might be the yellow fever. Every day he grew worse and worse. His head ached, his limbs were full of pains, still he kept up his spirits as well as he could, and he and his companions continued to entertain hopes of escaping. One night Burridge returned from his usual expedition in high spirits. He had important information to give. While wandering along the shore he came suddenly upon a person seated on a rock, apparently watching the harbour as he had been. At first he felt very nervous about approaching the man, doubting who he could be. Still it struck him that it was not likely to be one of the pirates. He therefore cautiously approached him and, in a low voice, asked him who he was.

“You may suppose, sir,” said Burridge, “when he gave me the account my heart did leap with joy, when I found that he was an old shipmate—the pilot of a vessel I once sailed in! And what was more curious, he has been thinking of the same thing that we have, and hoping to make his escape in the same manner. He tells me that he has two companions on the island who are kept at work by the pirates as slaves; but that he has had an opportunity of speaking to them, and that they’re ready to help him make off with a vessel. If I had not known him, I should have been afraid of treachery; but he is a true man, and we need have no fear on that score. There will be moon enough for our purpose about five days hence, and I’ve arranged that we should all meet him at the spot where I found him at midnight at that time.”

This information raised Jack’s spirits, which had become very low in consequence of his illness. The effect, however, was only temporary, for the following day he became worse, and his companions began to fear that he would be taken from them. Their daily visitor, as it happened, remained in the hut longer than usual, and had thus an opportunity of observing how ill Deane looked. The midshipmen and Burridge also told him that they were afraid their officer would die if he had not some help.

“True enough, master,” said the man. “I will tell our captain, and perhaps he will do something for him. We have no objection to killing men in fair fight; but it is not our way to put them out of the world by clapping them into prisons, as they do in some countries.”

Saying this the man took his departure, promising to inform his captain of Deane’s state of health.

“Whatever happens to me,” said Deane to his companions, “you must endeavour to make your escape, according to the present arrangement. If you can find your way to Jamaica, you will be able to tell the authorities whereabouts this island is situated, and they will then probably send a man-of-war to bargain with the pirates for my release, or if they will not do that, to get me off by force.”

About an hour after their first visitor had left them, footsteps were heard approaching the door. It opened, and Jack, as he lifted his head from the bed of straw on which he lay in one corner, saw standing before him his old acquaintance—Pearson!

“They tell me you have fallen sick,” he said, “and want a doctor. Now I’m none myself, and there’s no one I can send here to cure you; but, as I don’t want you to suppose that we are entire barbarians, if you wish it, I will have you taken to my house, and there are some there who, maybe, will look after you and help cure you better than any doctor we can find in these parts.”

Under other circumstances, Deane would certainly have declined the offer, which would have made his escape impossible; but from the remarks made by the pirate captain, he could not help hoping that the persons he spoke of might prove to be Dame Pearson and Elizabeth. He felt, too, that even should he wish to attempt escaping, from his weakness he would be a great burden to his companions, while he would run the risk of losing his own life. He therefore replied that he was thankful for the offer made to him, and gladly accepted it. At this the captain summoned a couple of men who were waiting outside with a litter, and lifting Jack upon it, without allowing him much time to bid farewell to his companions, they carried him off. The midshipmen were greatly afraid that he would exact a promise from them not to attempt to escape. They were therefore greatly relieved when they saw him take his departure, leaving them at liberty to act as they thought best. They immediately consulted what should be done, and agreed, for his sake as well as their own, that they should endeavour to make their way to Port Royal as soon as possible, and despatch an expedition to destroy the nest of pirates.

Deane’s bearers carried him along through the cocoanut grove for some distance, when they came before a cottage far superior in appearance to any of those he had before passed. A garden in front bloomed with flowers, and a wide verandah afforded shade to the rooms within. Deane’s heart beat somewhat quicker than usual as he saw these and other signs of the presence of females.

“Here, dame, is a man who wants looking after. It will be to your and fair Bessy’s taste, and he will be grateful I doubt not. He was brought in here some time since on board a prize, and if it had not been for me, he and his companions would have been food for sharks by this time.”

Jack heard these words spoken as his bearers reached the door of the cottage. He had little difficulty in recognising the voice of Master Pearson, though perhaps had he not previously seen that individual he might not have done so. Pearson, for some reason or other, kept out of sight, and Deane found himself carried into a room and placed on a couch formed out of bamboos. The room was, however, in other respects richly furnished, with silk hangings, and gold and silver ornaments of all descriptions, quite out of character with the general appearance of the building.

“Dare, massa, you will do well,” said one of the negro bearers, with a good-natured expression of countenance. “Soon lily-white lady come look after you. I is ’Tello, you remember me, massa; I love Englishmen.”

Jack was not left long alone. Scarcely had the negroes taken their departure when he heard footsteps approaching the door. His heart beat quickly, for he fully expected to see Elizabeth Pearson, who he could not help persuading himself was an inhabitant of the island. Instead of Elizabeth, however, an old lady entered the room, followed by a black damsel. He turned his eyes towards the former, expecting to recognise the features of Dame Pearson. At first he could scarcely believe that a few years could have made so great an alteration in her, and he had to look twice before he was certain that she was the good dame who had treated him so kindly in the fens, sickness and anxiety having already worked a great change in her; yet Dame Pearson was the person who had just entered the room, of that he was sure.

“I was told that an English officer is ill, and requires aid,” she said. “I therefore desired that he might be brought here. I will feel your pulse, sir, that I may judge what remedies to apply.”

Jack was not surprised that she did not recognise him, and he thought it better not to make himself known to her at first. He felt however great disappointment at the non-appearance of Elizabeth; still, till he had told Dame Pearson who he was, he could not ask after her. From what the negro said, however, he still hoped that she might be in the house. The dame, after consulting with her attendant, retired again, saying that she would prepare such remedies as were most likely to benefit him. He thanked her, begging that they might be applied soon, for he felt so ill that, stout of heart as he was, he could not help at times believing that he should not recover.

“We will do our best for you, but the issue is in the hands of God,” answered the dame calmly. “However, in the meantime I will send my daughter that she may read to you from His Word. Thence you will obtain more comfort than man can bestow.”

Saying this she left the room. Jack’s eyes kept continually turned towards the door, and in another minute it opened, and a fair girl entered the room. She was taller, however, and of larger proportions than the little Elizabeth he had so often thought of. She carried a Bible in her hand, and taking a seat at a short distance from him, scarcely giving him more than a slight glance, opened the Book.

“You will undoubtedly draw comfort, as we have done, sir, from God’s blessed Word. I will therefore read to you from the Psalms of David, who was a man tried and afflicted.”

She commenced reading in a low, gentle voice. Jack could with difficulty refrain from making himself known, for he at once recognised that sweet voice which he had known so well. She read on for some short time, and then turned to passages in other parts of the Book which she thought calculated to bring comfort to one in sickness and distress.

Jack at length could restrain himself no longer.

“Elizabeth,” he exclaimed, “Elizabeth de Mertens! do you not know me?”

She flew to his side, and trembling took his hand which he stretched out towards her.

“Who are you?” she exclaimed. “Yes, yes, I know you, I know your voice! Jack Deane you are—yes, you must be! But oh, how did you come here? How do you know me, and that name by which you call me? I remember it well. It was my own name, though I had well-nigh forgotten it. Have you come to take me away from this dreadful place? and oh, from that dreadful man too?”

“Yes, indeed I am Jack Deane—and often have I thought of you, Elizabeth!” he answered; “and it was in consequence of the ring you gave me that I discovered your name. But sit down, and I will tell you by degrees what has occurred. If I was to give the history all at once, I have so many things to say that I should bewilder you. But I also want to learn about you—how you came here, and your adventures; for it seems strange that you have been brought out to this lonely island, to live among pirates and outlaws!”

“I am afraid you give them but their true name,” answered Elizabeth; “but let me hear about yourself, and those from whom you learnt my name.”

Jack could not speak without difficulty, but he managed, however, to give Elizabeth a brief account of himself, entering more particularly into the way in which he had discovered her parents. They were interrupted by the return of Dame Pearson and her black attendant.

“Hush!” said Elizabeth; “say nothing now: I will tell my mother when the girl is not present. I fear she is not to be trusted.”

The discovery Jack had made, instead of increasing his fever, had a beneficial effect, so it seemed, as it restored his spirits in a way that nothing else would have done. All his thoughts were now occupied in devising a scheme for carrying off Elizabeth from the island.

So completely had the fever deprived Jack of strength, that for several days he was unable to rise from his couch, although, thanks to the kind and constant attention he received, he was gradually recovering. He was especially anxious all this time to hear from his companions; but Dame Pearson could give him no information, nor could Elizabeth, although they believed that they still remained shut up in their prison.

Chapter Thirty One.

Dame Pearson’s History—Engagement between the Pirate and Queen’s Ship.

Pearson all this time had never appeared, though Elizabeth told Jack that he was still on the island. One day, however, he heard his voice raised to a high and angry pitch, very unlike the calm tone in which he used generally to speak.

“This is the sort of watch you fellows keep over your prisoners!” Pearson was exclaiming. “While you are in your drunken fits the whole island might be attacked and taken, and all our vessels cut out. You say you do not know when they got off? Then why did you not, the instant you made the discovery, put to sea in the first vessel you could get ready, and make chase after them? Go! hasten now, villains! they can scarcely be many leagues away, and are sure to be steering a course for Port Royal.”

Some grumbling remonstrances were heard in return to this address.

“Well, knaves, well, you shall sail in the sloop, and I’ll follow in the ship as soon as she can be got ready for sea,” exclaimed the pirate chief. “If you are afraid of being caught by a queen’s ship, we shall be in time to save you from hanging; why, and if not, you will only meet the fate which is certain to be yours one of these days!”

“And yours too, captain!” shouted one of the men. “Why do you bring that up before us?”

“Marry, indeed! because I have a fancy to please you. There’s this difference between us, however: you are afraid of it, and would do any sneaking thing to avoid the noose! I have no fear of that or any thing else, and so would not step out of my way to escape it. And now delay no longer, but be off with you all. I’ll be down at the harbour anon, and we’ll see how quickly we gentlemen rovers can get a ship ready for sea.”

From the conversation he had overheard, Jack thus knew that his friends had escaped. At the same time he dreaded the consequences of their being overtaken, well knowing from the temper of the pirate and his followers that, should they be captured, they would have but little chance of preserving their lives. He earnestly hoped, therefore, that they might escape safely to Port Royal. Two days after this he heard from Elizabeth that Pearson and his followers had left the island in their big ship.

“Now you may, without risk, tell my kind second-mother who you are. It will make her more ready, I doubt not, to plead for you with her husband, should such become necessary. If your friends escape him, he will probably return in a very bad humour, and be much disposed to wreak his vengeance on your head,” said Elizabeth.

Elizabeth, very naturally, took every opportunity of being with Jack alone, that she might hear more about her parents, of whom he had so much to tell, as also of his own adventures. The more he saw of her, the more he was struck by her natural refinement and intelligence, and the amount of information which she had been able to obtain. At length the secret was told to Dame Pearson. At first she would scarcely believe that Jack was the same youth she had formerly known, and she had to examine his countenance very narrowly before she would believe his and Elizabeth’s assertions. At length, however, she was convinced.

“I see no more reason to doubt,” she observed, “after all, that you should have changed from a drover to a naval officer, than that we, after living quiet lives as farmers in old England, should have become outcasts and wanderers on the earth.”

Jack had almost recovered even before Pearson left the island, but he did not wish to appear so, lest it should be the signal for his being dismissed from the cottage. Now, however, being able to leave the house, he rapidly regained his strength, and was able to walk about the island in company with Elizabeth. Those were happy days! He no longer concealed from himself that he had given her his heart, and he had good reason to suspect that he possessed hers in return. They took care in their walks to keep at a good distance from the huts; the permanent residents in the island consisting chiefly of old buccaneers and the wives and families of others away in the ships. These latter were, however, chiefly mulattoes or negresses, and it any of them caught sight of him and Elizabeth, they merely staved, taking him probably for one of the buccaneers. He passed his evenings in company with Dame Pearson and Elizabeth, reading and talking while they sat at their work. The poor lady was at first somewhat reserved, but as her confidence in Jack was established, she described to him her grief and sorrow when she discovered the course her husband purposed to pursue.

“On the discovery of the Jacobite plot, believing that he himself would be betrayed, he suddenly determined to quit England,” said the dame, continuing a narrative she had begun. “Going to a sea-port, he at first took out a licence as a privateer. That was bad enough, for his crew were bold and daring, and were constantly chasing or being chased; now and then fighting, but generally only attacking unarmed traders. Not knowing what to do with Elizabeth, and finding she was not averse to accompanying us, I had at first consented to bring her to sea, not at all aware of the life we were to lead.”

Although several prizes were thus taken, this slow mode of gaining wealth did not suit the captain or the majority of his men, and they therefore resolved to go out to the West Indies and to hoist the black flag. The plan had been kept from Dame Pearson and her daughter, but they heard of it, though they in vain urged Pearson to abandon the undertaking. He laughed at their scruples, and promised that in a few years they would make enough to enable them to retire to Virginia, or to some other plantation, and there settle down and enjoy the fruits of their enterprise.

“Why should not I do as well as Sir Henry Morgan, and fifty other fine fellows have done?” he exclaimed. “To be sure, some have lost their lives, but they were either drunkards or too audacious—but I am much too careful to be caught as they were.”

He only laughed at his wife when she pointed out to him the sinfulness of this proposed occupation, and at length told her that he had been a robber all his life, and that he had no intention of turning an honest man till he had made his fortune. This was the first intimation the poor woman had had of his career on shore, whatever might have been her suspicions on the subject. She was anxious on her own account, and still more unhappy on that of Elizabeth, when she found that nothing would turn her husband from his resolution. Still he had not lost all his former respect for her, and at length he consented to fix his abode on the island where Jack had found her. She had therefore only to wait patiently, hoping that he would soon put in execution the plan he had proposed, of finally settling down in one of the plantations. She had kept Elizabeth as much as possible in ignorance of Pearson’s character, but she had, however, at length found it out; and though looking at him with a feeling somewhat akin to horror, still she had determined not to desert, even should she have the opportunity, the kind woman who had adopted her and ever treated her as a daughter. Elizabeth herself, however, was not free from annoyances, for her youth and beauty had attracted the attention of several of the buccaneers, or, as they called themselves, “gentlemen of fortune,” and two or three of the officers, who looked upon their qualifications as superior to those of their companions, had made overtures to their chief for the hand of his supposed daughter. She, however, had rejected them with scorn, and Pearson still entertained so much respect and regard for her, that he had sworn that no man should have her against her will.

“Ah, Master Deane, you little know what quarrels have taken place about her!” said the dame, one day when Elizabeth was absent. “Three or four duels have been fought to my certain knowledge, and one young man among the gang was run through the body and killed, because he had sworn that no other than himself should be her husband. At last the captain had to declare that he would shoot the first man who killed another in any duel about her, and that, for a time, put a stop to the quarrels among them. I always thought myself that she was of gentle blood, from the account my husband gave me of the lady who placed her in his arms, and I am thankful therefore that she should not have been thrown away on any one beneath the rank of a gentleman, still more on any of these ruffian buccaneers, who, in spite of all their boasting, would very soon have broken her heart. The only wife fit for one of them, is a girl who is pleased with being covered with gold chains, and rings, and jewels, and cares nothing for her husband’s love. I know by experience how sad a thing it is for a wife to be mated to a man below her in rank, however kind and generous he may be. Such my husband has always been to me since he saved my life, but I was born and educated as a gentlewoman, and I have frequently had cause to feel a difference between us. Since my marriage I have never met with any of my family. They were all dispersed in the Civil Wars. Many of my brothers were probably killed fighting on the king’s side, and the youngest had set his heart on following the sea, which he probably did; but as our home was broken up, there was no place to which I could write to obtain tidings of them.”

Jack felt that he should be very sorry when the pleasant life he was now leading should come to an end. He spent his days in greater ease and idleness than he had enjoyed since he left home, most of the time sitting by the side of Elizabeth, or taking walks with her along the sea-shore or through the woods.

One day as he was sitting on a rock by the sea-side with Elizabeth, holding her hand in his, and talking of that happy future of which lovers delight to discourse, a white speck appeared in the horizon, which they well knew to be a sail. Gradually it increased in size. Higher and higher it rose, till the white canvas of a tall ship appeared above the long, unbroken line in the distance. The hull next came in sight, and the ship glided on rapidly towards the island. While the lovers were watching her, wondering what she could be, whether the pirate vessel or some stranger, another appeared in the same spot where she had first been seen. Gradually the sails of that one also rose upward, till the whole ship came in sight. Both of them were nearly before the wind, carrying as much canvas as they were able to bear. The first came rapidly on.

“She is bound in for the harbour,” observed Jack, “and from my recollection of the vessel which boarded us when I was made prisoner, I have no doubt that that is the same. If so, we must expect to have the pirate and his gang on shore again.”

“But what can that other vessel be?” asked Elizabeth, pointing towards the stranger.

Jack stood up to examine her, shading his eyes with his hand.

“She looks to me wonderfully like a man-of-war. It is possible that she may be in chase of the pirate. And see, here comes another vessel, her topsails are already above the horizon—and a third also! The pirates have brought a whole host of their enemies down upon them. The authorities in Jamaica have, I know, long been on the look-out to discover the head-quarters of the buccaneers. They have come for the purpose of attacking the island, and will not let a pirate escape if they can help it. Ah, see, there flies out the black flag! A daring fellow commands that vessel, and, depend upon it, he is resolved to fight it out to the last. The queen’s ship has hoisted her colours also. The object of the other is to disable her before her consorts can come up, and if he succeeds in that he hopes to get into the harbour, and there defend himself.”

The lock on which Deane and Elizabeth had taken their seat commanded not only a view of the sea, and of the entrance of the harbour, but also of a considerable part of the harbour itself. They could thus from their position watch all that was taking place.

The royal cruiser under all sail had stood in shore, to intercept the piratical vessel, which it was naturally supposed would make for the harbour, and it was important therefore to prevent her doing this. It was only, indeed, when the wind blew right in, that a vessel could enter under sail. On other occasions, it was necessary to warp or tow her in—an operation which could not be performed under the fire of an enemy. The pirate, finding that he could not get into the harbour unmolested, hauled up his courses, and boldly stood back towards the British ship, receiving her fire and returning it with interest.

Elizabeth gazed with lips apart and pale cheeks at the combatants, which now, surrounded by clouds of smoke, were rapidly exchanging broadsides.

“Oh, how dreadful!” she exclaimed. “It seems as if they must destroy each other. How many souls will thus be launched into eternity! How fearful, too, if the pirate gains the victory! for I have heard tales of the horrible way they treat those they conquer, when their blood is up in such a fight as this.”

“Little fear of that,” remarked Deane. “Our brave countrymen are not likely to give in to a set of mongrel outlaws as are these buccaneers. But mongrels as they are, they fight well, I acknowledge that! See, there goes the mast of one of the ships!”

“I can scarcely distinguish one from the other through the smoke,” said Elizabeth.

“It’s the frigate’s fore-mast, I fear,” exclaimed Deane. “She is attempting to board the pirate. But no! she has not succeeded, the other sheers off, and continues firing at a distance.”

As he spoke, the two vessels, which had for some short time been so close together as scarcely to be distinguished in the midst of the smoke, now separated, the pirate steering towards the land, while the frigate lay, with her fore-mast gone, and several spars shot away from the main-mast, while the rigging of the pirate seemed but little injured.

“How fearful!” exclaimed Elizabeth. “The pirates seem to have gained the victory.”

“Not at all,” answered Deane; “see, the red flag of England still flies triumphant, and probably, if we could see the decks of the two vessels, we should find that the pirate has been the greater sufferer. His object was to cripple his antagonist, and he has done so successfully, while the wish of the English captain has been to destroy the pirates.”

Although the pirate was so standing that only her after-guns could be brought to bear on the frigate, she continued firing with them, in return for a shot which the latter sent after her. She now stood directly in for the mouth of the harbour, and as she approached close to it her sails were quickly furled, and several boats went out to her, to assist in getting her in, while her own boats were lowered for the same purpose.

Chapter Thirty Two.

The Island Captured.

“The game is not over yet,” observed Deane, who with Elizabeth still stood on the rock watching the progress of the fight. “The crew of the frigate are busily employed in repairing damages. As soon as that is done, and the other two ships come up, depend upon it, they will attack the island, and, with the strong force the English will then have, the pirates will be utterly unable to resist them.”

“Alas! alas! I wish we could have escaped from the island before this had occurred! I tremble for the fate of my poor mother, for such I must still call her—and what will become of Master Pearson? for, as far as I can judge, he seems to be the head of the whole community.”

“For the kindness with which he has ever treated you, if he escapes with his life from the battle, I will use all my influence to protect him,” answered Deane. “At the same time, I think it likely he will fight to the last. He seems a man who would not yield, as long as a hope of success remains.”

“Let me go then and tell my poor mother of what has occurred, and prepare her for the worst,” exclaimed Elizabeth.

“Oh, no! stay here, let me entreat you!” he answered. “You will be safer on this rock, and I may possibly be able to make some signal to the boats as they come in, and thus you will escape the desperate struggle which is likely to take place when the crews land and attack the pirates. Or stay! if you can persuade Mistress Pearson to come here, she will be safer than in her own house. But you must not go alone: I will accompany you, and try and bring her back.”

To this plan Elizabeth willingly agreed, and she and Deane immediately hurried forward towards the village. The alarm of the poor lady was very great when she heard what was likely to occur, but she positively refused to quit the house.

“Go, go!” she replied to Elizabeth’s entreaties. “Leave me to my fate: Mr Deane will protect you better than I can, and you are not bound either to that unhappy man my husband or to me.”

Deane had now some difficulty in persuading Elizabeth to return with him, for she was unwilling to leave poor Mistress Pearson to the danger to which she would be exposed should the village be stormed, as it was too likely to be. At length, however, she yielded to her and Jack’s united entreaties, and returned to the rock with Deane. By the time they reached it, the other English vessels had almost come up with their crippled consort, and a considerable flotilla of boats was seen collecting round them. The pirates meantime, having warped their vessel into the harbour, had placed her across its mouth, so that her guns pointed directly down towards an enemy approaching in that direction. A considerable number of the people were also engaged on shore in throwing up breastworks at various points likely to be assailed. Guns were being brought down from the stores and from the other vessels up the harbour, and every effort was being made which desperate men could think of to defend the place. The English seemed to guess what the pirates were about by the rapidity of their movements, for not a moment was lost after the vessels had met, before the boats began to pull at a rapid rate towards the mouth of the harbour. There were twelve boats in all, carrying a considerable body of men. The ships at the same time stood in as close as they could venture, to cover the attack with their guns.

Between the rock on which Deane and Elizabeth stood, was a sandy bay, affording tolerably safe landing. This spot the pirates seemed to have overlooked, though the English were evidently aware of it, for while one party of boats pulled towards the mouth of the harbour, another, suddenly leaving the main body, made a dash towards the bay, for the purpose of landing before the pirates discovered it and were prepared to resist them. On came five boats at a rapid rate, the water foaming at their bows, as their crews urged them through it. Deane could with difficulty resist the temptation of hurrying forward to meet them, but he could not leave Elizabeth, nor could he place her in the danger to which she would be exposed had he carried her with him. As soon as the ships came close enough they opened their fire at the hastily thrown up forts at the harbour’s mouth, while the flotilla of boats dashed forward for the purpose of storming them before the enemy had recovered from the effects of the cannonading. The pirates, however, had been too long accustomed to desperate fighting of all sorts to be easily daunted, and the places of those who fell were quickly supplied by others who rushed forward to work their guns. Before, however, they could load and fire them, the boats’ crews, springing on shore, rushed forward and attacked them, hanger in hand, and quickly mastered the fort.

The pirate ship now opened her fire upon the boats advancing up the harbour. This told with great effect, and again and again they were struck, but still undaunted, they pulled on. Meantime the other boats had reached the bay, and their crews also quickly threw themselves on shore. The pirates did not perceive their intention till it was too late to prevent them, and now in steady order they were soon advancing up from the shore towards the fort, which was also greatly annoying the boats in their advance. Taken in the rear, its defenders were quickly cut down, and now the party of English blue-jackets rushed up towards the pirate ship, but some of her guns being directed at them and others at the boats, no great loss was sustained by either. So quickly indeed did the party advance, that very few shot took effect among them. At length they got close up to the ship and opened a hot fire of musketry upon her killing and wounding the men at her guns. The boats were thus able to advance with much less molestation than before, and getting alongside, their crews with loud shouts dashed on board. The pirates fought desperately, but nothing could resist the courage of the English. The outlaws were seen jumping overboard on either side, and many were shot while attempting to swim on shore. No quarter was asked for by them. They had seldom given it themselves. Still, however, they exhibited great courage and hardihood, fighting desperately to the last. Meantime a party of them who had remained on shore, manning several boats, put off to the rescue of their comrades. Thus before the English could prevent them, a considerable number had managed to escape from the ship, taking their way to a point up the harbour where they could land without being molested.

The men-of-war’s boats had been left with their boatkeepers in the bay. As soon as Deane saw that he could reach them without running the risk of encountering the pirates, he determined to place Elizabeth on board them.

“If we stay here, we shall very probably fall in with the buccaneers, who are likely to fly to this rock in the hope of defending themselves. Our way is now clear to the boats, and I will carry you there,” he said, taking Elizabeth’s arm.

“Whatever you think best I am ready to do,” she answered; and they hurried towards the bay.

Fortunately, the officer in charge of the boats belonged to Deane’s own ship, and recognising him, at once received Elizabeth on board.

“Now I have placed you in safety, I will go back and endeavour to protect our kind friend Mistress Pearson,” he said.

Elizabeth thanked him warmly, though she evidently at the same time dreaded losing sight of him. Deane well knew there was no time to be lost, for the sound of the firing and the shouts and cries of the combatants told him that they were approaching the village. He hurried back therefore, taking a sheltered way among the trees. He had just reached the house, when he saw a number of buccaneers rushing towards the village, with the intention, he judged, of attempting to defend themselves behind the walls of the buildings. He found Mistress Pearson standing pale with terror at the sound of the guns which had reached her ears, not knowing which party had been successful. Deane once more entreated her to fly.

“If you remain, you will too probably lose your life in the struggle,” he said.

Scarcely waiting for her answer, he had drawn her to the door, when he was seen by some of the pirates.

“Down with the villain! down with the traitor who has brought the enemy upon us!” they shouted.

They raised their muskets, but Mistress Pearson standing between them and Deane, prevented them from firing. Some of the fiercest were, however, rushing forward with the intention of cutting him down, when the cry arose, “The enemy are upon us! defend yourselves, lads!” and they had to face about to receive the charge of the British sailors, who dashed out from among the trees towards them. Several bullets whistled by Deane’s and the poor dame’s ears. The fighting was desperate. The pirates defended themselves, knowing that they should receive no quarter; but in spite of their bravery they were cut down on all sides. Deane had two or three times amid the clouds of smoke caught sight of Pearson, who was leading on the men, shouting to them to fight boldly. More seamen arriving, led on by a superior officer, the pirates at length began to retreat. As they reached the house of their chief, however, they made a stand, some threw themselves inside and began to fire through the windows, and others got behind the walls where they were sheltered from the fire of their enemies. Deane attempted to carry poor Dame Pearson to a place of shelter. Paralysed with fear, she could scarcely move. He found himself, therefore, surrounded by the combatants, and in great risk every instant of being shot.

The pirates here made a desperate stand; but the British seamen, again rushing on, cut down numbers with their hangers. Just then the house burst out into flames, and, surrounded by smoke, Deane could not be distinguished from the pirates who stood on the other side of him. Two or three seamen were on the point of cutting him down, when their officer interposed his sword.

“Hold, lads!” he shouted; “as I live, there is my friend John Deane, and protecting a lady too!”

This timely exclamation saved Deane’s life. He had no time, however, to exchange greetings with the officer, whom he recognised as the captain of his own ship, as the latter had to lead on his men in pursuit of the flying pirates. The good dame now entreated him to look for her husband; but he remembered that after the commencement of the fight he had nowhere seen him. What had become of him he could not tell, and all he could do was to assure her he had not seen him fall. Jack was anxious to convey her to the boats that she might be carried on board and placed in safety; but just as he was leaving the village Captain Davis returned, saying that all the pirates to be found had been killed or made prisoners.

“I am thankful, indeed, to hear it, Captain Davis,” said Deane. “And now I will ask you to assist me in conveying this lady on board.”

“Captain Davis!” exclaimed Mistress Pearson. “Let me see you, sir. That was my maiden name; and I had a brother who went to sea, from whom I have been parted for many long years. Can you be Richard Davis, the youngest son of Colonel Davis of Knowle Park?”

“Yes, indeed, I am, madame,” answered the Captain, coming up to her. “I was one of a numerous family, all of whom, to the best of my belief, have long since been dead.”

“One of them is still alive,” answered Mistress Pearson, “though a most unhappy woman. Do you not remember your sister Maria? Come, let me gaze on your countenance, for my heart tells me that in you I shall find one of my brothers. Yes, yes, I recognise your features! though I scarcely could expect you to know mine, so sadly changed as they must be.”

She had taken the captain’s hand, and gazed into his face as she spoke.

“No, I should not remember you,” he answered; “but yet I remember the voice of the kind sister who was always ready to suffer for the sake of her wild brothers. Yes, Maria, I know that you are my sister, and I am thankful that I have been the means of rescuing you from this place. How you came here you must tell me by and by. And now I would wish you to go at once on board the frigate, under the charge of Mr Deane, while we make a further search round the island for any fugitives who may have concealed themselves.”

Mistress Pearson trembled as her brother spoke these words.

“There is one for whom I would intercede,” she said. “Mr Deane will tell you about him. He has ever been a kind husband to me, and never till lately did I suspect his occupations. If he has escaped death, let me entreat you not to hunt him down, and I feel sure that he will turn to some nobler course, where he will redeem the crimes he has committed.”

Captain Davis very wisely made no answer to this appeal; but directed Deane, with a party of the seamen as a guard, to convey his new-found sister down to the boats, and to place her at once on board the frigate. He, meantime, having collected his men, commenced a further search for the pirates, some of whom, he was convinced, must have concealed themselves. The day was thus spent, though with no further success, and as night was coming on, a large party being placed on board the captured ships, the remainder returned in the boats to the vessels outside. The next day the search was continued; but no signs were discovered of the chief and other officers and men who were supposed to have escaped with him. The numerous prizes were carried out of the harbour, while all the huts, and storehouses, and other buildings were set on fire and destroyed, so that in a short time the whole island was reduced to that state of desolation in which the pirates had found it.

While the rest of the squadron returned to Jamaica, one vessel was left to cruise off the island, on the chance of Pearson and his followers, should they have been concealed on it, attempting to make their escape. When Jack arrived on board the “Venus,” he found the two young midshipmen, Hawke and Lovatt, and the old quarter-master Burridge, who welcomed him warmly. They told him that they had managed to make their escape exactly as they had proposed while the buccaneers were carousing; and had, fortunately, fallen in with the squadron which had been despatched on purpose to try and discover their haunts.

Chapter Thirty Three.

Sir George Hooke takes the Spanish Galleons in Vigo Bay.

Elizabeth’s joy at seeing Mistress Pearson was very great; and she did her utmost to comfort her in her affliction, aided by Captain Davis and Deane. As soon as they arrived at Port Royal, Captain Davis took a house for her on shore, where she and Elizabeth went to reside till a plan for their future proceedings could be arranged. Deane immediately wrote to Monsieur de Mertens, and told him of his recovery of his daughter, saying that she was still with her kind guardian, in whose company he hoped that he should, without delay, be able to escort her to England.

In those days the climate of the West Indies was as dangerous to Europeans as at the present, and ships seldom remained long on the station without losing many of their officers and men. The honest old Admiral Benbow was still alive, although rapidly sinking from the effects of his wounds and his annoyance at the conduct of his officers in the action with the French. Hearing of Jack’s conduct, he appointed him second lieutenant of the “Ruby,” in the place of an officer who had died. He was sorry to leave Captain Davis, especially as he expected now to have fewer opportunities of meeting Elizabeth. He had, however, the consolation to know that Captain Davis expected immediately to be sent home, and proposed taking his sister and Elizabeth with him. John Deane met with no adventures worth recording during his next cruise.

On the return of the “Ruby” to Port Royal, our hero found that the “Venus” had already sailed, and his ship was shortly afterwards also ordered home. On reaching England, he was immediately appointed to the “Lennox,” of seventy guns, commanded by his old friend Captain Jumper. She formed one of the squadron under Admiral Sir George Rooke just on the point of sailing for the coast of Spain. Being unable to obtain leave of absence, he wrote to Nottingham and Norwich; but before he received answers to his letters his ship put to sea. Sir George Rooke had his flag flying on board the “Royal Sovereign.”

On board the fleet were a large number of troops, under the command of the Duke of Ormond. On the 12th August they anchored before the harbour of Cadiz next day the Duke of Ormond sent in a trumpeter with a letter requiring the governor to surrender. The brave governor replied that as he had been appointed to the command of the place by his lawful sovereign, he would not yield it up as long as he could hold it. On the 15th the Duke of Ormond therefore landed with the troops, and in a few days took possession of the forts of Saint Katharine and Saint Mary. It being found difficult to approach Cadiz while the Spaniards were in possession of Matagorda Fort, an assault was ordered. The Spaniards defended the place bravely, and it was found that the English force was far too small to hope for success. The troops were therefore re-embarked with the intention of returning home. Soon after this, while the fleet was off the coast of Portugal, Captain Hardy of the “Pembroke” brought the intelligence that the galleons from the West Indies had put into Vigo Bay, under convoy of a French squadron. Sir George Rooke immediately called a council of war, and it was resolved to make an attack at once on the enemy in the port of Vigo. A strong gale of wind, however, drove the fleet to the north of Cape Finisterre, which prevented their getting off Vigo before the 11th of October. The passage into the harbour was extremely narrow, and well defended by batteries on both sides. Across the entrance a strong boom also was laid, at each end of which was moored with chains a seventy-four-gun ship. Nearer the boom were laid, also moored, five ships, each carrying sixty to seventy guns, with their broadsides to the sea to defend the passage. The shoals and sand-banks, and the shallowness of the water within the harbour, made it dangerous for ships of the first and second rates to enter without a leading wind.

Notwithstanding the strong force opposed to them and the batteries on either side of the harbour, the English admirals resolved to attempt the capture of the galleons, and it being considered impossible for the larger ships to get up the harbour, they shifted their flags on board smaller vessels. A boat was then despatched up the harbour to gain intelligence respecting the disposition of the French and Spanish ships. This being obtained, it was resolved that as the whole fleet could not together act upon the enemy’s ships, but would from crowding the harbour impede each others’ movements, fifteen English and ten Dutch men-of-war, with all the fire-ships, should proceed in to destroy the enemy’s fleet. The frigates and the bomb-vessels were directed to follow this detachment, and the larger ships were to proceed in afterwards, should their assistance be found necessary. It was arranged that the troops should at the same time land and attack the forts on either side of the harbour. Vice-Admiral Hopson was ordered to lead the van, followed by Vice-Admiral Vandergoes, Sir George Rooke commanded the centre division, and Rear-Admiral Graydon brought up the rear. Sir George Rooke spent the greater part of the night going from ship to ship in his own boat to ascertain that each captain understood clearly the plan of the attack and the part he was to take in it.

The following morning, the 12th of October, the squadron got under weigh and stood in for the harbour. Great was the disappointment of all on board, when just as the van division had almost reached within gunshot of the batteries the wind died away, and it was necessary to anchor. A strong breeze, however, shortly afterwards sprang up, when Vice-Admiral Hopson, in the “Torbay,” cutting his cable, crowded every sail his ship could carry and bore down upon the boom. The velocity gained by the ship gave her such power that the boom was snapped in two, and the “Torbay” was instantly placed between the two French line-of-battle ships, the “Bourbon” and “Espérance.” These two ships immediately opened a desperate fire upon the “Torbay,” which gallantly replied to them, though most of her men were falling, killed and wounded from the fierce fire to which she was exposed. Scarcely had the breeze carried her into this post of danger, than it again fell, and the other ships of the squadron had considerable difficulty in following her. While they were endeavouring to get up the harbour, a fire-ship was seen descending directly for the “Torbay.” On it came. The destruction of the “Torbay” seemed inevitable. Now the flames burst out on either side from the fire-ship. The brave crew of the “Torbay” instantly lowered their boats for the purpose of towing her off, but two of the boats were struck and swamped, and many of those in them were drowned before help could be rendered by those on board. Just as the flames seemed about to catch the “Torbay” they suddenly decreased, and were deadened. It seemed almost like a miracle; but when the men afterwards examined the fire-ship, she was found to be loaded with snuff, which immediately the fire reached it completely deadened the flames.

While this event was taking place, Vice-Admiral Vandergoes and the rest of the squadron made their way through the passage which the brave Hopson had opened up, and directed their fire upon the “Bourbon,” which in a short time was captured. The “Torbay,” however, suffered very severely, losing a hundred and fifteen men killed and drowned, besides many wounded, including among the latter Captain Moody, her brave captain. While the troops were advancing, Captain Beckenham in the “Association,” of ninety guns, laid his broadside against a battery of seventeen guns on the left side of the harbour, and Captain Wyvill in the “Barfleur” was sent to batter the fort on the other side, while there was a considerable firing from great guns and small-arms on both sides. The other ships defending the harbour were now attacked. They replied to the fire of the English with considerable vigour, though they in vain attempted to resist their advance. Meantime the Duke of Ormond had landed in a sandy bay about two leagues distant from Vigo. His Grace, meeting with no opposition, ordered the grenadiers, under Lord Shannon and Colonel Pierce, to march directly to the forts which guarded the entrance to the harbour where the boom lay. This they executed with much courage and alacrity, and so furious was their attack, that they soon made themselves masters of this important fort. The Duke himself, at the head of the rest of the forces, in the meantime marched on foot over craggy mountains to support the first detachment. As they advanced, they saw before them about eight thousand Spaniards prepared apparently to contest their advance between the fort and the hills. These, however, only engaged in a little skirmishing at a distance, and as the grenadiers advanced they retired. The batteries having been taken, the enemy retreated into an old tower, or stone castle. From thence, for some time, they fired briskly upon the English. It was said that there were nearly twenty thousand French and Spanish troops in and about Vigo at that time; but, undaunted by the superiority of the enemy, the British troops pushed on. They plied the defenders of the tower so warmly with their grenadoes, and pelted them so sharply with their fusees that they soon made the place too hot for them. Finding this, Monsieur de Sorel, the valiant captain of a French man-of-war, who commanded in the fort, having encouraged his men to make a daring push for their lives, opened the gates, intending to force his way through the English, sword in hand. The grenadiers, however, rushed immediately into the castle, made themselves masters of it, and took nearly three hundred French seamen and fifty Spaniards, with their officers, prisoners at discretion. A small party of the enemy endeavoured to make their escape through the water, but were stopped by a detachment of the Dutch. As soon as this was done, the boats of the squadron pushed up the harbour to take possession of the galleons. The French admiral, however, finding that all hope of defending the place was gone, gave orders for setting the shipping on fire. Before these orders could be executed, a considerable number of the ships were taken possession of by the boats. Besides seventeen ships, carrying between them nine hundred and sixty guns, destroyed or captured by the English and Dutch, three Spanish men-of-war, carrying a hundred and seventy-eight guns, were destroyed, and fifteen galleons were found there. Four of them were taken by the English, five by the Dutch, and four destroyed.

The brave Admirals Rooke, Hopson, and Vandergoes, were still furiously attacking the French ships placed across the harbour behind the boom. Suddenly flames were seen to burst forth from the French admiral’s ship. This was soon discovered to be done on purpose, for immediately afterwards they burst forth from the other French ships, from which boats were at the same time seen putting off towards the shore. The French admiral, indeed, finding that the forts were in the hands of his victorious enemies, his fire-ship spent in vain, the “Bourbon” captured, the boom cut, and the confederate fleet pouring in upon him, so that the battle was lost, hoped by burning his ships to prevent their falling into their hands. The order he issued, however, was not punctually obeyed, in consequence of the haste of the French to get on shore. Immediately this was perceived, the boats of the squadron were ordered in to take possession of the galleons. John Deane found himself in one of the leading boats. Onward they dashed, amid the burning ships. On one side the “Torbay” lay with her fore-top-mast shot away, her sails burnt and scorched, her fore-yard burnt to a coal, and her larboard shrouds, fore and aft, burned to the deadeyes, so that indeed it appeared surprising that she had not been burned altogether. The leading boats dashed alongside some of the largest ships, which were so imperfectly set on fire that the confederates were enabled to extinguish the flames before they had spread far. They then pulled, as fast as they could bend to their oars, up the harbour towards the galleons which lay at the farther end. Every man had heard of the vast amount of wealth reputed to be on board these vessels, and all were eager to capture them, therefore, before they were destroyed by the enemy. Already flames were bursting out from some of them, and the French and Spanish boats were alongside, preparing for their destruction. The Dutch and English joined each other in the race. They rowed past the town, which the British troops, having captured the forts, were already entering. Now the boats got alongside the long-looked-for galleons. Already some were in flames, which had extended too far to allow of their being extinguished, but many others were saved. So rapid had been the movements of the allies, that the Spaniards had not had time to remove the cargoes of several of the galleons. These were in truth real prizes, and the wealth found on board them stimulated the crews of the boats to make desperate attempts to save the rest. Several, however, just as the flotilla approached them, went down at their anchors, but altogether the larger number were saved.

Great was the disappointment of the allies when they found that the Spaniards had landed the larger portion of the money with which the galleons had been freighted. Seldom, however, has a naval expedition been more judiciously planned and more completely carried out. This glorious and memorable victory, too, was obtained with a very inconsiderable loss on the side of the British; for, with the exception of the loss on board Vice-Admiral Hopson’s ship, as already described, very few seamen were either killed or wounded, nor did the ships receive more than a slight damage. Of the land forces, two lieutenants and about forty rank and file were killed, and five officers and about thirty men wounded. Of the French, about four hundred officers and men were taken prisoners, among whom was the Spanish Admiral Don Joseph Checon, several French captains, and other officers of note.

The result of this victory was a vast booty, both of plate and other things, the value of which cannot well be computed. The fleet, indeed, was the richest that had ever come from the West Indies to Europe. The silver and gold was computed to amount to twenty millions of eight, of which fourteen millions had been taken out of the galleons and secured by the enemy before the attack. The rest was either taken or left in the galleons that were burned and sunk. The goods were valued also at twenty millions of pieces of eight, one fourth part of which was saved by the Spaniards, nearly two parts destroyed, and the other fourth taken by the confederates. Besides the property already mentioned, there was a great deal of plate and goods on board belonging to private persons, most of which was taken or lost.

The prize-money which thus fell to John Deane’s share was very considerable, and it induced him to begin setting up a castle in the air, which he hoped to commence in a more substantial manner on his return to England, as he expected by the time he should get there to find Elizabeth restored to her parents, as he had left with her and Captain Davis full directions by which they could be found.

One thing most remarkable with regard to this victory, was not only the courage and sagacity of Sir George Rooke and the other admirals, but their readiness to sacrifice themselves and to risk their safety to ensure the success of the undertaking. This was shown by the way in which they left their large ships and placed themselves on board the smaller ones, as also by their leading the way into the midst of the enemy, strongly posted as they were. Great credit was also due to the land forces, for the mode in which they co-operated with the navy. Scarcely had the action concluded, when Sir Cloudesley Shovel with a large squadron hove in sight. The Duke of Ormond proposed to keep possession of Vigo for Don Carlos, considering it a safe place for the army to take up their quarters in, having a naval force to assist them. Sir George Rooke, however, thought that it was necessary to return home for want of stores and provisions. He left, therefore, Sir Cloudesley Shovel, to whom was entrusted the task of fitting out the prizes. He succeeded also in rescuing a large portion of treasure from the sunken galleons, and he recovered the “Dartmouth,” an English fifty-gun ship which had been captured in the previous war. He also took out of some of the French ships lying aground partially destroyed, fifty brass guns and about sixty from the shore, and before sailing from the port he completed the destruction of every ship that he could not bring away.

The importance of this success was very great, as not only did the Spaniards suffer a heavy loss, but the naval power of France was considerably crippled by it, nor indeed did she during the war recover from its effects. Jack remained with the fleet under Sir Cloudesley Shovel. All hands were busily employed in fitting out the captured ships and preparing them for sea. At length, in a week, all those fit for sea were got ready, when the rest, amounting to a considerable number, were set on fire, and the squadron, as the flames bursting fiercely forth sent them to the bottom, sailed away down the harbour.

On the 25th of October Sir Cloudesley got clear of Vigo, but it proving calm, he anchored in the channel in the port of Bayonne, where, with a flag of truce, he sent several prisoners on shore, receiving some English who had been captured by the Spaniards. The next day he got under sail again, with the intention of going through the north channel, but the wind taking him short, he was obliged to drop anchor. Here a galleon, a prize to the “Monmouth,” struck upon a sunken rock. Immediately the water rushed into her, and before it could be pumped out she foundered. Fortunately several frigates were on each side of her, and their boats putting off, all her crew were saved, with the exception of two who were below. The same day the fleet was joined by the “Dragon,” a fifty-gun ship lately commanded by Captain Holyman. One of the officers came on board and gave an account of an engagement she had just had with a French man-of-war of seventy guns. In spite of the vast superiority of the enemy, Captain Holyman defended his ship with the greatest resolution. His crew worked their guns in a way British seamen have ever known how to do when alongside an enemy. At length the captain was killed, when his First Lieutenant, Fotherby, continued the defence, urging his men not to strike as long as they had a cartridge remaining and a shot in the locker. At length, although themselves greatly crippled, they had the satisfaction of seeing the enemy brace up her yards and stand away. Loud cheers burst from their throats, though they at first believed she had merely hauled off to repair damages. However she continued standing away, and ultimately her topsails disappeared below the horizon. Besides her brave captain, the “Dragon” lost twenty-five of her crew killed, and many more wounded. The fleet on their passage home encountered very bad weather. One of the ships, the “Nassau,” had, in spite of the gale, the good fortune to make a rich prize. Standing in towards the fleet, however, the sea ran so high that the prize foundered. The gale continued to increase, and the whole squadron was thus separated, every ship shifting for herself. At length all got into the Downs.

Chapter Thirty Four.

Hurricane in the British Channel—Sir George Rooke takes Gibraltar—Sea-fight off Malaga.

On reaching England once more our hero had great hopes of being able to get on shore to visit his own family, as well as to make inquiries about Elizabeth, of whose arrival he had not yet heard. He had actually obtained leave to go on shore, and was proposing to set off the following day, when he experienced the truth of the old saying, “There is many a slip between the cup and the lip.”

On the 26th of November, while his ship lay in the Downs—the weather having hitherto been fine—about eleven o’clock, the wind began to blow most violently from the West South West. John Deane was the officer on watch. He had been walking the deck for some time, looking out on either side—for those were days when it was necessary for seamen to have their eyes about them—when he observed in the quarter from whence the wind was coming, bright flashes of lightning. Soon the sea appeared through the gloom covered with a sheet of foam. Every instant the lightning increased in vividness, and now loud roars of thunder reverberated through the sky. Clouds came rushing on in vast masses.

“Call the captain!” said Deane to the midshipmen of the watch. “We are going to have a night of it, and he’s not the man to remain in his bed at such a time. All hands on deck!” he shouted immediately afterwards.

The crew came rushing up from below with a speed which would have astonished any one not knowing how quickly sailors can put on their clothes, many of them, indeed, bringing them up in their hands and dressing on their way.

“Strike topgallant-masts!” he cried out. “Mr Grummit, range another cable for the best bower-anchor. We shall want every anchor out to-night.”

Scarcely had these judicious orders been given, when the captain himself came on deck and took the command, next ordering the top-sail-yards to be lowered and the top-masts to be housed.

Now, with a loud roar, the gale burst upon the fleet, which lay at anchor in that exposed situation. The sea rising rapidly, torn up by the furious tempest, caused the ships to pitch and roll in a fearful manner, as if it would wrench them from their anchors and drive them against the dangerous Goodwin Sands. As Jack looked out he could see, indeed, some of the ships torn away from their anchors, apparently, and driven hopelessly before the gale. Over others the sea was breaking furiously, sending the spray high above them, and seeming every moment about to carry them to the bottom. Those who had been in many a battle, and gone through many a storm, felt their hearts, for the first time perhaps, sinking with fear, as the thunder crashed above their heads and the lightning flashed about the masts, while the foaming seas dashed up and round them on every side. The position of the “Lennox” was indeed perilous in the extreme, and little comfort could her crew gain by watching the fate of others. A large ship lay within sight—she was the “Mary”—with Rear-Admiral Beaumont’s flag flying on board. Sea after sea came dashing and breaking over her. Now those whose eyes were turned in that direction saw that she began to move.

“She is driving! she is driving!” exclaimed several.

An instant afterwards she was seen carried before the gale, and ere many minutes had passed was thrown helplessly upon the Goodwins. Scarcely had she touched the fatal sands when her masts, bending like willow-wands, went by the board. The seas leaped triumphantly over her, and in the short time of one hour, scarce a timber of the stout ship hung together, while those who looked on knew well what must be the fate of all her brave crew. Not a man could be expected to live in that foaming sea. The same fate might any moment be the lot of those on board the “Lennox.”

Thus the whole night was passed, no one knowing whether the next hour would not be their last. For a long time the gale gave no signs of abating. The thunder roared as loudly as ever, and the lightning flashed round their heads. Sometimes, as the vivid lightning enabled them to pierce the otherwise surrounding gloom, they saw far off some noble ship torn from her anchors, or the masts of another disappearing beneath the waves.

When morning broke at length, fearful was the scene of destruction which met their gaze. Here and there fragments of wreck could be distinguished on the Goodwins, while many other ships which had escaped the hurricane presented a shattered and forlorn appearance. By seven o’clock providentially the wind began to fall, and in a short time it ceased almost as rapidly as it had commenced. Sad was the number of ships which had foundered. Among those in the Downs was the “Northumberland,” not one of her company having escaped. The “Stirling Castle” had also gone down, seventy of her men only having got on shore in their boats or on pieces of the wreck. Of Admiral Beaumont’s ship, one man alone was saved on a piece of wreck, having been tossed about all night till at length he was cast on shore. The “Mortar” bomb-vessel had all her company lost. The number of sailors lost on the Goodwin Sands during that fatal night, and on all parts of the coast, many more being cast away in those few hours of the gale, amounted to fifteen hundred and nineteen. Thirteen men-of-war were totally wrecked, besides many others greatly injured. The newly-erected Eddystone Lighthouse was also blown down and entirely destroyed, the unfortunate men who had charge of it losing their lives. Several ships were forced from their anchors: among them was the “Revenge,” which drove over to the coast of Holland, where she was nearly cast away. Happily, however, sail was got on her and she arrived safely in the river Medway. Another ship, the “Dorset,” after striking three times, drove a fortnight to sea, where she was knocking about in an almost helpless state, till she was enabled to rig jury-masts and thus get safe back to the Nore.

In London the accidents which happened were numerous, and a large amount of property was destroyed. The gale blew down a multitude of chimneys, and even whole buildings; lifted the tops of houses, tore up a number of trees in Saint James’s Park, in the Inns of Court, Moorfields, and at other places, by the roots, and broke off others in the middle. Several people were killed in their beds, among them Dr Kidder, Bishop of Bath and Wells, with his wife. A great number of vessels, barges, and boats were sunk in the river Thames, and the arches of London Bridge were stopped with the wrecks of them.

On the 12th of December the Queen published a proclamation for a general fast, which, on Wednesday, 19th January following, was kept with great strictness. The Order in Council also appeared in the Gazette for an advance of wages to the families of those officers and seamen who had perished in the storm, in the same manner as if they had been killed in battle. The House of Commons also addressed Her Majesty upon this melancholy occasion, desiring her to give directions for repairing this loss, and to build such capital ships as she should think fit, and promising to make good the expense at their next meeting. Thus, great as was the loss, the British Navy was restored to that state of efficiency which it is most important that it should ever maintain.

John Deane had a great disappointment in not being able, after all, to leave his ship. As soon as the damages she received in the storm were repaired, she was ordered to rejoin the fleet under Sir George Rooke. That admiral had been directed to convey the Arch-Duke Charles of Austria to Lisbon. Before the fleet had reached Finisterre another violent storm arose, which dispersed the ships and drove them back into the Channel. The tempestuous weather prevented the admiral from sailing before the 5th of February, and on the 15th of the same month he arrived at Lisbon.

A short historical account is now necessary, that the cause of the long war in which England was engaged may be understood. The King of Spain, who died in 1700, declared by his will, real or pretended, the Duke of Anjou, grandson to Louis the Fourteenth, King of the whole Spanish monarchy. The Spaniards, finding themselves threatened with war by the Emperor of Germany, and by England, in conjunction with the United Provinces, delivered themselves up into the hands of France. In consequence, both the Spanish Netherlands and the Duchy of Milan received French garrisons, and the French fleet came to Cadiz. A squadron was also sent to the West Indies, so that the whole Spanish Empire fell into the hands of the French. The Duke of Burgundy then having no children, the King of Spain was likely to succeed to the crown of France, and thus the world saw that a new universal monarchy might possibly arise out of this conjunction. Hence arose the War of Succession in Spain. With the object above mentioned of placing the Duke of Anjou on the throne of Spain, Louis had sacrificed his charming and clever niece, the granddaughter of our King Charles the First and Henrietta Maria to an imbecile husband, the thought of whom was hateful to her, and he also had engaged in a variety of other intrigues with the same object. The Spaniards in general gave the preference to the Arch-Duke Charles, or Don Carlos, who was the legitimate heir of the Spanish monarchy, second son of the Emperor of Austria. The object of Louis was first to secure his own authority over the Dutch; secondly, to injure the trade of England, and also of Holland; and, thirdly, to overthrow Protestantism in all the countries under his influence.

The object of William and the British government, on the other hand, was—first, to exclude Louis from the Netherlands and West Indies; secondly, to prevent the union of France and Spain in the person of the Duke of Anjou or his posterity; and, thirdly, to maintain the Protestant religion wherever it was established, including the Vaudois provinces. With these objects, William had exerted his utmost energies to form the grand alliance of England, Austria, and the States-general against France. To these were afterwards added some of the Italian states and Portugal.

The War of Succession lasted, from first to last, fifteen years. It ended by the accession of the Arch-Duke Don Carlos to the imperial throne of Germany, and Philip the Fifth, Duke of Anjou, was then acknowledged by all European sovereigns King of Spain, on the condition of renouncing all claim to the throne of France for himself and his descendants. The war had now continued for about two years. The chief exploit which had hitherto been performed was the capture of the galleons in the harbour of Vigo, which has already been described. The Arch-Duke, having landed at Lisbon, marched into Spain with a considerable body of troops, but was not able to make any progress for a considerable time. Sir George Rooke, with the fleet, proceeded into the Mediterranean and made an attack on the important, town of Barcelona. The fleet at length anchored in the roads of Tetuan, when, on the 17th of July, Sir George Rooke called a council of war, and placed before the members a plan he had devised for attacking the fortress of Gibraltar. Strong as it was, he believed that there was a prospect of capturing it, having received information that the garrison at that time was but small. It was a place, also, likely to prove of infinite importance during the war then going on, and it was hoped that the attacking this fortress would give a lustre to Queen Anne’s armies, and possibly induce the Spaniards to favour the cause of King Charles.

As no time was to be lost, the fleet sailed in consequence of this resolution for Gibraltar, and, prepared for battle, took up a position in the bay on the 21st of July. As the British gazed up on the lofty rock surmounted by cannon, they might well have felt that it would require all their bravery and hardihood to conquer the place.

“It must be ours!” exclaimed John Deane, as he looked up at it while he walked the quarter-deck.

“It shall be!” observed Captain Jumper, who overheard him. “Deane, you shall accompany me on shore; and I hope before the world is much older, you and I shall find ourselves inside those walls.”

“Or buried under them,” said Deane. “For my part, however, I would as lief be on the top of them.”

Meantime the marines, English and Dutch, to the number of eighteen hundred, were landed on the isthmus by which the rock is joined to the mainland, to cut off all communication between the town and the continent.

It was only of late that this fine body of men had been organised and received the name of marines, their duty being especially to serve on board ships. They were under command of the Prince of Hesse. His Highness, having taken post on the isthmus, summoned the governor to surrender, but that brave officer returned an answer, that he would defend the place to the last. On the 22nd, the admiral, at break of day, gave orders that the ships which had been appointed to cannonade the town, under the command of Rear-Admiral Byng and Rear-Admiral Vanderdosen, as also those which were to batter the South Mole Head, commanded by Captain Hicks of the “Weymouth,” should arrange themselves accordingly. The wind, however, blowing contrary, they could not get into their places till the day was well-nigh spent. In the meantime, to amuse the enemy, Captain Whitaker was sent in with some boats, and a French privateer of twelve guns was burned at the Old Mole.

On the 23rd, soon after break of day, the ships being all placed in their stations, the admiral gave the signal for beginning the cannonade; and now the guns opened with a furious fire. The shot, like hail, flew against the Spanish batteries. The British seamen firing as fast as they could load, in five or six hours upwards of fifteen thousand shot were calculated to have been discharged against the town, and the enemy were driven from their guns, especially at the South Mole Head. Seeing this, the admiral sent an order to Captain Whitaker to attack the town with all the boats of the fleet. In the meantime, however, Captain Jumper, who saw what was necessary to be done, and Captain Hicks, who both lay next the Mole, had pushed on shore with their pinnaces and some other boats before the rest could come up. John Deane and two other lieutenants accompanied their captain. They, rushing forward as British seamen always will do when led by their officers, took possession of the fort with great bravery, but not without sustaining a considerable loss. As they, with swords and pistols in their hands, were rushing on, suddenly a fearful noise was heard. The earth seemed to lift up beneath their feet, and forty men and two lieutenants were carried up, fearfully burned and shattered. The survivors, among whom was John Deane, undaunted by this disaster, fought their way on and took possession of the grand platform, where they remained until reinforced by a body of seamen who had come in the boats under Captain Whitaker. The whole body then advanced and took a redoubt half-way between the Mole and the town, possessing themselves also of many of the enemy’s cannon. The admiral then sent in a letter to the governor, and at the same time a message to the Prince of Hesse, directing him to send a peremptory summons, which His Highness accordingly did.

While this was taking place, John Deane, who had previously surveyed the rock, got leave from Captain Juniper to lead a body of men up a part of the cliff which the Spaniards had never thought it possible any human beings could climb. Deane, however, had often scrambled over the nearly perpendicular rock on which Nottingham Castle stands, and up its old rugged towers which yet remain. He had no lack of volunteers, with two or three midshipmen, ready to accompany him. Stealing away unperceived by the enemy, they got to the foot of the cliff. With their pistols in their belts and swords between their teeth they commenced the perilous ascent. Many who saw them thought they would never succeed, but they had resolved to persevere. Slowly but surely they proceeded up, hanging on by each craggy projection, aided by the shrubs which here and there grew from between the crevices of the rock. At length, when one after the other they reached the summit, they saw before them a chapel filled with women, with a vast number of others coming in and going out of it. These poor creatures had come out of the town, prompted by their superstitious notions, to implore the protection of the Virgin, to whom the chapel was dedicated. Jack and his followers, springing forward, threw themselves between the chapel and the road which led to the town. By gestures more than by words, he endeavoured to persuade the frightened matrons and damsels that he and his followers would do them no harm. With difficulty, however, he could make them understand this, though he signified by signs that they were all to get inside the chapel again. Their fears were somewhat overcome when they found that no insult was offered to any of them. He allowed, however, one of them to go back into the town to inform the governor that they had fallen into the hands of the English. The governor, finding that the forts were in possession of the English and that a large number of women had also fallen into their hands, consented to agree to the terms proposed by Admiral Rooke. Hostages were accordingly exchanged, and the capitulation being concluded, the Prince of Hesse marched into the town in the evening and took possession of the land and North Mole gates and the outworks. The Spanish troops were allowed to march out with all the honours of war, and provisions for a six days’ march. Such inhabitants and soldiers who were willing to take an oath of fidelity to Don Carlos the Third were allowed to remain. The Spaniards were also to discover all their magazines of powder and other ammunition or provision and arms in the city. All subjects of the French King were, however, excluded from any part of the terms of this capitulation.

The town was found to be extremely strong, with a hundred guns mounted facing the sea and the narrow pass towards the land. It was well supplied with ammunition, but the garrison consisted of only a hundred and fifty men. However, in the opinion of officers who examined the works, fifty men might have defended them against thousands, so it was acknowledged that the attack made by the seamen was brave almost beyond example.

The British lost sixty men killed, including two lieutenants and one master, and two hundred and sixteen wounded, including one captain, seven lieutenants, and a boatswain. It is but justice to the naval part of the expedition to remark that as this design was contrived by the admiral, so it was executed entirely by the seamen, and therefore the whole honour of it was due to them. Nothing, indeed, could have enabled the seamen to take the place but the cannonading of it in a way which obliged the Spaniards to quit their posts.

After leaving as many men as could be spared to garrison the place, under the command of the Prince of Hesse, the fleet sailed for Tetuan, in order to take in wood and water. Immediately the fleet had watered, it stood out again towards Gibraltar, when on the lath of August about noon, the enemy’s fleet and galleys were discovered to the westward, near Cape Malaga, going free. The allied fleet accordingly bore after them in a line of battle. On the morning of the 13th of August they were within three leagues of the French, and then brought to, with their heads to the south, the wind being east, and lay in a posture to receive them. In the English line, Sir George Rooke, with Rear-Admirals Byng and Dilkes, were in the centre. Sir Cloudesley Shovel and Sir John Leake led the van, and Vice-Admiral Calemburg and Rear-Admiral Vanderdosen commanded the ships in the rear.

The English fleet consisted of forty-five ships of the line, and eighteen smaller vessels. The Dutch had only twelve ships of the line, while the French fleet consisted of fifty ships of the line, eight frigates, and eleven smaller vessels, the line-of-battle ships alone carrying 3530 guns, while the English ships together only carried 3154 guns, and the Dutch ships about 1000 guns.

Though the French endeavoured at first to avoid the battle, yet they had the advantage over the combined fleet, as they were superior in force, and all their ships were clean and fully manned. They had also the advantage of fighting on the coast, and near a harbour of their ally, and had the benefit of a large number of galleys. The confederates, on the contrary, besides being away from any friendly port, were thinly manned, and had a great deficiency of stores and provisions, while the foulness of their ships was greatly to their prejudice in the day of battle. Notwithstanding this they were eager for the engagement.

The action which was about to commence was likely to prove of far more importance than any in which Deane had hitherto engaged, and his heart beat high as he saw the ships of England bear down upon the enemy. His own ship the “Lennox” was among those under the command of the brave Admiral Sir Cloudesley Shovel.

At about 10 o’clock, when nearly half-gunshot from the enemy, the French set all their sails at once, and seemed to intend to stretch ahead and weather the English fleet. Admiral Shovel, on discovering the enemy’s intention, hauled his wind, and Sir George Rooke, seeing what would be the consequence if the van was intercepted, bore down upon the enemy with the rest of the confederate fleet, and put out the signal for a fight, which was immediately begun by Admiral Shovel. The battle raged with great fury on both sides till about two in the afternoon, when the enemy’s van gave way. The Dutch engaged the enemy with the greatest courage and alacrity, and being provided with ammunition, continued firing something later than the rest, but night coming on put a stop to the engagement. Several of the French ships were compelled to quit the fight, long before it was over, to repair damages, some of them to stop leaks which would otherwise have caused them to founder. The French main body being very strong, and several ships of the admiral’s and Rear-Admirals Byng and Dilke’s divisions being also forced to go out of the line for want of shot, the battle fell very heavily on the admiral’s own ship the “Saint George,” as also on the “Shrewsbury.” This being observed by Sir Cloudesley Shovel, he, like a good and valiant officer, immediately backed astern and endeavoured to reinforce the admiral. This act of valour and of good seamanship had two useful effects. First it drew several of the enemy’s ships from the British centre, which was so hard pressed by a great superiority of strength and numbers, and secondly it drove them at length out of the line, for after they had felt the effects of the guns of others of the ships of Sir Cloudesley Shovel’s division, which were astern of him, they considered it more prudent not to advance along his broadside. Being clean and better sailers, they set their split-sails, and with their boats ahead, towed away from him, without giving him the opportunity of exchanging a single broadside with them.

There can be no doubt that the British would have gained a complete victory had they not have been in want of shot. This had been expended by the vast number of guns fired at Gibraltar, though every ship had been furnished with twenty-five rounds the day before the battle, which would have been sufficient had they got as near the enemy as the admiral intended. As it was, every ship had expended her ammunition before night.

In the centre of the line a furious action was going on. The “Sérieux,” a ship in the French admiral’s division commanded by Monsieur Champmelin, however, boarded the “Monk,” an English ship commanded by Captain Mills. He, with great activity and courage, every time cleared the deck of the enemy, and made them at last bear away. The same French commander had his ship afterwards so disabled that he was obliged with others to quit the line. Captain Jumper also added laurels to those he had already gained, by engaging with his single ship three of the enemy’s; and on this occasion, as he had done at Gibraltar, John Deane especially distinguished himself. Captain Jumper shook him by the hand, and thanking him for the aid he had afforded, promised him that he would not rest till he had recommended him for promotion to the admiral.

About seven in the evening, one of the French admiral’s seconds advanced out of the line, and began a closer engagement with the “Saint George,” commanded by Captain Jennings; but, although the “Saint George” had already suffered much, the French ship met with such rough treatment that she had great difficulty in rejoining the line, after the loss of both her captains and many of her men.

Among the actions of other brave commanders, that of the gallant Earl of Dursley, commander of the “Boyne,” an eighty-gun ship, must be mentioned. He was but twenty-three years of age, yet he gave numerous instances of his undaunted courage, steady resolution, and prudent conduct.

The battle ended at the close of the day, when the enemy escaped with the help of their galleys to leeward. In the night the wind shifted to the north, and in the morning to the west, which placed the enemy on the weather side of the confederates. Their fleet lay by all day within three leagues of the French. At night the latter stood away to the northward. The English lost 687 men killed, and 1632 wounded. The loss of the French was a Rear-Admiral, five captains, and a number of other officers killed with 150 wounded, and upwards of 3000 men killed or wounded. Sir Cloudesley Shovel afterwards declared that this engagement was the most desperate that had ever taken place between two fleets in his time. Scarcely a ship escaped without being obliged to shift one of her masts, and many of them all.

Chapter Thirty Five.

Home again—Another bitter Disappointment.

Soon after the battle which has been described the fleet once more returned to England. The admirals and many of the captains were presented to Queen Anne, who complimented them on the actions in which they had been engaged. Among the officers who received promotion was John Deane, who was raised to the rank of captain. At length, as he was now without a ship, he was able to set forward to pay his long-promised visit to his home. In those days the post was very irregular on shore, and sailors often went many years without receiving letters from home. Such had been John Deane’s case, and he still remained in ignorance of all the events which had taken place among those he loved since his departure. One thing had troubled him greatly; it was at not hearing of the arrival of Elizabeth and her faithful guardian, Mistress Pearson. He had gained a large amount of prize-money, which the agent at Portsmouth, where he landed, promised to remit to him at Nottingham. He took with him only a sum sufficient for his journey and to supply his wants while he expected to remain on shore. He met with no adventure during his journey. The number of loose characters who had infested the roads in the early days of King William’s reign, had been drawn away to fight the battles of their country, either under Marlborough or at sea, and few highwaymen were to be met with in any part of the country. Deane would gladly have turned aside to go to Norwich; but it was greatly out of his way, and he felt that it was his duty in the first place to visit his own father and mother. He could scarcely restrain his eagerness as he passed over the Trent bridge once more, and took his way through the well-known streets which led to the market-place. It was early in the day, but no one knew him in his richly-laced coat, his countenance well bronzed by sun and wind, and his whiskers and beard of no mean growth. At length he stopped before the door of the old house and threw himself from his horse, calling to a boy passing at the moment to hold it. Not till then did it occur to him how long he had been absent, and what great changes might have taken place. His heart sank, for he expected almost to see his mother hurrying to the door, with his old father’s fine countenance peering behind her; but the door remained closed, and he had to knock more than once before it was opened. His voice trembled as he inquired of the serving-damsel who opened the door whether Mr and Mistress Deane were at home.

“Ay,” was the answer, “they are in the parlour at the back of the house.”

He pushed past her and hurried on. The old gentleman and lady rose from their seats as he threw open the door, at first not knowing him.

“To what cause do we owe the honour of this visit, sir?” said old Mr Deane, taking Jack to be an intruder, or one of the officers quartered in the town engaged in a frolic.

“He is our son—our son Jack!” exclaimed Mistress Deane, who, knowing him at a second glance, threw her arms round his neck.

Old Mr Deane hurried forward, and grasping his hand, almost wrung it off. Then his mother bestowed her kisses on his bronzed cheeks.

“Yes, it’s Jack—I know him now!” exclaimed the old gentleman, drawing back a pace, that he might look at him from head to foot. “Well, thou art grown into a brave lad, Jack,” he said, looking at him affectionately.

And now Jack was seated between the two old people, who scarcely would allow him to ask any questions, so eager were they to hear his adventures. It was some time, therefore, before he could learn what had become of the rest of the family.

“And how is sister Polly and her husband, Tom Dovedale? It seems an age since the day they were spliced.”

“They live six doors off, and are wonderfully flourishing, for from morning to night they do little else than ‘laugh and grow fat,’” was the answer.

“And Jasper, where is he?” was the next question.

“The father of two fine cherubs, and Alethea as beautiful and cheerful as ever. He is a fortunate fellow, your brother Jasper. Cousin Nat now lives with him, and has given him up all his business, so that Jasper is the leading physician in the town, and, on my word, he bears his honours bravely, and is in no way behind cousin Nat in the estimation of the townspeople and neighbourhood. At first I feared that Jasper and Alethea would not have got on very smoothly together. She, as you remember, was a warm Jacobite, as was her poor father, but Jasper argued the matter so well with her, that he soon brought her over, and she became as loyal a subject of King William as any to be found within the realm. Had it not been, indeed, for her marriage to Jasper, it would have gone hard with her, for poor Harwood was so implicated in the plot against King William, that his property would have been confiscated. Cousin Nat and other friends, however, so earnestly petitioned the Government, that it was preserved for the sake of his daughter, and Jasper, after poor Harwood’s death, became the Squire of Harwood Grange.”

“And have you heard from Kate and Dainsforth, mother?” asked Jack. He had another question which he was eager to ask, but he wished first to inquire about his own family.

“Oh, yes! they’re flourishing in their new plantation; and glowing are the accounts which they send us of the country. It must be a wonderful place, and although the free Government we now enjoy makes fewer people wish to go over there, yet many are tempted, from time to time, from the accounts they receive from their friends settled there.”

Jack’s next inquiry was about Mr Gournay at Norwich. He could only learn that a foreign lady and gentleman were residing at his house, but not a word about Elizabeth could they tell him. He concluded that they alluded to Monsieur and Madame de Mertens, but they were not aware even that they had a daughter, nor could they give him any account of the arrival of their supposed daughter.

Jack’s visit to Jasper and Alethea and to cousin Nat must be briefly passed over.

Having spent a few days at Nottingham he became eager to visit Norwich. He found Will Brinsmead, who, in spite of his age, continued his journeys through the country, about to set off in that direction. Will begged that he would give him the honour of his company, but Jack laughingly assured him, that though he should have great delight in talking over old days, his eagerness to reach Norwich would not allow him to jog along behind the cattle. He, however, rode a few miles with him, when just as the old man was beginning one of his lectures on the “Pilgrim’s Progress,” Jack, shaking him warmly by the hand, pushed on his steed in advance of the herd.

On making himself known to Mr Gournay, he was received in the kindest way by him and his wife; but Jack’s astonishment and disappointment was very great when he found that they had not received the accounts he had sent home of his discovery of Elizabeth, and of her proposed return with Mistress Pearson, under charge of Captain Davis, to England. Monsieur and Madame de Mertens were residing, he found, in a small house in Norwich, and they also had not received either his letter or one from Captain Davis. His heart sank within him. What was he now to do? The more he had of late thought of Elizabeth, the more completely he found that she had entwined herself round his heart, and he had anticipated the delight of meeting her again and receiving her as his bride from the hands of her parents. All these delightful visions had now vanished. Monsieur and Madame de Mertens received him with every expression of regard and affection.

“I can never forget the important service you rendered me in restoring to me my husband,” said Madame de Mertens, “and I feel sure that, had it been in your power, you would have brought back to me my child. Even now I have a hope that you may possibly restore her to me.”

Jack spent some time with his friends, and finally came to the resolution of returning to the West Indies, in order to make inquiries about Elizabeth and Dame Pearson.

“I will first go to the Admiralty and ascertain where the ‘Venus’ frigate now is, and then I will communicate with Captain Davis,” said Deane. “Should he be unable to give me the information I desire, I will immediately set off on my projected voyage.”

Captain Deane had been invited to return to Mr Gournay’s to supper. On entering the house, the excellent quaker met him with a letter in his hand.

“I have just received this,” he said, “from your brother-in-law Giles Dainsforth. He mentions a curious circumstance which occurred some time ago, which may tend to solve the mystery concerning the fate of Elizabeth de Mertens and her friend. He writes me word that information had been received in the plantation of the wreck of a ship on an island off the American coast, with several passengers, among whom were said to be some ladies. A small boat which had left the island, had, after a long voyage, the people undergoing great hardships, reached the mainland. They had come in the hopes of obtaining relief for those left behind. As soon as the information was received, a meeting of the inhabitants of Philadelphia was held, and it was resolved to send out a vessel for the rescue of the sufferers. Unfortunately, friend Giles does not mention the name of the vessel or the passengers, except casually he refers to the loss of a queen’s ship.”

This was indeed important information. It raised Captain Deane’s hopes of the possibility of discovering Elizabeth; at the same time he was well aware that there were many probabilities of the wreck being that of some other vessel.

“Friend Dainsforth is very anxious that we should send out a vessel with a cargo of which he may dispose. It is a business in which I myself am not willing to enter,” observed Mr Gournay; “but thou mayest find friends in Nottingham who will be more ready to engage in the speculation, and being thyself a seaman of experience, thou mightest take the command of it. It will be far better for thee than following the occupation of fighting, in which thou hast been engaged.”

The plan thus suggested by Mr Gournay was much in accordance with Jack’s taste. He, however, made up his mind in the first instance to go to London, that he might make inquiries as to the fate of the “Venus.” If she had left the West Indies, and had not since been heard of, or if it was supposed that she had been cast away, he would then have very little doubt of her being the ship of which Giles Dainsforth spoke; but if, on the contrary, she had returned to England, or been sent to some other station, he would then only suppose that the wreck alluded to in the letter must be that of another ship, and thus proceeding to Pennsylvania would in no way forward the great object he had in view. Mr Gournay having fully agreed with him in the wisdom of his plans, after he had bidden farewell to Monsieur and Madame de Mertens, he set off on his visit to London.

Jack felt very differently from what he did before on his first visit to the metropolis in company with Long Sam. He was now a captain in the navy, with an honourable name, and money in his pocket. On going to the Admiralty, however, he could gain no satisfactory information regarding the “Venus” or Captain Davis. One of the clerks told him that he believed she was still in the West Indies. Another that she had been captured by the enemy. A third, of whom in his despair he made further inquiries, told him that she had been sunk; and another, that she was on her passage home. He had just left the office, and was taking his way disconsolately along the street, when he met an old shipmate.

“My dear fellow,” he exclaimed, “you did not employ a golden key, I suspect, to unlock the mystery! Just go back with a doubloon in your band, and cross the palm of Master Dick Greedifist, and you will soon find that he knows more about the matter than you supposed.”

Jack, though indignant that such a proceeding should be necessary, did as he was advised.

“Oh, certainly, Captain Deane!” answered Dick. “It was about the ‘Venus’ you were inquiring. Oh, ah, let me see! she was ordered home in 1702, and immediately afterwards the order was countermanded and she remained on the station for some time longer. Since then, she was sent to visit the plantations on the mainland of North America; and, in consequence of her not having been heard of for some time, it is feared that she must have met with some disaster. As soon as she had executed her mission she was to return home; and I know that some months ago she was expected.”

This was all the information Jack required. He did not tell Master Greedifist the opinion he had formed of him, but, hastening out of the office, took his way to his inn. Jack as has been seen was a man of action. He took care of the minutes, well knowing that the hours would take care of themselves. As soon as he had sufficiently fortified the inner man, he again mounted his horse, and leaving all the wonders of London unvisited, spurred back northward towards Nottingham.

At the inn where he rested the first night of his journey, he wrote an account of the information he had gained to his friends at Norwich, saying that he proposed carrying out the plan suggested by Giles Dainsforth, and that as soon as he could make the arrangements he hoped to sail in a galley for Pennsylvania. On reaching home he found that Dainsforth had expressed the same opinion to his friends at Nottingham. He had, therefore, little difficulty in inducing them to join in a speculation for the purchase of a galley, to be freighted with goods suitable for the plantations, he himself having the command of her. Having made all the preliminary arrangements, he was about to start for London, when he received information from Mr Gournay that a galley admirably suited for his object was about to be launched at Lynn Regis. Scarcely had the letter been read, when Jack was on horseback, and spurring forward to that town. He was not disappointed in the appearance of the vessel. She was stoutly built, and roomy, capable of carrying a large cargo. As she reached the water she was named the “Nottingham Galley.” John Deane, whose manners were such as to gain the confidence of his fellow-men, soon found a hardy crew to man her. By the time she was ready for sea, he had obtained a considerable share of his prize-money. His brother Jasper, his cousin Nat, and his father, with several other influential persons at Nottingham, took shares in the speculation. It would be impossible to follow Deane in his various journeys backwards and forwards to Norwich, Lynn, and Nottingham, while the galley was getting ready for sea. At length, having received a part of her cargo on board, sent from Norwich and Nottingham, and other places to the west, he made sail for the Thames, where he was to receive the remainder.

Chapter Thirty Six.

Adventure in the “Nottingham Galley”—Shipwreck.

Captain John Deane had now launched forth in a new character, that of a merchant adventurer, especially honoured in those days, as it deserved to be. The merchant adventurers a century and a half ago were the promoters of civilisation, the founders of kingdoms, while they were generally distinguished by their courage, perseverance, and honourable conduct. The “Nottingham Galley” had a crew of forty men, and she mounted twenty guns, with which her captain hoped to defend her against any enemies she might encounter. He had hitherto been a successful man, and he began to think that it would never be his lot to be otherwise.

The voyage was prosperous till the “Nottingham Galley” was within fifty leagues of the American coast. A furious gale then sprang up, and thick weather came on, so that no observations could be taken. Deane endeavoured to bring the ship to, that he might keep off the coast till the weather should moderate. In vain, however, did he make the attempt. The after-masts were carried away; and now the ship could only run before the gale, it being feared every moment that the seas which came roaring up astern would break on board. He hoped, however, that the weather might moderate before they reached the entrance of the Delaware river, up which the galley was bound. Vain hope! The darkness of night came on, and instead of moderating, the gale increased. The crew, hardy as they were, clung to the bulwarks and the shrouds, expecting that every moment would be their last. Still the fury of the tempest increased. The wind whistled through the shrouds, and the seas raged up alongside. A loud roar was heard ahead. “Breakers! breakers!” shouted the crew. The next instant there came a fearful crash. The helpless galley was driven forward amid the rocks. The seas swept over her. Many were washed away, or dashed furiously against the rocks. Deane felt himself lifted up by a sea which dashed against the devoted vessel. He suspected that the fate which had overtaken many of his crew would now be his. Onward the sea bore him. He struck out, struggling bravely for life. His feet touched the hard sand, and the next instant he was thrown high upon the beach. He staggered forward, and before the following sea had reached him he had escaped from its clutches. The despairing shrieks of his crew reached his ears. In vain he endeavoured to render them assistance. He rescued two, however, at the risk of being himself thrown back into the foaming surges. Three others had been thrown as he had been on shore.

When morning at length broke, they were the only survivors of the gallant band which had manned the “Nottingham Galley.” Captain Deane’s first thought was, that possibly this might be the very island on which the “Venus” had been cast away, supposing it to be an island, of which he was not yet sure. A vague feeling that even now Elizabeth and Mistress Pearson might be living on it, induced him immediately to set forth to explore the country. He had not gone far before in front of him he saw several huts, constructed evidently out of the wreck of a vessel. He hurried on, eager to communicate with the inhabitants whom he expected to find within them. As he reached the huts, however, he soon saw by the open doors and the silence which reigned on every side, that they were deserted. On searching around, however, he discovered signs that they had been inhabited by a considerable number of persons. One of the huts, built at a short distance from the others, was constructed in a better style. It was closed by a door placed on hinges, and there was a window which could be closed by a shutter. He lifted the latch. There were two neat bed-places within, and on the table some small shreds of silk, and a few other articles such as were used by females met his sight. This then might possibly have been the abode of Elizabeth. He looked eagerly around with tender interest, in the hope of finding some sign by which he might ascertain the truth. All the articles of value had been removed, but still it was evident that the hut had been abandoned somewhat suddenly. At length he found an object sticking between the crib and the wall, as if it had fallen down between them. It was a book. He opened it eagerly. On the blank page at the commencement were the letters “E.P.” He had no longer any doubt that it was the property of Elizabeth. He placed it in his bosom and continued the search. There could be no doubt then, that the vessel which Giles Dainsforth had mentioned as being on the point of sailing in search of the shipwrecked crew had reached the place, and carried them off in safety. For this he was truly thankful, delighted as he would have been to have found Elizabeth still there, as he had almost expected to do.

On his return he told his companions what he had discovered. Their spirits revived as they began to hope that some vessel might pass that way, and carry them to the plantation. As they gazed, however, on the ocean, covered with foaming billows, their condition seemed perilous indeed. Of the ship herself, not a plank clung together, though the beach was strewed with various articles which had formed her cargo. One of her boats too had been cast ashore, without receiving any material damage. Deane immediately summoned his men around him, and pointed out to them the necessity of saving whatever provisions were washed on shore. By this time the gale had considerably abated, and they were enabled to drag up several casks and cases containing food, which they so much required. In the same way, numerous bales and other articles which had formed the cargo of the ship were saved. They found themselves on an uninhabited island of small extent, which seemed likely to afford them but scanty means of subsistence. In the far distance could be seen a long blue ridge of land, which Deane knew must be the continent. Their great requirement however was water, for without it their stores and flour would have availed them but little. They therefore immediately set about searching for it, and at length a slight moisture was found oozing out from beneath the roots of a large tree. After eagerly scraping away the earth with their hands for some time, the hole they had formed was filled with a small portion of the precious liquid. This encouraged them to hope that a sufficient supply might be obtained, and with better heart than they had hitherto possessed they took their first meal on the island.

On examining the boat, Captain Deane was of opinion that if repaired, she would carry them to the mainland: but as yet there were no tools found by which this could be accomplished. Thus were all their hopes of escaping frustrated. Their life on the island was that of most shipwrecked mariners. Even when partaking of their meals, they could not but feel that their store of provisions would in time come to an end, and that thus, unless relieved, famine would overtake them at last. Several days passed by, when as two of their number were wandering along the shore a chest was seen fixed between two rocks. Summoning their companions, not without difficulty they waded towards it. It was found to be a carpenter’s chest. After considerable labour they contrived to break it open, when to their great joy they discovered within it a supply of tools and nails, with iron hoops and other necessary articles.

They now eagerly set to work to repair their boat, but as none of them were carpenters they found it a more difficult task than they had expected. Spars and oars and sails had also to be formed. No one, however, was idle, and they made up by diligence what they wanted in skill. The boat was at last launched and moored between the rocks. All the provisions they could collect, with a supply of water in such casks as would hold it were placed on board. They had left the island astern when a sail appeared in sight, rapidly approaching them from the east. Deane, supposing she was some vessel bound up the Delaware for Philadelphia, hove to, purposing if such was the case to take a passage in her, instead of risking the voyage in their open boat, still imperfectly repaired. As she drew nearer, she was seen to be a large ship carrying several guns, yet she wanted the trim appearance of a man-of-war. No colours were flying at her mast-head or peak, and altogether her appearance did not satisfy Captain Deane. It was now, however, too late to avoid her. Already the boat must have been seen by those on board. Still Deane thought it more prudent to fill his sails, and to stand away towards the opening which he took to be the mouth of the river of which he was in search. A shot from the ship told him that he had been discovered. It was the signal also for him again to heave to. In a short time the ship got up to the boat, and a voice from her decks hailed, ordering those in the boat to sheer alongside and to come on board. There was no use attempting to disobey this order, as they were already under the ship’s guns. Having secured the boat alongside, Deane and his men stepped on deck. From the appearance of the officers and the number of men composing the mongrel-looking crew on board, who seemed to be of all countries and of all shades of colour, the thought at once occurred to Captain Deane that the vessel was a pirate.

“What have you been about, and where are you going?” asked a man who stepped forward from among the people on board. Though considerably older, and knocked about by climate and hardship, Deane had little difficulty in recognising his former acquaintance Pearson. The pirate captain looked at him two or three times, but if he had recognised him for a moment, he soon seemed to have altered his opinion. Jack felt that the best plan, whether he was right or wrong in his conjectures, was to tell the whole truth of himself. Pearson seemed interested in hearing Nottingham spoken of, and it made him give another glance at Deane.

“Ah well, my man,” he said, “we wish you no harm, but we can allow no vessel to proceed to the new plantations.”

“That’s a hard rule, sir,” answered Jack, “as we are likely enough to starve on the island we have just left, and if we remain at sea we shall perish in the next gale that comes on.”

“You have your remedy,” said the pirate captain. “You may join our brave crew. You shall be an officer on board, and your men shall share with the rest.”

“We cannot accept your offer,” answered Deane; “and perhaps for old acquaintance’ sake, Master Pearson, you will grant my request?”

The pirate captain started on hearing himself thus addressed.

“Who are you?” he asked, looking again hard at Deane.

“One you knew in his youth, and who has never ceased to wish you well,” answered Jack. “You have served one sovereign—I have fought under the flag of another. Do you know me now?”

“Yes, indeed I do; though you are greatly changed from the stripling you were when I knew you,” answered Pearson, stretching out his hand. “I wish you well, for I thought you a brave and honest youth, and I am thankful to find you took your own course. Now, as I believe you to be unchanged, the promise I ask you to make, if I allow you to proceed, is—that you will not give information of my vessel being off the coast.”

Deane was rather perplexed what answer to make.

“No,” he answered at last; “I wish you no harm; at the same time, I cannot allow any honest trader to fall into your hands. Now hear me, Master Pearson. My object in coming out here is to carry home two persons in whom you were once greatly interested: the little Elizabeth whom you protected in her youth, and your own wife, whom I am sure you once loved. I throw myself, therefore, on your generosity.”

Pearson seemed greatly agitated for some minutes.

“I will not interfere with you,” he answered. “I cannot force that poor lady to undergo the hardships into which I once led her, and I will therefore leave her to your kindness and charity. I would that I could accompany you, but I cannot desert my comrades. But the time may come ere long, that I may enable them to secure their own safety, and I will then, if I still have the means, endeavour to visit Pennsylvania.”

Much on the same subject passed between the two former acquaintances. The pirates’ ship towed the boat to the mouth of the Delaware, when the latter cast off and stood up the river, while the pirate proceeded again towards the ocean.

Chapter Thirty Seven.

Pennsylvania—Return Home—Last Adventures and Conclusion.

Captain Deane and his companions had a prosperous voyage up the Delaware, and in two days the buildings of the new city appeared in sight, standing at the junction of the Delaware and the Schuylkill. The Delaware is a noble stream, and the Schuylkill is as broad at its mouth as the Thames is at Woolwich. The banks of the great river above which the town was laid out were bold and high, the air pure and wholesome, while the neighbouring lands were free from swamps. Altogether the site was one admirably fitted for the purpose of a great city. Clay for making bricks was found on the spot, and quarries of good stone abounded within a few miles. Already the city was laid out according to the design of its sagacious founder, but as yet, although a considerable number of houses had been erected near to each other, forming streets, many were only scattered about here and there, according as the owners had purchased their town lots. Two streets, one of them facing a magnificent row of red pines, were planned to front the rivers. The great public thoroughfare alone separated the houses from the banks. It was arranged that these streets were to be connected by the High Street, a magnificent avenue perfectly straight and a hundred feet in width, to be adorned with trees and gardens. At a right angle with the High Street a broad street of equal width was to cut the city in two from north to south. It was thus divided into four sections. In the exact centre of the city, a large square of ten acres was reserved for the advantage of the public, and in the middle of each quarter a smaller square of eight acres was set apart for the same purpose. Eight streets, each fifty feet wide, were to be built parallel to the High Street, and twenty of the same width parallel to the rivers. Mr Penn’s great object was to give a rural appearance to the houses of his new city. The boat reached the shore before a large building, which from the sign-board swinging in front of it, on which a large blue anchor was painted, was known to be a house of entertainment Deane and his companions, hauling up their boat, hastened towards it, as he hoped there to obtain the information as to where Giles Dainsforth and his sister were to be found. This building was then one of the most important in the province. It was not only a beer-house, but an exchange, a corn-market, and a post-office. It was formed of large rafters of wood, the interstices being filled with bricks, which had been brought in the vessels from England, in the same manner as houses to be found in Cheshire, and some built in the Tudor and Stuart periods. Already a magnificent quay of three hundred feet in length had been formed by the side of the river, and there were also stone houses with pointed roofs, and balconies, and porches, in different parts. Although in some portions of the city pine-trees and pine-stumps still remained, altogether upwards of a thousand houses had been erected. Among them was a large building devoted to the purposes of a public school or college. A printing-press had long been established in the city by William Bradford, a native of Leicester, who had accompanied Mr Penn in the “Welcome.” Deane had, however, but little inclination to view the city until he had found his way to the house of his sister and brother-in-law. He had no great difficulty in discovering it, for Giles Dainsforth was already well-known as a man of mark, as sagacious, steady, and industrious men are sure to be in a new settlement.

“There is friend Dainsforth’s house,” said a worthy citizen to whom Deane addressed himself; and he saw before him a fine and substantial stone building, with a broad verandah surrounded by trees and flowering shrubs. A gentle voice reached his ears, singing an air he knew well. The door stood open and he entered. Passing through the house, he saw seated on a lawn, beneath the shade of the building, three ladies, while the same number of young children played about them. The nearest he recognised as his sister Kate, though grown into more matronly proportions than when he last had seen her. Near her was a fair girl. He required not a second glance to convince him that she was Elizabeth. He hurried forward, forgetting how he might startle them. A cry of delight escaped Elizabeth as she advanced to meet him. In another minute he found himself in the arms of his sister, while a sob of joy escaped from her companion’s bosom.

“He’s come! he’s come!” she exclaimed; “I knew he would find us out.”

The third lady was Mistress Pearson. She looked careworn and aged, as if her life had well-nigh come to an end.

Their history was soon told. When at length Captain Davis was ordered to visit the plantations, previous to returning to England, he obtained permission to receive them on board and to convey them home. When the ship was cast away, they, with a few only of the crew, had been rescued. The captain, however, although he was the last to leave the ship, had also been saved. Deane had fortunately told Elizabeth of the marriage of Giles Dainsforth to his sister, and of their intention of settling in Pennsylvania. On their arrival, therefore, at Philadelphia, hearing his name, she made herself known to him, and it was thus that she and Mistress Pearson became inmates of his house.

In a short time Giles Dainsforth himself, accompanied by Captain Davis, arrived at the house, and a happy party were soon assembled round the supper-table. Deane heard a great deal of the flourishing condition of the plantation, and of its vast internal resources. He heard, too, from Dainsforth, that the settlers had resolved not to allow the importation of slaves into the colony. They had established it because they themselves loved freedom, and they were resolved to employ free men alone in the cultivation of their lands. He also heard that the whole territory had been purchased from the native tribes, and that not the life of a single red man had been taken away by the settlers since their arrival in the country. From the first, they had lived on the most friendly terms with the native tribes. This was indeed glorious news, especially in those days, when the traffic in negroes was looked upon as lawful, and when in most instances might made right in all parts of the world. Altogether the account which Deane received of the colony was so favourable that he could not help longing to come and settle in it. He had, however, promised to bring Elizabeth back to her parents, and poor Mistress Pearson also was very anxious to lay her bones in her native land. Captain Davis likewise desired to return home on the first opportunity, that he might stand his trial for the loss of his ship, which he considered himself in honour bound to do. Deane, however, resolved not to run the risk of again being separated from Elizabeth. She having no legal guardian, he instituted himself as such, and then gave himself permission to marry her, which she, nothing loath, consented to do forthwith. The marriage was celebrated with such religious and legal ceremonies as were then considered sufficient in Philadelphia. Colonel Markham, the acting governor, being one of the witnesses. Jack and his bride, accompanied by Captain Davis and his sister, soon afterwards embarked on board a stout ship sailing for England. They arrived safely in London, whence Jack wrote to Norwich to announce his safe return.

A few days were spent in the great city, that Elizabeth might recruit her strength after her voyage. During his stay there, he met with an old brother officer, Captain Bertrand, who, hailing him with pleasure, told him that he was the very man he was looking out for.

“I have taken service,” he said, “with the permission of the British Government, under the Czar of Russia, the Great Peter, for such he is indeed. You will remember his labouring as a shipwright in England not many years since, to gain a knowledge of ship-building He is now constructing a large fleet, and he is anxious to secure the services of a number of active and intelligent officers like yourself. What do you say? I can promise you handsome pay, and the command of a line-of-battle ship.”

Deane replied that he must think about it, as he had only lately married a wife, and had no inclination to leave her.

“Oh, you must bring her with you!” was the answer. “You can establish her in the new city the Czar is building on the Neva; and, depend upon it, you will have no long cruises to make. Foreign officers can be found; but he will have a difficulty in making seamen out of his serfs. Free men only are fit to become seamen, in my opinion.”

Captain Deane begged that his friend would give him his address, and should he determine to accept his offer, after he had visited his friends, he would communicate with him. Leaving the unhappy Mistress Pearson with her brother, Deane set forward in a coach with his bride for Norwich. He had fortunately been able to procure the balance of prize-money due to him while he was in London, which amounted to a considerable sum, and he was thus, in spite of his heavy loss in the “Nottingham Galley,” no longer crippled by want of means.

Words can scarcely describe the joy with which Madame de Mertens and her husband received their long-lost daughter. Though she had grown from a young child into a woman, they immediately recognised her, while the trinkets she had preserved prevented them having any doubt about the matter. After spending some time at Norwich, and receiving great kindness from the excellent Mr Gournay and his lady, the young couple repaired to Nottingham.

The loss of the “Nottingham Galley,” however, caused Jack to be more coolly received by his friends than he had anticipated. In vain he tried to explain to them that they should find fault with the elements more than with him for the ill-success of their speculation. He undertook, if it was their wish, to command another galley, and to embark all his property in the enterprise. To this, however, none of them would agree. Yet there were two of his friends who received him in a different manner to the rest—his sister Polly and his sister-in-law Alethea. Prosperity had not improved his brother Jasper, and he appeared to be more bitter than any of the family who suffered from the wreck of the galley. A reconciliation was however at last brought about by cousin Nat and Polly. Jack had been dining at the house of his sister and her husband, where he met Jasper, to whose house in Fletcher-gate he agreed to walk in the evening. On their way, some remarks made by Dr Jasper irritated John Deane, as he considered them unfair and unjust, and angry words were heard by some of the passers-by, uttered by him to his brother. They reached the door together. A flight of stone steps led to it from the street. Unhappily, at this moment the doctor repeated the expressions which had justly offended the captain, who declared that he would not allow himself to be addressed in so injurious a manner. As he spoke he pushed impatiently past his brother, who at that moment stumbled down the steps. The doctor fell; and as Captain Deane stooped to lift him up, to his horror, he found that he was dead! Rumour, with her hundred tongues, forthwith spread the report that the fire-eating captain had killed his brother. The verdict however of the jury who sat to decide the case was, that Dr Jasper Deane had died by the visitation of God. Still Captain Deane was conscious of the angry feelings which had excited his bosom at the moment, and he felt that the mark of Cain was upon his forehead. He could no longer remain at home, and though those who loved him best knew of his innocence, and did their utmost to console him, he determined to leave the country. He accordingly wrote to Captain Bertrand, accepting his offer of a naval command under the Czar of Russia; and in a short time he and Elizabeth sailed for the Baltic. He rendered great assistance in organising the navy of that wonderful man Peter the Great, and after serving with much credit for a few years, he returned to England.

Captain Deane had during this time found a number of friends, and by their means he was soon afterwards appointed English consul at Ostend, where he lived with his wife Elizabeth till they were both advanced in life. As an elderly couple they came back to Nottingham once more, and went to live in the sweet village of Wilford, on the opposite side of the silvery Trent. It was the peaceful green retreat that had beckoned him back to England from many a scene of foreign grandeur, and smiled across many a time of tumult and of battle. He and his wife both loved the Dutch home where they had so long lived, and when he built a house for himself in a thorough English village, he constructed it in the Dutch style, which indeed in his early youth had been the very height of fashion. Next to his own, behind the same trim garden and row of silvery poplars, he built one also for his sister Polly, who was then a widow. Alethea, after the death of her husband, had returned to Harwood Grange with her children, and devoted herself to them, endeavouring so to bring them up that they might love and serve God. She by this time had also gone to her rest; so also had most of those who have been mentioned in the previous history. Mistress Pearson did not live long after her return to England, and she was saved the misery of hearing the tragical death of her husband, who, with all his faults, had at all events loved her. In a desperate action with a Queen’s ship, he with all his crew had been blown up, shortly after Deane had encountered him at the mouth of the Delaware.

The tomb of John Deane, Captain R.N., and of Elizabeth his wife, is to be seen on a little green promontory above the sparkling Trent and near the chancel of the parish church, where sweet strains of music, accompanying the sound of human voices and the murmurs of the river, are wont to mingle in harmonious hymns of prayer and praise. A more fitting spot in which to await in readiness for the last hour of life than Wilford can scarcely be imagined, nor a sweeter place than its church-yard in which the mortal may lie down to rest from toil till summoned by the last trump to rise and put on immortality.

The End.

W.H.G. Kingston

"Jovinian"

"A Story of the Early Days of Papal Rome"

Chapter One.

The Two Pontiffs.

The glorious sun rose in undimmed splendour on a morning in the early part of the fourth century over everlasting Rome, his rays glancing on countless temples, statues, columns, and towers, on long lines of aqueducts and other public edifices, and on the proud mansions of the patricians which covered the slopes and crowned the summits of her seven hills. The populace were already astir, bent on keeping holiday, for a grand festival was about to be held in honour of Jupiter Optimus Maximus and his two associate divinities Juno and Minerva. The flamens, with their assistants, and the vestal virgins, aided by many fair patrician matrons and maidens eager to show their piety and to gain the favour of the gods, had been labouring all night in decorating the temples; and already the porticoes and the interior columns appeared adorned with wreaths and festoons of green leaves and gay flowers; while wax tapers in silver candlesticks, on countless shrines, had been prepared for lighting at the appointed moment. At the entrance of each temple, either fixed in the wall or standing on a tripod, was an acquiminarium,—a basin of silver or gold, freshly filled to the brim with holy-water, with which salt had been united; a minor flamen in white robes, with brush in hand, standing ready to sprinkle any who might desire the purging process. Others of their fraternity were busy hanging up in the temples of Aesculapius votive offerings—in the shape of arms, legs, and other parts of the human body, representing the limbs of his worshippers, which by his powerful instrumentality had been restored to health. Bands of musicians with a variety of instruments, and dancers in scanty dresses, were moving about singing and playing, and exhibiting their terpsichorean performances before the temples and minor shrines erected at the corners of the principal highways. The fronts of the shrines were, like the temples, adorned with wreaths of flowers; while tapers, in horn lanterns, burned before them. Swarms also of mendicant priests, habited in coarse robes, with shaven crowns, and huge sacks at their backs, were parading the streets going from house to house begging for doles, and holding up small images of the gods to be adored by the ignorant populace; never failing to bestow their heaviest maledictions on those who refused them alms, cursing them as Christian atheists.

It was yet early when two persons, quitting the Curia Hostilia at the foot of the Coelian Hill, took their way past the magnificent Flavian Amphitheatre towards the Sacra Via. Their costume was alike, and consisted of a fine toga, with a deep purple border, and on the head an apex—a conical cap surmounted by a spike of olive-wood—which showed them to belong to the Holy College of the Pontiffs. The dress of the elder of the two had, in addition, stripes of purple, marking his superior rank. To prevent their togas from being soiled by the dust on the road, they had drawn them up under their right shoulders, so as to allow the skirts to hang gracefully over their left arms, exhibiting the richly-embroidered thongs which secured their sandals. They passed onward with a dignified and haughty air. Both were fine-looking men. The elder possessed a handsome countenance; his firm-set mouth, high brow, and keen piercing eyes, showed determination and acuteness of intellect, though at the same time the expression was rather repulsive than pleasing. His companion’s features were less handsome, and it might have been seen at a glance that he was fond of the good things of life.

They had nearly reached the colossal statue of Nero—now wearing the head of Apollo, placed on it by Vespasian instead of that of the tyrant—which towered almost as high as the lofty walls of the amphitheatre. After having hitherto kept silence, absorbed in his own thoughts, the elder pontiff addressed the younger.

“We shall triumph still, Gaius, though, by the Immortals, these Christians have made fearful progress of late. They swarm in this city, and even, as I hear, throughout every part of the world; for since the time when the Emperor Diocletian wisely resolved to put them down, by destroying the places where they met to worship, preventing their secret assemblies, and burning their books, they have once more risen in an audacious manner and walk about with all the airs of freedmen. I hope ere long to see the arena of the amphitheatre again filled with the atheists, struggling unarmed against the wild beasts let in on them, to tear them limb from limb. I well remember many such a scene. The populace delight in it even more than in the games of Carinus, the magnificent displays of the Naumachia, or even than in the combats of a thousand gladiators. The exhibition we have prepared for to-day will do much, I suspect, to win back the fickle multitude to the worship of the gods. The ignorant naturally delight in gorgeous shows and spectacles of all sorts, incapable as they are of comprehending the refinements of philosophy; and when they benefit by the flesh of the victims distributed among them, they will, depend on it, be strong advocates for the continuance of sacrifices to the gods.”

“I hope, Coecus, that we shall succeed, but in truth these Christians have hitherto shown a wonderful amount of obstinacy, not only in adhering to their mysteries, but in propagating them in all directions. I cannot understand their faith—without even a visible representation of a God before which to bow down, or a single object for the eye to fix on,” observed the younger pontiff. “I know, however, something about their belief; but even were I not a pontiff I should object to it. In addition to the hatred they display towards the ancient religion, they would deprive us poor mortals of all the pleasures of life. They rail against rich viands and generous wines; and, by Bacchus, were they to have their way, the gods and, what is of more consequence, we their priests, would no longer be supported, and these our magnificent temples would fall to decay. Still, I confess that, would they consent to worship publicly before the shrines of the gods, they might, as far as I am concerned, practise their rites in secret, and attend, as they are wont to do, to the sick and suffering. I have less hatred for them than contempt.”

“For my part, I hate them with an undying hatred, if it is of the accursed Nazarenes you speak, Gaius,” said Coecus, gnashing his teeth.

“You speak, Coecus, of these Nazarenes with less than your usual philosophical calmness,” observed the younger pontiff.

“I have cause to do so; one of the vile wretches dared to cross my path and rob me of a jewel I valued more than life itself,” exclaimed the elder pontiff, his eyes flashing and his lips quivering with rage. “While yet the hot blood of youth coursed through my veins, I met the beautiful Eugenia, daughter of the patrician Gentianus, at an exhibition of the Naumachia. To see her once was to love, to adore her: in grace and beauty she surpassed Venus herself; in majesty of form she was Juno’s rival; while on her brow sate the calm dignity of Minerva. I soon obtained an introduction to Gentianus; and though I found him somewhat reserved, I had reason to believe that he was not unfavourable to my suit. Eugenia, aware of the admiration she had excited, received me kindly, and I did everything I could think of to gain her good graces. Matters were progressing favourably, when I perceived a change in her and her father. I was admitted as before, but her manner became cold and distant, and Gentianus no longer looked on me with a favourable eye. I discovered, as I believed, the cause. A rival had appeared, Severus by name, a stranger in Rome; not in good looks, in figure, or manners to be compared to me. I watched Severus with a jealous eye, and employed spies to track his footsteps. I learnt that he attended the secret meetings of the Nazarenes. He had, in truth, a soft and silvery tongue, and by his art and eloquence had won over Eugenia and Gentianus to his accursed faith. Still, knowing that wealth is all-potent in Rome as elsewhere, I resolved to demand the hand of Eugenia of her father. He neither refused nor accepted my offer, but, instead, endeavoured to explain to me the doctrines of the new faith. Astonished, I bluntly asked whether he had himself adopted them, ‘I have,’ he replied, ‘and as a Christian I could not allow my daughter to wed an idolater!’—for so he dared to call me. I dissembled my anger while he continued speaking, decrying the immortal gods, and endeavouring to induce me to adopt the tenets of his religion. It may have been, at that time, that Severus was not, as I supposed, affianced to Eugenia; but ere long they were betrothed, and she ultimately became his wife. Still, I could not abandon all hope of winning her—a dagger might end her husband’s life—and while brooding over my disappointment, and seeking for some means of gratifying my love and revenge, the edict of Diocletian against the Christians was promulgated. Numbers of the fanatics were seized, and once more the Flavian Amphitheatre witnessed their tortures and death—some compelled to do battle with trained gladiators, others, naked and unarmed, to struggle with ferocious lions. The time for which I yearned had now arrived. I fully expected to get the hated Severus and his father-in-law, Gentianus, into my power, resolving not to rest till I had given the former over to the wild beasts, and compelled the old man to renounce his creed and consent to his daughter becoming my bride. Believing that their capture was certain, I set off with a band of faithful followers, and surrounded their house; but on breaking open the door, what was my rage to discover that my intended prey had fled! I sent emissaries, under various disguises, to every part of the city to search for them; I ascertained, however, that scarcely an hour before I visited their house, they had left it, and made their way out of the city towards the entrance of those numerous galleries hewn in the sand-rock far down beneath the surface of the earth. Not to be defeated, I ordered a trusty band to search for the fugitives in those subterranean regions, but having no wish to descend to Avernus before my time, I myself remained outside. My people were some time away; they came back at length, dragging four or five trembling wretches of the meaner sort, while their swords were dripping with the blood of several others they had slain. Whether or not the chief quarry had escaped, I was left in doubt, as they brought no token to prove who were those who had fallen, and they vowed that they would not return to run the risk of losing their way and perishing miserably amid the labyrinthine passages of that underground region. The shades of evening compelled me at last to return to the city with the wretched prisoners who had been captured, and I registered a vow at the shrine of Bellona that I would wreak my vengeance on the heads of Gentianus and Severus should I ever get them into my power. In vain, however, did I seek for Eugenia and her father: they had either made their escape from the neighbourhood of Rome or had carefully concealed themselves underground. I had good reason, however, ere long to know that the latter was the case. I have since in vain searched for them; concealed by their fellow-religionists, they have eluded my vigilance. That abominable edict which our politic emperor issued at Milan, allowing the Christians to enjoy their religion in peace, made me abandon all expectation of being able to wreak my vengeance on the head of Severus by open means, though I still cherished the hope that he would come forth from his hiding-place, when the assassin’s dagger would quickly have finished his career and given me my still-beloved Eugenia. Still, I have reason to believe that they are in existence, and that Gentianus, knowing that I am not likely to break my vow, is afraid to issue from his concealment; notwithstanding that on the revocation of the edicts by Maxentius the Nazarenes have generally ventured forth from their hiding-places. They have, indeed, since then, in vast numbers, appeared in public, openly declaring their creed, and diligently endeavouring to obtain proselytes from all classes,—thus daringly showing their hatred and contempt of the gods whose priests we are. It is high time, indeed, since the emperors no longer care to preserve the ancient faith, that we should be up and doing, and if we cannot employ open means, should by craft and subtlety put a stop to the pernicious system. What say you, Gaius?”

“I can fully enter into your feelings,” observed Gaius. “I myself have been crossed more than once by these Nazarenes; although, were it not that our order is in some peril, I confess that I have felt no great antipathy to them. Indeed, some years ago, my only sister Livia became indoctrinated with their opinions, and married one of them. He was seized, and died, with many hundreds more, in yonder arena but she escaped, and disappeared for some years from sight. I again at length met her, reduced to great distress, supported, I believe, by her co-religionists; but so poverty-stricken were they that they could afford her but the common necessaries of life. She was a sweet and gentle creature and, though I condemned her heresy, I had not the heart to leave her to perish. You will say, Coecus, that I should have been more stoical, but I had a motive which will excuse me in your sight. She had an only child, a handsome boy, the young Jovinian, who reminded me of her in the days of her youth and beauty. Once, too. I should have said, she tended me when I was sick, and might have died, in spite of all the offerings my friends made to Aesculapius, and the skill of the physicians who attended me, had it not been for her watchful care. Gratitude induced me to visit her; I procured the best assistance medical skill could afford; but whether it was counteracted by the visits of her Nazarene friends I know not,—so the gods willed it, she gradually sank. Her only thoughts seemed to be about the welfare of her boy, and in spite of all the offers I made to give him a college education befitting his patrician rank—for his father was of our order as well as his mother—and to watch over his advancement in life, she would not yield him to me, but preferred rather to confide him to the care of a miserable poverty-stricken relative, who was the means originally of her perversion from the ancient faith. Visiting her one day, I found her boy with her. She was evidently much worse. In vain I endeavoured to console her: she breathed her last shortly afterwards. It was truly piteous to hear the child calling on her to speak to him. At length, discovering the truth, he sank fainting over her inanimate body. I took him in my arms, and, in spite of his struggles, bore him away, intending to send the Libertinarii to arrange for poor Livia’s funeral. Wrapping him in a lacerna, and shrouding his head in the hood to stifle his cries, I committed him to the slaves in attendance outside, who carried him off to our college, where he could be well looked after. As they bore him along the narrow streets several persons, who were, I suspect, Nazarenes, looked out from the overhanging balconies to watch us. My object was to prevent my relative Amulius from discovering what had become of the boy. I had little doubt that I should soon reconcile him to the change, and teach him to worship the gods of his fathers. I have had, I must own, more difficulty than I had expected. He was continually talking of his mother, but not with the sorrow I should have anticipated, as he seemed satisfied that she was in the realms of bliss—a glorious place in which she had taught him to believe,—while he offered petitions to some unknown being to help and support him, and to keep him faithful to the creed with which she had indoctrinated his young mind. It seemed surprising that at so early an age he should be so determined in his belief. He, indeed, as I understood him, prayed continually to an Almighty God, to whom he could approach boldly by the intercession of One he called Jesus, without the intervention of demigod or priests. I gained more knowledge of the extraordinary faith of the Nazarenes from the young boy than I had hitherto possessed. It seems wonderfully simple. They believe that one Almighty God rules the universe; that man was placed on the earth free to accept or reject this mighty God, but bound to obedience; that being disobedient, he and all his descendants have become prone to sin, but yet this Almighty Being, loving men, sent One, a portion of Himself, down on earth, born of a woman; who, offering Himself as a sacrifice for their sins, was put to death on the accursed Cross, thus satisfying the Almighty’s justice, the guiltless One being punished instead of the guilty. Thus all who believe on Him are considered free from sin and reconciled to the great Being whom, by their sins, they have offended. Can you understand this doctrine, Coecus?”

“Not in the slightest degree,” answered the pontiff, who had been paying but little attention to what his companion was saying, his mind being engaged on projects for the maintenance of his order, which he had good reason to fear was in danger. “It is to me incomprehensible.”

“So, by Bacchus, it is to me, though I understand with tolerable clearness the principles of the system,” observed Gaius. “What I greatly object to in it is, that these Nazarenes seem to require no priests nor sacrifices, and worship without any forms or ceremonies, as they declare that this Jesus is their sole priest, and that He is at the right hand of their great God, pleading His own sacrifice, whereby all their sins were purged away. I have done my utmost, I should say, as in duty bound, to drive such notions out of the mind of my nephew. I forgot to mention that after I had made such arrangements for the funeral of my sister as became her rank, when the Libertinarii arrived with the slaves to wash and anoint the body, to place a coin on its mouth to pay the ferryman in Hades, and to plant a branch of cypress at the door of the house in which she died, it was found that the Nazarenes had removed it, in order to inter it according to their own rites, some way without the city, instead of allowing it to be carried, as I should have wished, on a handsome praetrum, followed by mourners and bands of music, to the bustum, there to be consumed on the funeral pyre.”

“It matters little what became of the poor dame; she must have been a weak creature,” observed Coecus, in a supercilious tone, re-arranging the folds of his toga and walking on.

Chapter Two.

Rome in the Fourth Century.

The two pontiffs had proceeded some way, when Coecus stopped. “What have you done, Gaius, with this young nephew of yours?” he asked. “Have you managed by this time to teach him the worship of the gods?”

“As to my success, I can say but little,” answered Gaius. “A strict watch is, however, kept over him; for I believe that he would escape from me even now, could he obtain the opportunity. I have an affection for him, and hope in time, as he grows older and gains more intelligence, to make him see the folly of the faith his mother adopted, and to induct him into our mysteries. I have already endeavoured to make him understand that he need not believe in the gods more than we do, or in the tricks of the augurs, of whom Cicero wittily observes, ‘It is a wonder they can ever look each other in the face without laughing.’”

“If you care for his welfare you will follow the plan you have adopted, and we may have the lad elected some day as a member of our college,” said Coecus. “We must be very careful of our interests, and I doubt not that if we are wise we shall still retain the management of the sacred affairs of the city, and may even extend our influence over the whole country, whatever changes time may bring about. For my part, I have confidence that our system will endure, and that we shall still retain the power we have hitherto enjoyed.”

“May the gods favour us!” answered Gaius. “Happily, the people are easily deceived and led, though the patricians may give us some trouble.”

“We can manage them by showing that it is to their interest to support us,” observed Coecus: “I have not studied human nature without discovering the follies and absurdities to which the minds of men, no matter their rank, are ready to submit. Think what a vast amount of intellect and skill, aided by the labours of the abject toilers for their daily bread, has been employed in erecting these superb temples and magnificent statues of the gods; and yet we despise both one and the other, except for their external beauty, which we can appreciate even better than they do.”

The pontiff, as he spoke, stretched his right hand over the scene of architectural magnificence which, as he and his companion looked westward, was displayed to their eyes. They had just passed through the arch of Titus, on the top of the Summa Sacra Via, when the Capitol, with all its glories, suddenly burst on their view. On the summit of the hill was seen the vast and magnificent temple of Jupiter Optimus Maximus, with those of Juno and Minerva on either side, its roof of gilded tiles vying in splendour with the eastern sun now shining on it, and deriving additional lustre from the background of that deep blue Italian sky against which its outlines were sharply defined. A complete forest of high pillars, perfect examples of the art of the greatest sculptors of Greece, supported the lofty roof. The pediment and acroterium were adorned with statues—scarcely, however, to be distinguished at that distance. Near the temple stood a colossal statue of Jupiter, the majestic features of the face, turned towards them, being clearly discerned. Not far off was another gigantic statue of Apollo; while around the principal temple were clustered others of lesser size, as if to do it homage, the intervals and the space in front being adorned with statues, which appeared at that distance like living men and women. A depression of short extent separated the Capitol from another abrupt elevation, on the summit of which stood the citadel, or acropolis, crowned by the magnificent temple of Juno Moneta, also surrounded by similar temples,—the elegant one of Jupiter Tonans, another, that of Fortuna, and the temple of Honour et Virtus. On each side the ground was covered, almost to the verge of the Forum, with thickly-clustered dwellings, but of no great height, so that the view from the sumptuous mansions on the Palatine of the sacred and triumphal processions which passed that way should not be obstructed. Close to them was the dwelling of the Rex Sacrificulus, while on the left appeared the temples of Vesta and of Castor, behind which ran the Nova Via, directly at the base of the Palatine. Descending a steep declivity, beneath the arch of Fornix Fabian us, on the left, stood the Regia, or house of the Pontifex Maximus, and at the corner of the Forum beyond it rose the superb temples of Antoninus and Faustina, and that of Divus Julius, as the first Caesar was called when he took rank among the gods. The temple stood on the spot where his body had been consumed at his apotheosis. The Forum, which they had now reached, was surrounded by magnificent buildings, many others crowning the neighbouring hills to a hundred feet in height, giving it an air of extraordinary grandeur. On looking eastward, on the crest of the Aria Capitolina was seen, lined by a double row of porticoes one above the other, the Tabularium of Catullus. Below it, to the north, stood the Temple of Concord, and on a lower level, nearer the Forum, rose the temple of Saturn, its pediment surmounted with figures of Tritons blowing horns. In front of it was the Milliarium Aureum, or gilded milestone, set up by Augustus as a standard for distances within the walls. Behind it lay another small temple—that of Ops; and visible from the Forum, on the eastern face of the hill, was the ill-famed Tarpeian Rock, whence criminals condemned to death were wont to be precipitated. At the upper end of the Forum, under the Capitoline Hill, was the Comitium, adorned with fresco paintings, and covered with numerous statues surrounding the tribunals of the Praetor Urbanus. Here also was the sacred fig-tree, the Ficus Ruminalis, under which Romulus and Remus were nursed by the wolf, so the populace believed. On the south-western extremity of the Forum was the Basilica Julia, and not far off the still more magnificent temple of Castor, from its position on a lofty terrace visible on all sides. Farther on, at no great distance from the arch of Severus, in front of the Curia, was another celebrated temple, the last we shall mention, of bronze—that of Janus Bifrons, the two-faced deity, the index of peace or war. Many more buildings surrounding the Forum might be mentioned,—the Aedes Vesta, encircled by a grove, near the temple of Castor, and the column of Phocas,—while to the north was the Forum Augusti, with its Curia. A fine road between the Capitoline and Quirinal Hills led into the Campus Martius, through the splendid Forum of Trajan. Numerous other temples of equal grandeur were visible, the porticoes, or chief entrances, looking, whenever possible, westward, which side was at the same time faced by the divinity within, so that persons offering prayers or sacrifices at the altar looked towards the east; the eastward position being considered of the greatest importance by the superstitious idolaters of old. The custom, originating among the worshippers of the Sun, who were wont to watch for the appearance of their divinity above the horizon, had been generally imitated by the heathen world, though the source whence it had been derived was forgotten. When it was impracticable to build a temple in the favourite position, it was placed, like that of Jupiter Maximus, in such a manner that the greater portion of the city could be seen from it; and when erected by the side of a street or road, it was always so situated that the passers-by might look in to salute the divinity, to obtain a sprinkling of holy-water, and to leave their votive offerings in the eager hands of the watchful flamens.

The two pontiffs, little regarding the magnificent scene which has been described, hurried into the Regia, or house of the Pontifex Maximus—for though the office had long been held solely by the emperors, the building was inhabited by the chief pontiff and several of his principal coadjutors. It stood hard by the house of the vestal virgins, who were especially committed to the care of the pontiffs. They had, indeed, the lives and liberties of the fair damsels under their complete control, and could, should a vestal be found guilty of breaking her vows, punish her with imprisonment, or put her to death by entombing her while still alive. Entering by the ostium, the two pontiffs passed onwards through the several courts known as the atrium and the cavum coedium into the tablinum, where, having thrown themselves upon couches surrounding the central table, ready slaves removed their sandals and head-gear, while others brought water to wash their hands and feet. A third party meantime spread the table for the prandium with various dishes, hot as well as cold, fish, eggs, and refreshing beverages, light wines, and the seductive calda. The pontiffs took good care, whatever the outside world might say about the matter, to live well on “what the gods provided.”

“We have had a fatiguing walk, and require something to restore our exhausted strength, while a hard day’s work is before us; but I have never prepared with greater zest to engage in a spectacle such as is about to take place, convinced as I am that it will repay us for all our trouble,” remarked Coecus.

They were soon joined by several other pontiffs, who came to hear the result of their visit to the Curia Hostilia, and to make final arrangements concerning the order of the procession.

Chapter Three.

The Catacombs.

At the time that the two pontiffs were leaving the Curia Hostilia, a female slave was making her way along the Appian Road, about two miles from her home. She wore over her usual dark dress a coarse laena, which served to conceal a basket filled with provisions which she carried on her arm. Turning off to the left, she followed a slightly beaten track, scarcely perceptible to the ordinary eye. After pursuing it for some distance, she again crossed a track of wild and barren ground till she reached a hollow or basin of some extent. Stopping at the edge, she looked carefully around, and then rapidly descending the slope, was completely hidden from the view of any one who might be passing in the distance. Reaching the bottom of the basin, which had the appearance of a huge sand-pit long since disused, she directed her course towards what was seemingly a heap of large stones piled up against the side. Stooping down, however, she discovered a space large enough to admit her, and, by bending her head, she passed through it, when she was once more able to stand erect. Stopping an instant, she produced from beneath her cloak a lantern, and, quickly lighting it, proceeded without hesitation along a passage hewn in the sandstone rock, about ten feet in height and five or six in width. Casting the light before her as she went on, she carefully noted the passages which branched off on either hand. Into one of these, after proceeding for five or six hundred yards, she entered, after minutely examining a mark on the wall—a sign to her that it was the one she sought. Still on she went, not a sound reaching her ear, till she reached what appeared to be a heap of rubbish piled up before her. Throwing the light of the lantern on one side of it, she discovered an opening similar to the one through which she had entered the subterranean labyrinth. As she advanced, the light of her lamp glancing on the walls revealed numerous slabs let into them, on which various inscriptions, with significant symbols, were rudely carved, marking them as the tombs of those who had departed in the faith of Jesus, to sleep in peace till summoned by the last trump to meet their risen Lord. Here the crown and palm-branch marked the resting-places of those who had been faithful unto death, triumphing over sin, the world, and the devil; farther on was an anchor, typifying the Christian’s hope, sure and steadfast; here a ship entering harbour, to signify an entrance into the everlasting kingdom; there a dove, and an olive-branch, the everlasting peace enjoyed by those who slept within. Still more numerous were the simple and short epitaphs, some with merely the words, “In Christ;” others, “He sleeps in peace.” On some were rude emblems denoting the trade or name of those buried within; on others were figures of men or women standing with outstretched hands and open palms—the universal posture of prayer.

But the eye of the slave paused not to rest on any of these objects, though she did not fail to notice them as she moved along. Stopping again to trim her lamp, she listened for a moment, but her ear was unable to catch the slightest sound. She then proceeded more cautiously than before, till she reached the top of a flight of steps, down which she descended into another passage, which extended to a distance far greater than the rays from her lantern could penetrate. Counting her steps, she stopped at a spot where was a large slab of stone, on which certain figures were carved, understood only by the initiated, scarcely to be distinguished from the wall of the gallery, and which appeared to be let into it. She touched it on one side, when it opened, and she proceeded as before. Here and there a faint ray of light came down from above, the aperture through which it had passed serving to ventilate the gallery, the atmosphere of which would otherwise have been insupportable. Advancing some way farther, she again stopped and listened, when human voices united in melodious song reached her ear. She now hurried on with more confidence than before. She could distinguish the words: they were those of a hymn such as Christians alone, imbued with the true light of the Gospel, could have uttered.

The countenance of the girl, hitherto grave and anxious, beamed with a calm joy as she drank in the words. Moving forward for some fifty yards or more, she stood in front of a deep recess, considerably higher, and several times wider, than the passage which had conducted her to it. It resembled, indeed, a deep archway supported by simple columns, but was otherwise totally unadorned. On either side, on rough benches, were seated about twenty persons, who, as shown by their costumes, were of varied ranks, from the patrician in his toga and the high-born lady with fringed dress to the humble fossor or excavator. They varied also in age: some were far advanced in life, others were grave men and matrons, and among them was a young girl scarcely past her days of childhood. At the further end of the chamber, near a small table, sat a man of venerable aspect, clothed as a patrician, with a white beard hanging over his breast. A scroll was in his hand, from which, by the light of a lamp standing on the table, he was reading aloud.

Rolling up the scroll, he rose and addressed the assembly. The slave, advancing slowly, and placing her basket on the ground, took her seat at the outer end of one of the benches. He had already made some remarks, when he continued—“Ye have not so learnt Christ. He, our risen Lord, is our one Mediator between God and man. He has assured us that we require no other intercessor, but if we trust in His perfect sacrifice He will take us by the hand and present us, clothed in his pure and spotless robes, to the All-pure and All-holy One. He, the God of love and mercy, requires no penances, no lacerations of the body, no abstinence from lawful pursuits, no works of any sort to fit us for approaching Him. All, all he demands is faith in our risen Lord, His dear Son, whom He gave, and who willingly came, urged by love unspeakable to fallen man, to die, instead of the sinner returning to Him. He requires no human soul departing from the body to pass through purifying fires, as the foolish heathen believe, to fit that soul to come to Him; the blood of Jesus Christ alone cleanseth from all sin—that fountain which gushed forth on Calvary is flowing still, as efficacious as ever—that one sacrifice superseded all other sacrifices. No other is acceptable to Jehovah. Oh, the love, the love of Jesus!—that love surpassing all human understanding, unequalled by the love of created beings, of the angels in heaven for sinful man: that sympathy exhibited at the grave of Lazarus, that love shown at the time the Lord wept as he thought on the woes coming upon Jerusalem,—that love, that sympathy, exists bright and undiminished as ever, and will exist through all eternity, for surely it is part and parcel of the Divine Nature, an attribute of the Almighty. That ear, ever open to the petitions of those who came to Him when He walked on earth, does that become dull or hard of hearing? No, surely no! He is as ready as ever to hear all who come to Him desiring to be cleansed of sin. Does He, who while on earth knew what was in the heart of man, not see now into the inmost recesses of the soul? Can he who has numbered every hair of our heads, without whose knowledge not a sparrow falls to the ground, no longer watch over those who trust to Him? Can He who went about doing good—curing the sick, restoring the lunatics to reason, giving sight to the blind, feeding the multitudes—who blessed the marriage feast at Cana of Galilee, who mixed freely in all social intercourse with his fellow-men—can He, I ask, take pleasure in seeing men and women exclude themselves from their fellow-beings, emaciate and weaken the body and mind by fastings, vigils, flagellations, such as are practised by idolaters? Oh no! our King demands a willing joyous, active service from His subjects. He would have them look to Him as their example, strengthening the mind and body, that they may the better go about and do good, as He did to their fellow-men!

“I speak of these things, beloved brethren and sisters, because I see evil times coming on the assemblies of Christ’s followers. Already many, departing from the true faith as taught by the apostles, believe in foolish fables devised by Satan, to mislead, if possible, the very elect; offering prayers to other mediators, men and women like themselves—to those who, though martyrs, required as much as we all do the cleansing blood of Jesus to purify them from sin: even to Mary of Nazareth, the honoured mother of the Lord, do they pray—to her whom He committed to the care and keeping of the beloved disciple, knowing that she required the support of a fellow-creature. And—oh, miserable folly!—some are even placing value on dead men’s bones; as if, when the soul has departed, those remnants of humanity are aught else but the dust from whence they were taken. As senseless are they as the idolaters who fall down before the images of the false gods. I warn you, beloved ones, brethren and sisters in the faith, pray for grace to be guided and directed aright, that you may keep free from the erroneous practices, the idolatries, into which so many, naming the name of Christ, are daily falling. Already the enemies of the truth, the emissaries of Satan, are up and doing; and as Christians depart from the simplicity of the Gospel as it is in Christ Jesus, so does the great opponent of the Gospel gain an influence over them, and lead them away captive at his will.

“I beseech you, then, be warned; seek for grace to hold fast the faith, ever looking to Jesus, its Author and Finisher, for guidance and support, imitating closely His walk on earth; be armed with the shield of truth, the breastplate of faith, and the helmet of salvation!”

The venerable speaker sat down, and another rose—a person of middle age, and grave, dignified demeanour—apparently, from the tone of authority with which he spoke, an elder of the assembly. His address was also one of warning: he pointed out the danger to which Christians were exposed, now that they were no longer persecuted by the rulers of the earth, from the false teaching of the philosophers, who had embraced some of the tenets of their faith, as well as from others, who, not going to the fountain-head—to Moses and the prophets, to the Gospels and Epistles—brought forward notions and ideas of their own. Especially, too, he warned them against the danger to which the assemblies were exposed from the wealth now flowing freely into the hands of those in authority, intended for the widows and orphans, and the support of hospitals for the sick, but which, as he pointed out, had in too many other places been diverted from its proper object, and expended in enabling the bishops to appear with the pomp and show of worldly rulers. “Let us,” he concluded, “pray that the Holy Spirit may give us grace that we may continue to worship the Father, through the mediation of our Blessed Lord and Master, according to the example set us by the apostles, and in withstand the numerous heresies which are making inroads among the assemblies of Christians.”

Again all rose, and, led by their venerable president, lifted up their voices in prayer. Another hymn was sung, and the president then taking a loaf of bread, wrapped in a cloth, broke it, and poured out some wine from an amphora into a cup. After reading from the Gospel the institution of the Lord’s Supper, he distributed the bread and wine to each individual of the assembly, simply saying, “As Christ’s body was broken for us on the accursed tree, and as His blood was shed for us, so do we eat this broken bread and drink this wine in remembrance that he died for our sins, offering thereby a full and sufficient propitiation, and that He rose again, and ascended into heaven, to take His seat at the right hand of God, and there to plead His death for the remission of the sins of all who believe in Him.”

The young slave, who had partaken with the rest of the bread and wine, now rose, and presented her basket of provisions, as sent by the presbyter Amulius and the assembly in his house, to their beloved brethren and sisters, Gentianus, Severus, Eugenia, and the rest.

“Say that Gentianus and his child return their heartfelt thanks,” replied the aged president. “Do you, Severus, distribute the food to our brethren,” he added, turning to the presbyter, who advanced to take it; and, aided by the female slave and another person, he gave a portion of the contents to each of the company. There was an ample supply, both of food and wine, for all present, and still the basket was not half emptied. Before any one commenced eating the president uttered a short prayer, that their Heavenly Father would bless the food to the strengthening of their bodies and the support of their spiritual life. It was then eaten with thankfulness, while a cheerful conversation was carried on among all present. Gentianus then beckoned to the slave.

“What news do you bring from the city, Rufina? Has Amulius sent any message by you?” he asked.

“Alas! my lord Gentianus, although Augustus supports the Christians in the East, the heathens in Rome still struggle desperately to maintain their supremacy,” replied the slave. “They dare not openly oppress believers, but by every secret means they endeavour to overthrow the faith; and knowing that Coecus still seeks your life and that of my lord Severus, Amulius advises you to remain in concealment till happier times arrive. That will be, he hopes, ere long; for already the emperor—though, alas, himself ignorant of the truth—professes to have become a Christian, and has raised Christians to posts of power and dignity in the state and in his army; many heathen temples, where abominable rites were wont to be practised, have by his orders been closed; and information has been received that he purposes to interfere with those in Rome, to prohibit the practice of magic arts, the impostures of the augurs, and to place the Christians on an equal footing with the idolaters.”

This announcement, which would, it might have been supposed, have produced unmitigated satisfaction among the assembly, was listened to by Gentianus with the gravity he had before maintained. “Timeo Danaos et dona ferentes—I fear the Greeks even when bringing gifts. The man who through jealousy put to death his eldest son, who has murdered without compunction his nephews and other relatives, can have none of the spirit of Christ, and any support he affords the Christians must be given from political motives,” he observed. “Let us not be deceived by them, my beloved brethren; outward prosperity and the patronage of the great ones of the earth are far more fraught with danger to the true faith than were the persecutions we have gone through; already have many been seduced from the truth by the allurements of wealth and the desire to obtain worldly dignities and power. And now, Rufina,” he continued, after speaking for some time on the same subject, “what account do you bring us of the young Jovinian? Has he succeeded in escaping from the power of his uncle, the pontiff Gaius?”

“No; he is still held captive, and strictly watched,” answered Rufina. “I have in vain endeavoured to communicate with him through the Numidian who has him in charge. His faith must be put to a sore trial, but the presbyter Amulius believes that he has been too well instructed in the truth to depart from it.”

“Let us pray that grace may be given him to hold firmly to the faith,” said Gentianus. “I feel a deep interest in the youth, for his sainted mother was brought out of darkness into the blessed light of the Gospel by my instructions, and I know how earnestly she prayed that her only child should remain faithful, even though martyrdom might be the consequence. Could Jovinian escape from his guardians, he might here remain concealed, and be further established in the faith, till Gaius has abandoned all search for him, or an opportunity offers of flying with you, Severus and Eugenia, to some place where you may be safe from pursuit.”

“I would, as a sacred duty, take charge of the orphan boy, and instruct him in the truth, so that he may be qualified to perform his duty in spreading the Gospel,” said Severus.

“And I will let him share a mother’s love with our young Julia,” said Eugenia.

“Tell Amulius what you have heard, Rufina,” said Gentianus; “and now return to the city, thank those who have provided for our necessities, and bring us, we pray thee, intelligence of anything important Amulius deems it necessary to send.”

The assembly now broke up. Rufina returned by the way she had come, accompanied by several persons who had visited the abode of Gentianus for the purpose of joining in the religious meeting, but who lived above ground in the neighbourhood of Rome. Some regained the upper world by different outlets; besides Gentianus and his household, a few only, who for some cause had reason to dread the hostility of the idolaters still, remaining in those subterranean passages. Here, in chambers excavated in the soft rock, they had their dwellings, which they quitted only at night to enjoy the fresh air, when trusty persons were placed on the watch to give notice of the approach of any who might betray them. Many of the fossors or excavators had from the early days of Christianity been converted, and had thus been able to act as guides to the fugitives from persecution, and to hollow out chambers in the remoter parts of the galleries where they could live without being discovered, unless, as was sometimes the case, they were betrayed by the treachery of pretended Christians.

Chapter Four.

The Procession.

The sun had scarcely risen half-way to the meridian when the head of the sacrificial procession streamed forth from the Temple of Peace, in the wide forum belonging to which its component parts had been collected and arranged. Preceded by banners came the pontiffs of the sacred college, walking under silken canopies to shield their persons from the sun’s burning rays. They were followed by the augurs in saffron and purple togas, wearing on their heads the conical caps with spikes of olive-wood, and carrying the litui—long staffs with golden crooks at the ends (Note 1). Then came the tubicini, or trumpeters, sounding loudly on their curved instruments of bronze with shrill notes, and the tubas, straight silver trumpets, hollowing them, with various ensigns and insignia, emerged the chief flamens, wearing the laena and apex, with wreaths of laurel. Now, after a profusion of banners, appeared a chariot drawn by four white steeds, richly adorned with wreaths, bearing along a magnificent statue of Jupiter Tonans (Note 2), with thunderbolts in hand, followed by superb statues, larger than life, of Mars, Apollo, Juno, Venus, and Minerva—the goddesses habited in robes either supplied by pious matrons or from the properties of the temples. The car of Juno, adorned with peacocks’ feathers (Note 3), that of the Cytherean Venus, with apple in hand, was drawn along, her car bearing imitations of swans and doves, and ornamented with wreaths of myrtle and roses. The car of Minerva followed, the goddess represented by a gigantic statue, a sphinx in the middle of the helmet, supported on either side by griffins, while standing on her car were huge dragons, cocks, and owls, with branches of the olive-tree arranged upon it. All these cars were drawn, not by horses, but by young patricians, who eagerly sought the opportunity to perform so grateful a service to the deities they worshipped. In a long line came other gods and goddesses, not seated in cars, but placed on high platforms, carried by men, some appearing singly and others in groups, representing the various actions for which they were renowned. Between each god or goddess walked youths, swinging censers, emitting as they moved them to and fro sweet odours grateful to their divinities. The bearers of the almost countless images were, like those who drew the chariots, mostly patricians, or young men of wealth of plebeian family, who thus sought an easy mode of exhibiting their piety.

Now came, preceded by lictors with their fasces, the vestal virgins, seated in silver chariots drawn by milk-white steeds, followed closely by another band of flamens, leading a long line of hostia (oxen to be sacrificed), their horns richly gilded, their heads adorned with wreaths, each animal led by a victimarius. So numerous were they, that it appeared as if the line would never end; for Coecus had arranged to offer up a whole hecatomb of victims.

Following the hostia came another band of trumpeters with numerous banners, the ornaments at their summits glittering in the sun; with a band of inferior priests, minor flamens, popos (Note 4), and other attendants at the temples, chanting loudly in honour of their gods; while next came large parties of citizens in festive dresses, eager to show their affection for the long-established religion of their ancestors; the whole followed by a body of troops, with their standards unfurled, and other insignia held aloft. The procession, as seen from a distance, had indeed the appearance of some enormous serpent with shining scales, as, emerging from the precincts of the temple, it wound its way along through the narrow streets, past the temples of Venus and Rome, under the colossal statue of Nero, on the outside of which scaffolding had been erected, affording accommodation to thousands of spectators; then turning westward, under the arch of Titus, and between the numerous temples which lined that portion of the Sacra Via, through the Forum Romanum, under the arch of Severus; when, gaining the Capitol, it proceeded direct towards the temple of Jupiter Optimus. Here the head of the vast column, the pontiffs, the flamens, and the augurs, as they arrived, gathered in due order under the porch,—the various statues of the gods being ranged on either side, the vestal virgins taking the post of honour awarded to them, while the people arranged themselves so as to leave an open space round the numerous altars, which stood prepared for the sacrifice of the victims. The animals, as they came up held by the victimarii, were arranged in front of the altars; when the flamens, having strewed their heads with roasted barley-meal, the popos, stripped and girt ready, advanced with huge hammers in their belts; then, at a signal from the chief pontiff, the fires were lighted, and each of the performers having been previously sprinkled with holy-water, the popos, holding up the heads of the animals, gave the fatal blow which brought them to the ground; when, the deadly knives being plunged into the victims’ hearts, they were rapidly and skilfully dismembered. The augurs, with due care, examined the intestines, which, being placed on the altars, were now strewed with barley-meal; and as the fires blazed up, wine was poured forth, and incense thrown upon them; the trumpets the meantime sounding, and the choristers loudly singing hymns in praise of Jupiter and the immortal gods. As the incense rose in thick clouds towards the sky from the multitudes of altars, the pontiff delivered a stirring oration to the people in praise of the gods, exhorting them to continue firm to their worship. As the pontiff ceased, the whole temple became filled with the sweet-scented smoke of the incense, the drums sounded out their loudest notes, and as the people shouted forth their vows to adhere to the ancient faith under which Rome had become great and powerful, many declared that the gods were seen to smile in approval of their piety.

When the procession first emerged from the temple, close to where Gaius walked was seen a powerful Numidian slave, holding by the hand a young and handsome boy. Every now and then Gaius glanced at the latter, apparently to observe what so imposing a scene was producing on his mind. The boy appeared to pay but little attention to the pageant; but though he did not struggle, he walked as one who felt himself a captive, and his eye ranged eagerly over the countenances of the spectators, especially on those who stood far back in the crowd, as if he were searching for some one with whom he desired to speak. He made but short replies to the slave, who seemed to take pleasure in telling him the names of the temples, and describing the attributes of those gods to whom they were dedicated. At length, when the temple of Jupiter, on the Capitoline Hill, was reached, and Gaius stood, with others of the pontiffs, on the steps, the Numidian led the boy to a position behind his master, where he could see all that was going forward. The victims had been slain, and their entrails were still burning, when, at a sign from Gaius, the Numidian brought forward the lad.

“This must have been an interesting sight for you, my dear Jovinian,” said Gaius to his nephew; “let me see that you appreciate it. Come, you shall have the privilege of taking part in the sacrifice. A flamen will give you some incense: cast it on the altar; the act is a simple one, and will prove a grateful offering to the Immortals.”

“I would obey you, uncle, in all the things of life,” answered Jovinian firmly; “but understand that the God we Christians adore is a spirit, and desires to be worshipped from the heart in spirit and in truth, and that the offering of incense, even to Him, is offensive as it is vain; much more so is it when burnt in honour of those who are no gods, but the foolish imaginings of ignorant men; and I will not do what is displeasing to Him, and would bitterly grieve the heart of my beloved mother, could she see me.”

“Boy! boy! how dare you use language such as this to me, a Roman pontiff!” exclaimed Gaius, becoming angry; then, after a moment, resuming his calm demeanour, he continued, “What folly is this, that you should object to so trifling an act as that I wish you to perform!”

“No act, however trifling, if offensive to the true God, can be performed without sin,” answered Jovinian. “I am told that thousands submitted to be torn to pieces, or crucified, or to be slain by gladiators, in yonder Flavian amphitheatre, rather than act as you would have me do.”

“Remember, Jovinian, that I have the power to compel you to do as I desire,” said Gaius; “it is not for my own pleasure, but to satisfy the scruples of my principal, and to prove that you are a true child of ancient Rome.”

“Uncle, I will not do this sinful thing,” answered the boy, in a tone of determination in which Gaius had never before heard him speak. “You may order the Numidian to flog me, you may refuse me food, or have me put to death with any tortures you can devise, but I tell you I possess a strength beyond my own. It is that which God gives to those who trust Him. He is omnipotent, and nothing human can withstand His power. Therefore, I say again, you cannot compel me.”

Gaius was astonished at the bold answer of his young relative, and was afraid to press the point, lest the bystanders might overhear the conversation. He accordingly judged it prudent to commit him again to the care of the Numidian, directing the slave, as he valued his life, not to let the boy escape. Meantime the augurs had been examining with sagacious looks the entrails of the slain animals, and soon unanimously announced with authoritative voices that the gods were pleased with the liberal sacrifices offered to them, and that, undoubtedly, as long as Rome itself should stand, their ancient faith would continue, in spite of the assaults made on it by the Christians and other atheists. The vast multitude shouted loudly at the announcement, their cries being taken up by those who stood at the eastern brink of the Capitoline Hill, and echoed by the masses who thronged the streets along the Forum even to the Flavian Amphitheatre, where many remained to watch the return of the procession to the spot whence it had set out. The carcases of the beasts not consumed were distributed liberally among the families of the inferior flamens and servitors at the temples, the begging priests pushing eagerly forward to get a share of the flesh, of which there was enough to supply large numbers of the people. Coecus, again marshalling his forces, led the way from the temple, the various performers following in due order. “This day’s work, as I foretold would be the case, has been a success, Gaius,” he observed to the younger pontiff, as with stately step they marched along through the Forum. “We must devise others of a similar nature to amuse the populace, and use every effort to win back those of the patricians who are showing indifference to the worship of the gods. Provided we employ proper measures, they can be as easily gulled as the ignorant multitude; but we must suit the bait to the nature of the birds to be caught.”

“I feel not so certain of success. Those who have once adopted the principles of the Nazarenes are not likely to be won back again,” answered Gaius. “I have lately had an example of the obstinacy of these people; they are not to be influenced by persuasion or dread of consequences. We know how they behaved in former ages; and even when Diocletian found that they were dangerous to the state, and allowed them to receive the punishment they deserved, they still persevered in propagating their faith, unmoved by the dread of the fate awaiting them. Then what can we expect now that the emperor patronises them, and, as it is reported, actually professes to have become a Christian?”

“By Bacchus! then we must find another mode of acting,” said Coecus. “If we cannot destroy, we can corrupt their faith, and, depend on it, success will attend our efforts.”

Meantime young Jovinian, attended by the Numidian, had returned to his uncle’s abode. Gaius, taking the hint from Coecus, still hoped to win over his nephew, for whom he entertained all the affection a man of his nature was capable of feeling. Observing that the boy suffered from confinement, he allowed him to take walks through the city, closely attended by the Numidian Eros—who was charged, however, to keep a strict watch on him, that he might be prevented from making his escape or communicating with any of his mother’s Christian friends.

Note 1. Ever since borne by the bishops of the Roman Church.

Note 2. One day to appear in the edifice dedicated to Saint Peter, to act the part of the apostle; the ignorant multitude being taught by the modern flamens devoutly to kiss its toe.

Note 3. Still used in the papal processions.

Note 4. The popes were priests appointed to put the victims to death.

Chapter Five.

The Young Captive.

Jovinian was treated with much consideration by his uncle Gaius. He enjoyed the privilege of a room to himself, in which he could read without interruption, and to which his meals were generally carried. When, however, he went to the door, he found the Numidian, or another slave who acted as his assistant, stretched on a mat at the entrance, or seated on a stool close at hand. He had thus evidence that he was treated as a captive, and suspected of being desirous of making his escape. He was abundantly supplied with books,—Horace, Virgil, and Ovid for lighter reading, and translations of the works of Plato and his disciples for his more serious studies. But beautiful as was the language, he turned from them with disgust, so full of sophistries did they appear. There was one book which he took up with greater satisfaction than all the others. He had obtained it when out walking one day with Eros, and the Numidian’s watchful eye was for a short period averted from him. While gazing at a spectacle exhibited in one of the temples, Jovinian had recognised his friend the presbyter Amulius, who was coming quickly towards him. Before Eros had looked round, Amulius had slipped into his hand a roll of parchment; he immediately concealed it in his bosom. He was on the point of whispering, “Oh, take me with you!” and stretching out his hand to his relative, when Eros turned round. The Numidian seemed to have suspected his design, for he immediately grasped him by the arm, and took care for the remainder of the walk not to withdraw his eye from him.

On reaching home, Jovinian eagerly examined the roll. He discovered, to his delight, that it was the Gospel written by the apostle John. The roll contained another small piece of vellum, on which were written some lines from Amulius, urging him to practise the gift of patience, and to remain firm to the principles delivered to him by his beloved mother. Henceforth the book was his constant study, and from its page he drew consolation and instruction. One morning Eros, entering his chamber, inquired whether he was disposed to go out and enjoy the air. He thankfully agreed to the proposal, and having concealed his precious volume beneath his dress, he accompanied the Numidian. It was a day on which one of the numerous festivals held in honour of the gods was being celebrated in the city. The streets were thronged by persons of all ranks and ages, the shrines as usual lighted up and decorated with flowers, the lower order of priests were going about collecting contributions for their temples, and holding up the small images of their gods. They were passing the temple of Bellona, the Isis of the Egyptians, when Eros, grasping Jovinian’s arm, pulled him in.

“Here is a scene worth witnessing,” he observed; “see how devoted are the worshippers of the great goddess.”

Unlike most of the other temples, it was enclosed by walls to exclude the light of day. Following the windings of a narrow passage, the Numidian and the reluctant youth found themselves in a gallery within the temple, which appeared shrouded in gloom, except at the further end, where, above the altar, was seen, surrounded by pale lights, the statue of the goddess standing on a crescent moon, holding a globe in her hand; while before her were several closely-shorn, bare-footed priests, habited in linen garments, now bending low before her, now lifting up their hands in the attitude of prayer, while the whole area was filled with a multitude of persons in rapid motion, from whom issued cries and groans, above which could be distinguished the sound of the whips echoing through the edifice.

For some minutes, Jovinian’s eye, unaccustomed to the darkness, could not see what was taking place; but at length he perceived that all the persons below him were armed with whips, with which they were unmercifully flagellating, not each other, but their own bodies stripped naked to the waist. Some, from their dark skins, were apparently Egyptians, but many among them were evidently Romans. Now some of the priests, throwing off their robes, and seizing whips, which lay beside the altar, joined the mad throng, shouting and encouraging them to perseverance in the extraordinary performance. While this scene was enacting, several other persons appeared, issuing from doors on either side of the altar. Among them, Jovinian, to his surprise, distinguished his uncle Gaius, with Coecus and other pontiffs, who stood by, while a flamen, with his back to the people, lifted up his hands above his head, as if offering sacrifice to the goddess.

“What can induce those people thus to torment themselves?” asked Jovinian. “It appears to me as if they had all gone mad together!”

“Know you not that we stand in the temple of the Queen of Heaven, the most ancient goddess known to mortals?” exclaimed the Numidian. “These, her votaries, are thus inflicting pain on their bodies to purify themselves from sin, and be able to approach her shrine and merit her approval and affection.”

“Can it be possible that people are so ignorant as to suppose that any being of a divine nature can take pleasure in mortal suffering?” asked Jovinian. “How different must she be to the true God, so full of mercy and loving-kindness, who delights in showering blessings on His worshippers! Let us go hence; I can no longer stay to witness such egregious folly and wickedness.”

Still the Numidian seemed inclined to linger; but Jovinian, breaking from him, made his way towards the passage by which they had entered, and Eros was compelled to follow for fear of losing sight of his charge. Jovinian breathed more freely when he got into the open air. He was too much lost in thought to make any further remark to his companion. As they proceeded on their walk they passed numerous shrines, before each of which Eros stopped, and lifting up his hands, invoked the idol, seeming to care very little which of the gods or goddesses it represented.

“Can those marble figures render you any service, think you?” asked Jovinian, as they walked on.

“I know not; but my betters say so, and it is as well to be on the safe side,” answered the Numidian, with a shrug of his shoulders.

“But suppose they represent demons instead of divine beings, if you invoke them they are more likely to do you harm than good; and knowing, as I do, that there is but one true, all-powerful God, I am sure that He does not allow any inferior creatures to interfere between Him and man,” replied Jovinian. “We, who are His children through faith in His Son, can go direct to Him in prayer, requiring no other intercessor but our Lord and Master, nor any symbol to aid us in worshipping Him.”

“Yours seems a very simple faith; and if I thought that the one great and all-powerful God of whom you speak would hear my prayers and grant them, I would cease to worship all the gods and goddesses, whose very names I have a difficulty in remembering, and would trust only to Him,” answered Eros.

“You would act most wisely and happily for yourself,” said Jovinian. “Come with me into yonder building; I see several persons entering who, by their dress and demeanour, I know to be Christians.”

Eros made no objection. The edifice was enclosed by a wall, which shut out those within from public gaze. Passing through a door, they entered a spacious hall capable of containing several hundred persons. No statues nor pictures were to be seen; at the further end was a raised desk, at which stood a lector or reader, while a higher desk at the same part of the building, formed like a rostrum, served for the preacher who was to address the congregation. In the centre stood a long table, with seats round it, while the remainder of the area was filled with benches in rows, so arranged that their occupants could look towards the lector and preacher. The building was filling fast; in a few minutes all the seats were occupied. Shortly afterwards an aged man, habited in a toga, entering, took his seat on a chair close to the rostrum; then, standing up, after a minute of silent prayer, he gave out a hymn, in which the whole of the congregation joined. Portions of the Gospel and Epistles were read; a prayer was then offered up, in which all the congregation joined. After another hymn, the presbyter ascended the rostrum, and delivered an address. It explained simply the principles of the Christian faith, and the plan of salvation offered by God to sinful man. Eros listened attentively, and drank in every word. He sighed when it terminated. Another hymn having been sung, the congregation began to separate.

“Would that I could hear more of it!” the slave observed to Jovinian; “after this I can never again pray to the stocks and stones which I have hitherto called my gods.”

“You can come as often as you like; and there are several other places in Rome where assemblies of the faithful are wont to be held, thanks to the liberality of the emperor, who allows the Christians to meet everywhere as they desire,” said Jovinian. “But I would urge you to speak forthwith to the presbyter who delivered the discourse, or to the venerable overseer who presided; or, if you would prefer it, I would take you to the house of my relative Amulius. He is always ready to give instruction; and there are some, I fear, holding false doctrines, who would mislead you as to the principles of our holy faith.”

“What, do you Christians differ from each other in your belief?” asked the Numidian, in a tone of surprise.

“Alas! I am told that there are many who call themselves Christians, holding opinions contrary to those taught by the Holy Scriptures,” said Jovinian; “but they differ greatly one from the other. Such was the case even in the time of the apostles, and we cannot expect it to be otherwise at present, when men in their pride of reason refuse to submit themselves to the plain teaching of Christ.”

“You appear to have thought much on these subjects, for one so young,” observed the Numidian.

“I have been well instructed by those who know the truth, and have ever sought guidance from God’s Holy Spirit,” answered Jovinian.

Eros was silent; he was pondering deeply on what he had heard.

Jovinian, on his return to the college, retired to his room. Gaius was still absent; he was too much engaged when he returned, fortunately for Jovinian, to question him as to where he had been during his walk. The pontiff was acute enough to discover that he was not likely to win his nephew over to a belief in idolatry; but he hoped, by giving him the writings of the Greek philosophers, and of their numerous disciples and imitators of the present time, so to draw his mind away from the truth that he might be willing to enter into his schemes, and to become in reality a sceptic in all religious matters, as he was himself, with one exception: if, indeed, he had any belief, it was in the great goddess of Babylon—Astarte or Ashtaroth, the Queen of Heaven—whose worship, having spread through Asia into Egypt, had, with that of her son Horos, long been established in Italy under different names. In Egypt she was known as Isis, in Rome as Bellona. He, as was the case with the other pontiffs, had long been initiated into her mysteries, and he trusted that in time his nephew would be qualified to become one of her votaries. Her worship had, indeed, ever been the most popular, and provided that could be maintained, he felt sure that it would successfully oppose the two principles of the Christian faith, which he understood to consist in the belief of one God and one mediator between God and man. He was not aware of the power of simple faith when he thus entertained hopes of winning over his nephew, or that Jovinian went daily to the fountain-head to seek for that strength he so much needed in order to resist the temptations presented to him. Jovinian soon discovered the tendency of the works his uncle gave him, and as he read he sought for grace to refute their sophistries; nor did he seek in vain. He found, however, that it was wise not to enter into discussions with Gaius, who fully believed that ere long his nephew’s faith would be completely overcome. The pontiff now began to open his views to Jovinian, and to excite his ambition with the prospect, should he follow his advice, of becoming great and powerful, and ruling his fellow-creatures through their superstition, he frequently invited him out, taking the precaution to have a slave following close at hand to stop him should he attempt to escape, though he believed that there was now little probability of his doing so. At length, so complete was the confidence he placed in him, that he allowed him to be present at the councils of the pontiffs, where, seated, his book in hand, at the further end of the hall, his presence was not observed. Jovinian, very naturally, did not object to this, nor could he fail to be interested in the discussions he frequently overheard.

Chapter Six.

A Debate.

At length, one evening, the whole of the pontiffs of the sacred college were assembled, and it was evident from their manner that a matter of more than usual importance was to be brought forward. The gods being invoked, and the usual forms hurried over, Coecus, who acted as president, rose.

“Friends and brother pontiffs,” he began, “disastrous news has reached me. You well know that the emperor has long been favourable to the Christians. He has now openly declared himself a convert to their faith. His motive it is easy to perceive: he considers that the Christians throughout the empire already outnumber the followers of the ancient faith; and perchance he hopes to obtain pardon from the God of the Christians for the murder of his son, the hapless Crispus, of his wife, the traduced Fausta, of his nephew, and brother-in-law, Licinius, and the many others his jealousy has doomed to death. Be that as it may, his acts show enmity to the ancient faith; he has already in the East destroyed numerous temples of the gods, and prohibited the celebration of many of those august mysteries which have existed from time immemorial. Holding, as he does, the office of Pontifex Maximus, putting us and our holy college on one side, he has taken upon himself the right to raise the ministers of the Christians to high ranks and dignities, and has issued edicts accordingly, so that from henceforth those men whom we have hitherto looked down upon will, claiming the authority of the emperor, vaunt it over us; and, what is of more consequence, will obtain the revenues which have hitherto flowed into our coffers; while we, neglected and degraded, must sink into insignificance. Are we, I ask, my friends, tamely to submit to such treatment? Are no means to be found to arrest the progress of this pestiferous religion, which so many of wealth and rank are eagerly embracing, and which, now it has become fashionable at court, will still further increase? Can no one suggest a scheme by which we may retain our office, and still, as of yore, govern the minds of the multitude? Unless some plan can be devised, I warn you all that our course is run, and penury and neglect must be our lot.”

Silence followed the address of Coecus—a groan alone now and then escaping from the bosoms of the pontiffs; for they had not watched the rapid increase of the Christian faith among all ranks without being conscious that the system which they supported was tottering to its base. At length, one by one, they broke silence; but their proposals were treated as vain and useless by the sagacious Coecus.

“We have but one resource, my friends,” he answered; “far from giving way to despair, I feel confident that it will succeed, if carried out with due wisdom and secrecy. But we must be united, and by forming strict rules for our guidance, we shall still retain our power and influence, and govern the minds, not only of the people of Rome, but of those of the nations subject to her. We ourselves must become Christians! Some few may doubt our conversion, but the great mass will gladly welcome us, and continue to pay us the honour we have hitherto received. I say not this till after profound reflection. Our sacred college will still exist, and by the exertion of our influence, we shall obtain the appointment of the bishops and presbyters of the Christians, chosen either from our own body or from among such men as we shall find ready to support us. We shall have but to change the names of the gods. Already have many of the Christians begun to worship those whom they esteem holy or who were put to death in the times of Nero, Diocletian, and other emperors. Their folly will greatly facilitate our object, and it will matter little to us under what names the immortal gods are worshipped. We may, by proper caution, induce them to adore our own great goddess, the Queen of Heaven,—she who has been, shall be, and whose mysterious existence none among mortals can comprehend. Be it known to you, my friends, that He whom these Nazarenes worship, the Prophet of Nazareth, was, they say, born of a woman; and surely, as they adore Him, so may they easily be induced to adore His mother; and it appears to me that they can be led away from the worship they pay to Him, to offer it to one whom we would present to them in the place of that human mother. Thus shall we by degrees wean them from the faith they now hold,—if we cannot openly oppose the progress of this new religion, we can corrupt it,—and if the gods and goddesses of ancient Rome are overthrown, we can place other objects of worship in their stead, or re-name them, rather, from the persons whom the Christians are wont to regard with respect. Those who have been taught to worship a dead Caesar will as willingly fall down before the statue of a woman whom they consider a saint; thus it will give us but little trouble to change the religious observances and ceremonies to which the people have been accustomed to suit the new religion. Let us not, then, give way to despair: Rome will continue, as of yore, faithful to the worship of the ancient gods, and we, their priests, shall retain our power and influence.”

The scheme proposed by Coecus met with general approbation. Jovinian had retained his seat, his eyes fixed on his manuscript, but attentively listening to all that was uttered. The words he heard, “If we cannot overcome, we can corrupt,” especially struck his ear; he was too well acquainted with the errors which had crept in among the assemblies of the Christians not to be sensible that even those who held the faith might be led astray: how much more easily might the ignorant idolaters be led to worship any objects presented to them! As he sat motionless in his place of concealment, yet more of the scheme was revealed; the characters of the very persons who were to be made its instruments were discussed. A feeling of horror and dismay crept over him. Could he by any means be enabled to counteract it? He resolved to take counsel of his aged friend, Gentianus. So strictly had he hitherto been watched that he knew full well the difficulties to be encountered in making his escape; should his uncle Gaius discover that he had been present he would guard him still more closely. He dared not move lest he might be seen; at present he was concealed from the assembled pontiffs by a pillar, but the slightest movement might betray him. At length the conclave broke up, and drawing their togas around them, the pontiffs retired. Jovinian, trembling at the thought of the dark scheme he had discovered, made his way back to his room. Helpless as he was, he felt unable to do anything to counteract the plans of the conspirators, yet it was at all events his duty to make them known to the leading Christians of Rome; but whom among them could he trust besides Amulius, and Gentianus and his family? The first, though a presbyter, and a faithful and earnest man, might not have the courage to denounce a person of power and influence like the pontiff Coecus, supported as he was not only by the members of his college, but by all the wealthy philosophers and idolaters in Rome. Amulius might even doubt the accuracy of his statements; Gentianus was far more likely to believe them, could he manage to communicate with him. Should, however, Gaius suspect that he had been present at the conference, he would be kept a far closer prisoner than before. Was Eros to be trusted? He could not have failed to discover that Jovinian had been absent from his room,—he might have informed Gaius of the fact. Though Eros had professed to be deeply interested in what he had heard at the assembly of the Christians, it was doubtful whether he had been really converted; even if he were so, the dread of the consequences to himself should his captive regain his liberty, might prevent him from conniving at his escape. Jovinian, therefore, felt it would be prudent not to trust him; and, eager as he was to get away, he endeavoured to appear reconciled to his lot. From principle as well as from disposition, anything like duplicity was especially hateful to him, but he was driven to practise it, as affording him the only prospect of escaping from the thraldom in which he was held. Gaius appeared to be completely deceived; he spoke more openly to his nephew than he had hitherto done, though at the same time he was too wary not to keep the same strict watch over him as at first. He now frequently took him out when he went abroad to visit the temples to give directions to the flamens and to advise them how to comport themselves in the perilous circumstances in which they were placed. One and all were alarmed at the information which constantly reached them of the emperor’s opposition to the ancient faith, and the support and patronage he afforded the Christians. Already numerous conversions had taken place among the patricians, as well as among persons of inferior rank; whole families who had hitherto appeared to be staunch idolaters now professed themselves Christians. They not only met together openly for worship in several parts of the city, but had already begun to erect several churches; while money contributed by the faithful for the support of widows and orphans and others in distress flowed into the coffers of their bishop. Wherever Gaius went the flamens met him with sad countenances; though after he had held conversation with them in private, they generally appeared to become more cheerful.

He was one day paying a domiciliary visit to the temple of Apollo, having entered by the door sacred to the flamens in the rear of the edifice. Gaius had a long conversation with the chief flamen while Jovinian was allowed to amuse himself with looking over some ancient manuscripts kept in a chest in the room in which they were sitting. The flamen listened attentively to the remarks of his superior.

“By the Immortals, we need not despair, Coecus guiding us!” he exclaimed; “whatever he proposes, he may depend on our carrying out to the letter.”

“Then listen, Flaccus,” said Gaius; “we can no longer hide from the people the progress made by the new faith, or that it is patronised by the emperor; but we may persuade them that the gods are grieved at the abandonment of their ancient worship; or should a pestilence occur, or an earthquake, or a storm of unusual violence, we may easily make them believe that the infliction has been sent as a punishment for their infidelity. Would that such would occur! it would help us greatly in our object. In the meantime, we can employ such means as are at our disposal. It would be well if we could make all the statues of the gods in Rome weep together, or roll their eyes, or groan in concert.”

“The thought is a bright one,” answered Flaccus; “by means of arrangements in the interior of our statue we can reach the head, and through the two small holes in the corners of the eyes press forth from a sponge a rivulet of water, if we so wish. I will then, from before the altar, announce the cause of the great Apollo’s grief, and urge his votaries to renewed devotion, and to withstand the pernicious teachings of the Christians.”

“The temple is already well filled, and the sooner we play the—I mean, the sooner the miracle is performed the better, for delays are dangerous,” said Gaius.

“We might perform it at once,” answered Flaccus; “but we require a boy of small size who can climb up into the head of the statue; and my own son, whom I can trust, is sick at home. The youth yonder, however, though somewhat big, might manage to climb up without much difficulty.” As he spoke he looked towards Jovinian. “You can confide in him that he will not betray us?”

“I am not certain on that point,” answered Gaius; and calling to his nephew he desired him to swear that he would not reveal what he was about to communicate.

“If lawful, I am ready to do whatever you desire,” answered Jovinian.

“Can it be otherwise, foolish boy, when I wish it?” exclaimed Gaius. “Know you not that I have the power to force you to do whatever I may require?”

“I will, at all events, promise not to repeat whatever you may think fit to say to me,” said Jovinian.

“I wish you, then, simply to play off a trick upon the ignorant people collected in the temple,” said Gaius. “See here: all you have to do is to climb into the head of the statue through the trap which the flamen Licinius Flaccus will show you, and to press a sponge into the hollows of the eyes till you have emptied the amphora which you will take up with you. Be not startled if you hear some deep groans close to your ears; they will be uttered by the flamens, and will serve to give more effect to the flowing of the tears.”

“Pardon me, but I cannot take part in such a device,” answered Jovinian. “I have given my promise not to repeat what you have told me; but obey you in this matter I cannot.”

Gaius, whose aim was to gain the affections of his nephew, restrained his rising anger, and turning to the flamen, observed, “You must find some other boy of smaller size, for my nephew is, I suspect, too big properly to perform the task.”

“I am unwilling to lose this opportunity of working on the minds of the people,” answered Flaccus; “I will, therefore, send for my son, or some other boy who can be trusted.”

He immediately went out. While he was absent, Gaius lectured his nephew; but Jovinian was firm, and even ventured to expostulate on the subject with Gaius, who, however, only laughed at him for his folly, as he called it. In a short time the flamen returned, bringing a short and slight lad, who was directed what to do. Two of the flamens remained behind, while the rest entered the temple. The boy was led to a trap-door at the back of the altar, while two flamens mounted to a gallery level with the head of the statue. Presently groans were heard, so deep and mournful that it seemed scarcely possible they could be uttered by a human being, while cries and shouts arose from the temple, and the words which reached Jovinian’s ears were, “The great god is weeping! Apollo mourns! Woe, woe to Rome!”

He was thankful when at length Gaius, taking his hand, led him from the temple. On their way through the streets they heard people talking of the wonderful miracle which had just been witnessed in the temple of Apollo.

“The god sheds tears at the thoughts of being driven ignominiously from the city where he has so long dwelt!” exclaimed some. “Did you hear how he groaned? Fearful! What will next happen? It is a wonder the great Jove and all the gods did not descend from their pedestals and drive these Nazarene infidels into the Tiber.”

“It would be a worthy deed, and well-pleasing to the Immortals, if you, who carry weapons, were to attack the wretches, and treat them as they deserve,” whispered Gaius to the crowd of idolaters among whom he was making his way. Just then a line of twelve lictors appeared carrying the fasces, making way for one of the consuls, who walked along with dignified pace on some official business.

“Silly people!” he remarked, as he heard the exclamations of the crowd; “you will, ere long, see the statues of the Nazarene saints weeping if you obstinately refuse to follow the faith our august emperor has adopted.”

He smiled as he saluted Gaius, and their eyes met; but the presence of the lictors restrained them, and they separated, going towards their respective homes. Gaius did not speak a word to Jovinian till they reached the college. “Go to your room: I will follow you there,” said the pontiff to his nephew, in a sterner tone than he was wont to use. Jovinian was prepared for a severe lecture. He prayed that he might have grace to act consistently with his profession. In a short time Gaius appeared, and having ordered Eros, who was at his post, to retire, he threw himself on the couch by the table on which Jovinian’s books were placed.

“Of what folly have you been guilty!” he exclaimed; “what induced you to refuse to take part in a harmless deceit, such as has been frequently practised on occasions of necessity, when it has been important to awaken the slumbering faith of the votaries of the gods? Know you not that it is one of our chief maxims that deceit of any sort is lawful when the result is likely to prove beneficial, and that evil may be done provided a good object is to be attained? You have been miserably taught if you do not understand this.”

“According to the precepts of the faith I hold, no deception can be practised and no evil done without offending a pure and a holy God, who looks upon all deceit as sinful, and cannot sanction the slightest approach to sin,” answered Jovinian, boldly. “I could not, without offending Him whom I serve, have assisted in the imposture practised on the ignorant multitude. I promised not to speak of what I heard, or I would tell the people of the trick played upon them, and thus win them to the worship of the one true God.”

“What is this I hear?” exclaimed Gaius; “I had hopes that you had been weaned from your folly, and would have been ready to follow the career I have marked out for you. Should I disown you and turn you out into the world, by what means can you support your miserable existence?”

“The Lord I desire to serve cares for those who love Him,” answered Jovinian, without hesitation. “I have no fear of what man can do to me. I speak with no disrespect to you, my uncle—I am ready to obey you in all things lawful.”

“You are a foolish and obstinate boy,” exclaimed Gaius. “I will, however, give you a further trial. Only do as I desire, and you may retain your Christian faith; but if you thwart my plans, I must use sterner measures than I have hitherto adopted. Perhaps ere long you will discover that I am not so much opposed to the faith of the Nazarenes as you now fancy.”

Gains rose, and leaving Jovinian to reflect on what he had said, returned to the hall, where the other pontiffs were assembled to discuss the subject which now occupied all their thoughts.

Chapter Seven.

The Escape.

Jovinian’s position became excessively trying. He was more strictly watched than before; it was evident that Gaius had lost all confidence in him. Still he did not abandon the hope of escaping; he did not wish to commit Eros, who, should he connive at his escape, would be severely punished; he had, however, hopes that the mind of the Numidian was gradually opening to spiritual truth. Whenever Gaius was abroad, and Eros had no fear of being interrupted, he entered Jovinian’s room, and begged him to read from the wonderful book he possessed. This Jovinian gladly did, and the humble slave gradually began to comprehend the faith which his proud master rejected. Though Jovinian was convinced that Eros had become a true Christian, yet still he would not tempt him to assist in his escape. Eros had early become interested in his young captive; he was now deeply attached to him. He observed with an eye of affection that the confinement to which he was subjected was injuring his health. “He requires fresh air and exercise, and the society of those of like mind,” Eros said to himself. “I must persuade the pontiff to let him go out as before, or, if my petition is refused, I will run all risks, and give him his liberty. He has not asked me to set him free, because he believes I should be the sufferer; but, as he has given me the greatest blessing I can enjoy on earth, I am bound, in gratitude, to enable him to do what his heart desires.”

With these thoughts in his mind, Eros went to his master, and strongly urged that, unless the young Jovinian were allowed to go out and breathe the pure air, he would fall sick, and very likely die. His request was granted much more easily than he had expected.

“Take him forth, then,” answered Gaius; “but beware, slave, lest the youth escape your vigilance; you will be answerable with your life for his safe custody.”

“The life of the slave is in the hands of his master,” answered Eros. “The air is fresh and cool; a walk into the country will restore vigour to his limbs and the colour to his pale cheek.”

“See to it, and let me hear a better account of him,” observed the pontiff, as the slave left his presence.

“Joyful news I bring!” said Eros, as he entered the chamber; “we may set off without delay. Let me advise you not to leave your gospel behind, nor any article that you value.”

Jovinian did not enquire why Eros gave this advice, but gladly accompanied the slave into the open air.

“In what direction shall we go?” he asked.

“We will take the way at the foot of the Palatine, and along the banks of the Tiber,” answered Eros; “then round by the Aventine hill, and return home by the Flavian amphitheatre.”

“That seems a somewhat long circuit to make,” replied Jovinian.

“The fresh air will enable you to enjoy it, and possibly you may be induced to prolong your walk,” replied the Numidian. Every step they took Jovinian felt inclined to proceed farther and farther. Instead, however, of following the road along the bank of the river, Eros turned off to the left, and passing through the nearest gate of the city, struck directly across the country. They had gone on for some distance, when a female was seen approaching them. She stopped as she observed Jovinian. “Surely I know you!” she exclaimed, taking his hands, “though grown so much and become so manly. Have you forgotten Rufina?”

“No, indeed! never can I forget one who was ever so faithful to my beloved mother,” answered Jovinian: “but how happens it that we have thus met?”

“I have long been watching for you,” answered Rufina, in a low voice, drawing Jovinian aside. “There are some friends not far off who greatly desire to embrace you—one especially, by whom your mother Livia was greatly beloved: Eugenia, now the wife of the presbyter Severus—and should you desire to escape from the thraldom in which you are held, they will afford you a secure asylum where the pontiff Gaius can never find you. Fear not,” she added, as she observed Jovinian glance towards Eros; “the Numidian will not stop you. I have communicated with him, and promised to secure his safety. Though he may not accompany you, he can no longer willingly serve a heathen master, and the price of his freedom has been provided.”

“Can you assure me of this?” asked Jovinian. “Much as I desire to obtain my liberty, I would not risk the safety of Eros, now that he is a Christian; and terrible would be his punishment were Gaius to discover that he had willingly allowed me to escape.”

“I will speak to him, and his answer shall convince you that I am not mistaken,” said Rufina; and, advancing towards Eros, she told him what Jovinian had said, adding, “I will now bid you farewell.”

“I desire not to impede you from going whithersoever you wish, though grieved that I may not accompany you,” said Eros. “My prayer is that we shall soon meet again, and that I may serve you as a freedman; and I rejoice to know that no longer as a slave shall I be compelled to act the guard and spy upon you. Farewell, Jovinian: Rufina forbids me to follow your footsteps, or I would thankfully accompany you. But do not be alarmed about my safety; she has provided a refuge where I can remain concealed, for I would avoid the enmity of Gaius,—he is aware that I know too many of the secrets of the college to allow me to retain my liberty, or even my life, could he get me into his power.”

Jovinian, satisfied on hearing that Eros was cared for, followed Rufina, who hastily led him along over the uncultivated country, which even in her palmiest days surrounded the city, till they reached one of the entrances to those subterranean labyrinths which have already been described. Jovinian followed her without hesitation; he had been well acquainted with them in his younger days, when he had dwelt in concealment with his mother and many other Christians. A well-trimmed lamp, which Rufina found within, enabled her to guide him through the intricate turnings of the labyrinth. Although several years had elapsed since he had entered them, he recognised, as they went along, many of the tombs of those who had departed in the faith. She stopped suddenly before one of them; he read the inscription on it. “Livia, the well-beloved! She rests in Christ.” The symbol above it was a dove, with an anchor carved on its breast. He gazed at it earnestly, and knew at once that it indicated his mother’s tomb.

“They brought her here to rest in peace, as she desired. And may I ever possess that sure and certain hope, the anchor of the soul, which enabled her to endure without wavering the storms and trials of life,” he mused.

Rufina stopped to throw a light on the slab, unwilling to interrupt his meditations, and remained without speaking. At length she observed, “We must hurry on, or the oil in the lamp may be exhausted before we reach our destination.”

They continued their course, proceeding along several galleries,—now descending some flights of steps, now ascending others,—till they reached a slab of stone, which resembled many they had passed, let into the wall, with rude inscriptions on them. Rufina knocked three times on the slab with a small mallet which she carried in her basket. Placing her ear against the slab, she listened, when, in the course of a few minutes, she heard the sound of a bolt being withdrawn, and the stone slowly swung back, allowing an opening sufficiently large for a person to pass through. Rufina taking the hand of her young companion, they entered, when the slab was immediately closed behind them. So rapid had been their movements, that to any one following them they would seem to have vanished. The janitor, a humble fossor, after saluting Rufina as a sister, led them on to the end of a long passage, when another door, of a similar character to the first, being opened for them to pass through, they found themselves, after advancing a short distance further, at the entrance of a small hall, from the roof of which hung a silver lamp, its rays casting a pale light on several persons assembled within. Jovinian hung back, not recognising those he saw before him; but no sooner had Rufina stated who he was than he heard himself greeted by friendly voices.

“Welcome, son of our well-beloved: thou hast been faithful as she was!” said the aged Gentianus, who was seated at a table in the centre of the hall. He drew Jovinian towards him, and placing his hand on the lad’s head, gazed into his face as he spoke. “We indeed rejoice that you have escaped from the power of the pontiff Gaius, and still more that you have resisted the temptations he offered you to depart from the faith. May the Holy Spirit ever strengthen and support you in the fiery trials you may be called on to go through. The mystery of iniquity doth already work, and who shall escape its toils? Those alone who cling fast to Christ. May you be among them, my son!”

Much more to the same effect was said by the patrician Gentianus, when his daughter Eugenia, and her husband Severus, advancing, welcomed Jovinian. His mother’s dearest friend was well disposed to treat him with affection. By her side was a young girl—her daughter Julia. As the maiden took his hand, Jovinian gazed at her with admiration. Her lovely features beamed with intelligence, and the light of Christian virtue. Firm in the faith, had the days of persecution returned she would have been ready to suffer martyrdom rather than renounce the Saviour who had bought her. Since their childhood Jovinian and Julia had not met, for Gentianus and his household had resided far away to the south, on the sunny slopes of the Apennines, where he and Severus had devoted themselves to the spreading of the truth among their heathen neighbours of all ranks. They had lately returned, called by important business, both secular and on matters relating to the Church; but, warned of the undying hostility of Coecus the pontiff, they had judged it prudent to take up their residence in their former abode, whence, undiscovered, they could communicate freely with their friends in the city, and afford an asylum to those Christian converts who might be compelled to escape from the malice of their idolatrous relatives. There was persecution even in those days; for though heathenism, as a system, was crumbling away, and few of the better educated or wealthy believed in the myths of the gods of Olympus, yet many clung to the ancient faith, or rather to its form, simply because it was ancient, and their ancestors were supposed to have believed in it. These persons in most instances treated with supreme contempt, and often with great cruelty, any of their relatives or dependents who openly professed a belief in Christ, refusing to have any transactions with them, and endeavouring to ruin or drive them into exile. Still more terrible were the penalties inflicted by the sacerdotal orders on any of their number who, abandoning idolatry, embraced the truth. If unable to escape from Rome, the dagger or poison too generally overtook them. Their safest place of refuge was in the subterranean galleries in which Jovinian now found himself. Thus it happened that he met numerous visitors at the abode of Gentianus. He had been conversing with his old friends, when he saw emerging into the light a lady of radiant beauty, habited in white, without the slightest ornament on her dress or head, a purple band round her forehead confining her close-cut hair. A second glance convinced him that he had seen her before, seated in a silver chariot on the day of the procession.

“Who is she?” he asked of Julia.

“She is the vestal Marcia,” was the answer. “Already the light of truth has entered the dark recesses of the temple; Marcia has received it, and would escape from the thraldom in which she is held, but that she has a young sister, Coelia, also a vestal, who is yet undecided. Coelia has heard the Gospel, and imbibed many of its truths, but the shackles of superstition are still around her; and while she dreads the malignity of Coecus should he discover that her faith in the false goddess has been shaken, she cannot resolve on flight. Marcia has come to seek counsel of Gentianus on the matter.”

“Surely he will advise her to urge her sister no longer to delay!” urged Jovinian. “Would that I could tell her all that I know of that fearful man! He will hesitate at no deed, however dark, so that he may attain his ends.”

Taking Jovinian’s hand, Julia, rapid in all her actions, made him known to Marcia. He, being under no vow of secrecy with regard to the aims of the pontiffs, briefly explained them to her.

“And are such the men who have so long directed the rites and ceremonies of the time-honoured religion of Rome!” she exclaimed. “Alas! how have we been duped. They themselves do not even believe in the false gods they pretend to worship.”

“Not only have they long held sway over the religious affairs of idolatrous Rome, but will continue to lead and govern in our future Rome, unless her sons and daughters adhere to the simple truths of our holy faith as taught by the apostles in the blessed Gospel,” said Gentianus, solemnly.

These words sank deeply into Jovinian’s mind. He never forgot them.

The vestal Marcia, having a dark robe thrown over her white dress, conducted by the guide—a Christian slave like Rufina, who had brought her to the abode of Gentianus—returned to the temple of Vesta.

Chapter Eight.

Relics.

Several days passed by. The small company in this remote portion of those vast galleries waited anxiously for news from the upper world. They had themselves no fear of discovery; for treachery alone, which they had no cause to dread, could betray their retreat. Other parts, however, of that underground labyrinth were frequently visited by large numbers of Christians from the city; and that he might converse with them, Severus, accompanied by Jovinian, guided by an aged fossor, traversed the galleries in various directions. What he saw and heard caused him deep grief as he passed by the groups he here and there found assembled. Some had come to visit the tombs of relatives or friends slain during the Diocletian persecutions, or who had died in later days. They were standing with arms outstretched, and open palms. Several were praying aloud. Severus stopped to listen.

“Cease, friend, cease, I entreat you!” he exclaimed. “Is it possible that you, a Christian, can be addressing the spirit of a departed brother? Have you so learnt Christ? Know you not that His ear is ever open to our prayers; that His heart beats in sympathy with all in distress; and that you are dishonouring Him by attempting to employ any other mediator between God the Father and ourselves than our one sole great High-priest, the risen Saviour of the world!”

Some to whom Severus spoke stared without answering; others defended the practice, which had lately, copied from the heathens, been creeping in among professing Christians; a few only listened respectfully to the arguments the presbyter brought against it.

Severus and his companions passed on till they reached some vaults, or rather enlargements of the galleries. Here numerous persons were assembled, employed in eating and drinking before the tombs contained within the walls. They were holding love-feasts in commemoration of their departed friends; but already the simplicity of the custom had been changed, as was shown by the flushed brows of several of the revellers; while some, more abstemious, were kneeling or prostrate on the ground, offering up prayers to the dead martyrs.

Severus, before passing on, warned them of their sin and folly. “O foolish people, whence have you derived these revellings, this custom of praying to the dead? Surely from the idolaters by whom you are surrounded!” he exclaimed. “Instead of being lights shining in the midst of a dark world, you have become as the blind leaders of the blind. Beware, lest the light you have be altogether taken away!”

Guided by the aged fossor, he and his companions made their way to those parts where in the days of the earlier persecutions the bodies of the few martyrs which had been rescued by their friends had been deposited. Great was the astonishment of Severus to find several persons with pickaxes and spades engaged in breaking open the tombs, and placing the mouldering remains in metal and wooden boxes.

“Why are you thus disturbing the bodies of the departed saints?” he exclaimed, as he stopped among them. “Could you not allow them to rest till summoned to rise by the trump of the archangel? Whither are you about to convey them? How do you intend to dispose of them?”

No one at first replied to those questions.

At length one, who appeared to be a deacon or exorcist, advancing, answered, “We have been assured that the bones of martyrs can cure diseases of all sorts, and work many other miracles; and as few can come here to benefit by them, we are about to convey the sacred relics to shrines where all may visit them; and some we would send to foreign lands, where they may assist in spreading the blessed Gospel.”

“Say rather, O foolish men, where they may tend to confirm the heathen in their ignorance. The very idea is taken from the idolaters, who worship blocks and stones, or any objects presented to them by their false priests. Could, even in their lifetime, these departed saints have cured any of the maladies which flesh is heir to? Then much less can their poor rotting bones, which ere long will be dust. With which of those bones, with which of those particles of dust, will their spirits be pleased to dwell, in order to impart such healing power? Oh, folly unspeakable! to think that the saints of God have further concern with the frail tenement they have shaken off! They are with Christ, to whom alone let me urge you to address your prayers. His arm is not shortened; His love is not lessened. As he healed the sick when he walked on earth, so can He cure if He thinks fit those who apply to Him.”

Much more Severus said; and he was continuing to address the people, some of whom were moved by his arguments, when a cry was raised that soldiers were in the galleries. Presently the ruddy glare of torches was seen in the far distance.

“Hasten this way,” cried the fossor, who suspected that, whatever the object of the soldiers’ visit, those he had in charge might be placed in danger. Severus and Jovinian followed him, as he rapidly retreated in a direction opposite to that in which the lights were seen. Loud shouts were heard echoing through the galleries. It was evident that the soldiers were in pursuit of some one. The sounds drew nearer. The fossor ran as fast as his aged limbs would allow; his companions supporting him. Numerous long passages were traversed.

“The soldiers have a guide with them, or they would not venture thus far,” said the fossor; “but we may still escape them.”

As he spoke he led the way through a narrow opening. Severus followed; Jovinian was about to do so, but he turned for a moment to ascertain the distance their pursuers still were from them. He then passed through the opening, but the light from the fossor’s lantern was not visible, he feared to cry out, lest his voice might betray him. He groped his way forward with outstretched arms. He felt convinced that of two passages he had taken the wrong one. He turned to retrace his steps. In a few seconds a bright light flashed in his eyes, and he found himself in the hands, of several Roman soldiers, who roughly demanded what had become of his companions.

When Jovinian and Eros made their escape from the college Gaius was absent, and was not expected to return till the next morning. Of this the Numidian was aware, and had taken advantage of the occasion.

On the return of the pontiff, somewhat later in the day than usual, when he inquired for his nephew, he was told by a slave, afraid of speaking the truth, that Jovinian had gone forth to walk with Eros, and had not yet come back. Supposing that they had simply taken advantage of the permission he had granted, he took no further trouble about the matter, but, throwing himself on a couch, called for a cup of Falernian to quench his thirst. He was about to order a second when Coecus entered. A frown was on his brow, and his countenance wore a moody aspect. He sat down opposite to Gaius, who, looking up, observed, “If aught troubles you, follow my example, and quaff a cup or two of this generous wine. Nothing so effectually dissipates the mists which are apt to gather at times round our brains and obscure the vision.”

Coecus turned his eyes away with an expression of contempt from his convivial companion, and muttered something inaudible. “I have ample cause for anger and annoyance,” he said, at length. “What think you? This pestiferous doctrine of the Nazarenes has found its way even into the temple of Vesta. On entering unexpectedly, as it proved, to visit our fair charges, I found the vestal Coelia, who ought to have been attending to the sacred fire, so absorbed in reading a book that the flames were almost extinguished. She started on seeing me, and endeavoured to conceal the roll; but I snatched it from her, and as I glanced my eye over the pages, great was my astonishment and indignation to discover that it was not the production of one of our poets, which I might have pardoned her for reading, but a portion of what the Nazarenes call their Scriptures! I cast it on the altar, and, as it was consuming, I watched the expression of grief which overspread her countenance, as if she were beholding the destruction of some precious object. I demanded whence she had obtained the roll, but she stubbornly refused to inform me. I threatened her with condign punishment; but, folding her arms on her bosom, she claimed her right as a Roman maiden to peruse a work approved of by Augustus. ‘As a vestal, sworn to obey the rules of your order, you have no right to read what may shake your confidence in the great goddess to whom your life is dedicated,’ I answered. Much more I said, using persuasions and threats to learn how she had obtained the roll, and whether others in the temple had imbibed any of these Christian doctrines. Vain, however, were all my efforts. I did not expect to find one so young and gentle so determined. I reminded her that she might be condemned for breaking her vows, and of the fearful punishment which would follow. She smiled, as if she dared my power. While we were speaking the sacred fire went out. She seemed in no way appalled, but handing me two pieces of wood from a felix arbour, suggested that I should at once re-light it. As in duty bound I should have scourged her for her neglect, but her youth and beauty forbade such a proceeding, especially as I had been partly the cause of the catastrophe. I followed her advice, and the flame soon burned up again brightly. Reminding her of the double punishment she had incurred, I sent another vestal to take her place, and delivered her over to the charge of the Vestalis Maxima, with strict injunctions to the venerable dame to keep a strict watch over her movements, and to report to me all she says, and with whom she holds communication. We must afford her liberty, or it will be difficult to convict her. It is a question for consideration whether we should assert the supremacy of our ancient laws, and make an example of the vestal Coelia—there will be no difficulty in proving that she has broken her vows—or whether the time has arrived for assuming the masks we have designed, and at once declaring ourselves convinced of the truth of the Christian doctrine.”

“I dread the task we should impose on ourselves if we turn Christians, and would therefore defer the day as long as possible,” answered Gaius, stretching himself on his couch.

“In that case the vestal Coelia must die,” said Coecus, in a calm tone. “We can have no half measures. If we do not swim with the tide, we must stamp out this creed at once.”

“No easy matter, considering, as I understand, that it has existed well-nigh three hundred years, in spite of all the efforts made to destroy it, since a certain Paul, a man of no mean ability, visited our city on several occasions,” observed Gaius. “Had our fathers known in those days to what this doctrine was tending, they would have nipped it in the bud, and we should have been saved a vast amount of trouble.”

“It is useless regretting the past,” said Coecus; “we must keep our eyes steadily fixed on the future. But, I repeat, that I have no hope of destroying the name of Christian.”

Chapter Nine.

The Captured Rescued.

Coecus, finding that his companion had fallen asleep, set himself to consider his plans with regard to the hapless Coelia. He held to the opinions put forth by some of the leading heathen philosophers of that age, that the end justifies the means, and no feeling of compunction as to the cruel fate he designed for the young vestal entered his heart. He was of the material of which arch-inquisitors were in after years to be made. There would be no difficulty in that corrupt city to obtain evidence to condemn his victim, as well as to prove that the partner of her supposed guilt had escaped. After resting for some time, he went forth again to make the arrangements he had determined on.

When, late in the day, Gaius awoke, he sent for his nephew, and, after some inquiries, discovered that Jovinian and Eros had been absent since the previous forenoon. At first he could not bring himself to believe that they had really escaped; but his inquiries at length convinced him of the fact, and, moreover, that Eros had been known to accompany Jovinian to some of the Christian places of worship. “Then the wretched slave has himself been led to embrace this new doctrine,” he exclaimed. “It may be suited to such as he; but, notwithstanding, if I can capture him, he shall be made to pay the full penalty of his crime.”

The pontiff was, in truth, as much annoyed as it was in his nature to be; but he was disposed to vent his anger on the head of Eros rather than on that of his nephew.

Several days passed by, and no information could he obtain as to where the fugitives were concealed. From a few words let drop by Coecus, he at length began to hope that he might recover Jovinian. The chief pontiff had heard that the man he hated above all others on earth—the presbyter Severus—was again in the neighbourhood of Rome; and from the friendship which had existed between his sister and Eugenia, he suspected that Jovinian, if he knew of her abode, would have gone there. What Coecus intended to do he did not say, but the muttered threats of vengeance in which he indulged showed the evil feelings rankling in his bosom. Assassins were to be found, even in those days, to perform any deed of blood required of them; vice was rampant; and crimes of all soils were committed with comparative impunity. But Rome even thus was purer than it became in after ages; the people had been taught to respect the laws, criminals did not always escape the arm of justice, and no inconsiderable Christian community, leading pure and faultless lives, leavened the mass, and contributed to keep the heathen in check.

Coecus had to proceed with more caution than suited his bold and impulsive character. He succeeded, however, in persuading the chief civil authorities that there were some persons with designs dangerous to the state concealed in the underground galleries in the neighbourhood of the city, and in obtaining a guard of soldiers to search for them. He, with some difficulty, obtained a guide who professed to be acquainted with all the intricate turnings of the galleries, and, moreover, to know Severus and Eugenia by sight. Coecus, who was well aware that considerable danger might attend the expedition, had no intention of accompanying it, but remained in Rome, indulging himself in the hope that he should at length destroy his old rival, or get him into his power, while he at the same time exulted in the idea that, from the measures he was taking, he should prolong the existence of idolatry as the religion of the state. One of his plans was to organise another procession in honour of one of the gods, similar to that which has been described; for such spectacles, he knew, were at all times attractive to the populace, and it mattered little to them whether Bacchus, Apollo, Venus, or any other divinity had the most prominent position in the exhibition.

He had given directions to the vestals to prepare for the ceremony, in which, as usual, they would be expected to take a leading part; and he guessed that, should any besides Coelia be tainted with the new doctrines, they would endeavour to escape appearing on the occasion. Coelia herself remained under the strict charge of the Vestalis Maxima, whose office was in later days to be represented by that of the mother superior of a nunnery. The Vestalis Fausta being long past her prime, and having spent her life within the walls of the temple, had no interests beyond them. Her temper had become soured, her better feelings seared; and being thus a willing instrument in the hands of the pontiffs, she was ready to execute any act of tyranny and cruelty they might direct. Her mind, narrowed by the dull routine of duties she had so long performed, she was a devout worshipper of the goddess she served; and she heard with the utmost horror and dismay that one of those under her charge had embraced the hated doctrines of those whom she called the atheist Nazarenes. Poor Coelia had no hope of mercy from such a person. Marcia, finding that she herself was not suspected, kept her own counsel, determined at all costs to rescue her friend. It was a sore trial to her, for she felt herself guilty of dishonouring Christ while continuing to serve in the temple of a false deity.

The pontiffs, meantime, were busily engaged in arranging the details of the procession. Gaius troubled himself less than the other pontiffs about the matter. He especially disliked the exertion of the long march through the city, and he doubted whether the result would be as satisfactory as Coecus anticipated. He was seated in the college, when it was announced that a female slave desired to see him. He directed that she should be admitted, when Rufina entered. Taking a bag of coin from under her cloak, she, without hesitation advanced to where he sat.

“I have come to bring the price of one who was your slave, but desires manumission,” she said calmly, offering the bag of money to the pontiff. “It contains thirty solidi, the full value you can claim for Eros, he of whom I speak,” she continued, seeing that Gaius did not put forth his hand to receive the bag. “Me might have escaped beyond pursuit, and allowed you to lose his value, but, as a Christian, he knows that such would be wrong, and therefore I have been sent to pay it into your hands.”

“The Numidian Eros a Christian! such an idea is folly!” exclaimed Gaius, starting up with more animation in his tone and manner than he had hitherto shown. “If he is a Christian, he thus only adds to his crime. The money he must have stolen—probably from me; I refuse, however, to receive it. Let him return to the bondage from which he has escaped, or if I discover him he will rue the consequences. And for yourself, girl, as you have ventured in here, unless you inform me where he is hidden, and will promise to assist in his recovery, I will detain you and punish you as you deserve with the scourge.”

“I came to do the bidding of my master; and should any harm befall me, there is one to whom he will appeal for justice—the emperor,” answered Rufina, without betraying the slightest fear. “You dare not detain me. Again I offer the value of your once slave, and, though you refuse, I have fulfilled my duty, and must be gone.”

Gaius was almost speechless at what he considered the unexampled audacity of the slave girl; and as he still refused to take the bag, Rufina, while he was considering what to do, turned, and left the hall. Before her figure had disappeared among the marble columns he started up, and summoning one of his attendants, often employed in secret matters, he directed him to follow Rufina, but to keep himself concealed, to obtain what assistance he might require and not to return without bringing back Eros and Jovinian as his captives. The slave, instantly comprehending what was required of him, started off to execute his master’s orders.

The pontiff sank down again upon his couch. “Though I have lost the solidi, I shall have the satisfaction of wreaking my vengeance on the head of the Numidian,—and, what is of more consequence, shall recover my graceless nephew,” he said to himself, stretching out his arms and giving a yawn. “Ungrateful as he has been, I will still afford him another chance.”

On the appearance of Coecus, Gaius told him of the hopes he entertained of recovering Jovinian and his runaway slave.

“The vile wretch of whom you speak must receive the full penalty of his crime, or we shall have all the slaves in Rome turning Christians and claiming their freedom,” observed Coecus. “As to your nephew, the bed of the Tiber will be the safest place to which you can consign him. The young atheist, with the early training he has received, will never become a trustworthy supporter of the ancient gods.”

“I will try him, notwithstanding,” answered Gaius; “but I have not caught him yet.”

Several more days passed by; but neither Jovinian nor Eros had been captured, and Gaius began to fear that he had lost his money and his revenge.

The pontiffs had been seated in conclave, and were on the point of separating, when a message was brought to Gaius. A gleam of satisfaction passed over his countenance.

“Stay, fathers, for a few moments,” he said. “A rascally slave who, forsooth, has taken it into his head to turn Christian, and to decamp, moreover, with my nephew, of whom he had charge, has been captured, I would question the vile wretch as to what has become of the youth; and failing to draw forth the information, as I think likely, we will make some sport of the slave before he is sent off to receive the punishment he merits.”

The countenance of Coecus exhibited a look of disgust, as if he had no desire to be troubled in the matter; but three or four of the other pontiffs acquiescing, Gaius directed that the Numidian should be brought in. Eros soon appeared, heavily manacled, with a guard of four armed men, who watched narrowly every movement he made, and kept their weapons ready for use, as if they feared that even now he would endeavour to escape.

The prisoner advanced with an undaunted countenance, and head erect, as if perfectly fearless of the stern judges before whom he stood. In vain Gaius inquired what had become of Jovinian. Eros replied that he had parted from him outside the gates, that he had gone with a friend, and that more about him he knew not. He acknowledged without hesitation that he had sinned against his master in allowing the youth committed to his charge to depart, and that he was ready to pay the penalty of his fault. “Wretched being! you have heaped crime upon crime,” exclaimed Gaius: “you have endeavoured to escape from slavery, you have disobeyed my commands, and, as I understand, deny the existence of the immortal gods, and, following the example of the impious Nazarenes, refuse to worship them.”

“I worship One who is willing and able to save me, who died that I might be set free, and who has forgiven me all my sins,” answered the Numidian.

“What blasphemy is this we hear!” exclaimed several of the pontiffs in chorus. “He does not deny his crime, and yet talks of his sins being forgiven. Away with him. Let the cross be his doom!”

Gains, who had no wish to lose the services of a valuable slave, pleaded that a less severe doom than death would be sufficient, and suggested that instead he should be subjected to the ordinary punishment inflicted on runaway slaves—that of being hung up by the hands with weights attached to his feet, exposed to the noonday sun till he should faint from exhaustion. The other pontiffs, however, were inexorable. The slave had been brought before them for trial, and his death alone would satisfy their cruelty. Perhaps they took a secret pleasure in annoying their brother pontiff.

Coecus decided the matter, though he had apparently taken no interest in the discussion. “Let the wretch die the vilest of deaths. He has dishonoured the immortal gods!” he muttered. “It may advance our cause, as it will serve to bring into contempt the name of their founder, when the Christians see a base slave suffering the death he was said to have endured.”

Short time was allowed to the Numidian to prepare for his doom. He was to suffer not as a martyr, but as a runaway slave. Strictly guarded all night, he passed it in prayer and in singing hymns to the Saviour he had so lately learnt to love and trust. Early in the morning he was led forth to be conducted outside the city, bearing on his shoulders a heavy beam with a crosspiece attached, on which his arms were to be extended till death should put an end to his sufferings.

As Eros, staggering under the heavy weight of the cross, proceeded through the streets of Rome, many there were who looked on with horror and dismay at the spectacle. Coecus, more thoughtful than Gaius, had provided a guard, for he well knew that the Christians were already sufficiently numerous and powerful to have effected a rescue should they have discovered that he was really suffering for holding to the faith of the Gospel. A crowd had collected, and was following, composed chiefly of such idlers as are invariably attracted by any spectacle, though it may even be to see a fellow-creature put to death. Gaius and some of the other pontiffs walked at some distance behind, the motives which induced them to come being in no way superior to that of the vulgar mass. The condemned slave and his guards had proceeded some distance, when a litter, preceded by a lictor, was seen approaching. It stopped, for the crowd was too dense to allow it to pass; Eros cast up his eyes, and met those of the vestal Marcia, horror-struck at what she saw. The love of life, the dread of the torture prepared for him, prompted the condemned slave. Throwing down his burden, before his guards could stop him, he sprang towards the litter, and, clasping the vestal’s feet, claimed her protection.

“It is given,” she answered. “Citizens of Rome, the right is mine, as you all know, to set this criminal free. Let no man lay hands on him.”

“He is free! he is free!” shouted several persons from among the crowd. “The ancient laws of Rome must be supported.”

The guards and some others seemed unwilling to be disappointed of their prey, but the lictors kept them off; and some, evidently recognising Eros as a Christian, gathering round, bore him off out of sight just as Gaius and his companions arrived on the spot. They dared not disallow the claim made by Marcia, for it had been the privilege of the vestals from time immemorial, should they meet a criminal going to execution, to demand his release, provided the encounter was accidental, and that such was the case in this instance there appeared to be no doubt.

Marcia proceeded on her way, and Gaius, who was not altogether displeased at the occurrence, as he hoped to recover his slave, returned to the college.

Chapter Ten.

The Trial of the Vestal.

The vestal Coelia was summoned to undergo her trial before the college of pontiffs seated in council.

She stood looking pale but undaunted in their presence. The pontiff Coecus was her judge, and at the same time one of her accusers. With the others she was not allowed to be confronted.

She acknowledged without hesitation that the sacred fire had gone out while under her charge, and she condescended so far to defend herself as to remind Coecus that it was in consequence of his holding her for so long a time in conversation. She confessed also that she had been reading a book held in respect by the Nazarenes, and she claimed the right of a free-born Roman to peruse the work, which was one well known to be approved of by the emperor.

“You may have a right to read that or any other work, but not to imbibe the principles of that accursed sect which it advocates,” answered Coecus; “and that you do hold them you have acknowledged to me.”

“And I pray for grace that I may hold them to the end,” replied Coelia, looking the pontiff calmly in the face as she held her hands clasped hanging down before her.

“She admits that the sacred fire was extinguished in consequence of her carelessness,” exclaimed Coecus, turning to the other pontiffs; “nor does she express the slightest regret at her horrible sin. One guilty of so terrible a crime is capable of committing any other wickedness, however odious; and that she has done so, and that she has broken her vows, has been proved by the witnesses we have examined. That she is no longer worthy of being numbered among the vestals of Rome, I have already placed sufficient evidence before you.”

Coecus read over the false accusation which had been brought against the vestal. The guilty participator of her crime had escaped, he observed, but would undoubtedly be captured. Still, from the oaths of the several witnesses—which he named—her guilt was evident.

A flush mantled on the brow of the young vestal as she heard herself accused of a crime so foreign to her nature; yet she did not quail before that of her stern judge and accuser.

“You know, and these my other judges know, that I am innocent,” she said, in a voice which trembled but slightly. “If I am to be put to death, I am ready to die, if you have a right to destroy me, as a Roman maiden, with fame unsullied; I am guilty only of no longer believing in the goddess to whom in my childhood and ignorance my vows were made. I confess myself a Christian, and confess also that I desire to escape from longer serving the false goddess in whom you pretend to believe. But I indignantly deny the terrible accusation brought against me, which you yourself know to be utterly false.”

“Away with the girl: terror has made her mad!” cried the enraged pontiff, forgetting the dignity of his position, and shaking his fists fiercely at the accused maiden.

Coelia did not reply, but raising her hands to heaven—the only time she had altered the position which she had from the first maintained—she implored that protection which He in whom she believed was able and willing to afford.

She did not deign to plead to her cruel judges. She saw clearly that, for some object of their own, they had pre-determined on her destruction. She calmly waited to hear what more they had to say.

Coecus, standing up, pronounced her doom—that which from time immemorial had been inflicted on vestals who had been guilty of breaking their vows.

Her garments—worn by the vestals—and badges of office were to be taken from her, and she was to be habited as a corpse, placed in a litter, and borne through the Forum, attended by her relatives and friends, with all the ceremony of a real funeral. Then she was to be carried to the Campus Sceleratus, situated close to the Colline Gate, just within the city walls. In this spot a small vault underground, as in other cases, would have been prepared. It would contain a couch, a lamp, and a table, with a jar of water and a small amount of food.

Had the Pontifex Maximus been in Rome, it would have been his duty to take a chief part in the ceremony. Having lifted up his hands, he would have opened the litter, led forth the culprit, and placed her on the steps of the ladder by which she would be compelled to descend to the subterranean cell, and he would there have delivered her over to the common executioner and his assistants. They would lead her down into her living tomb, draw up the ladder, and then fill in the passage to the vault with earth so as to make the surface level with the surrounding ground.

Here the hapless vestal, deprived of all marks of respect ordinarily paid to the spirits of the departed, would be left to perish miserably by starvation, should terror not have previously deprived her of life.

Such was the doom pronounced on Coelia.

She heard it unmoved, and walked with unfaltering steps between two of the officers of the pontiff, to be delivered back to Fausta, the Vestalis Maxima, who was in waiting to receive her. Not an expression of pity escaped the lips of the old vestal, although she knew as well as Coecus that Coelia was innocent of the graver crime of which she was charged. But her heart had become hardened and scathed; not a grain of sympathy for her fellow-creatures remained in her bosom.

She believed she was acting in a way pleasing to the goddess she served; and she would have been ready to sacrifice her nearest relatives, if by so doing she would have advanced the cause of idolatry. She was aware that she no longer retained the affection of any of the vestals under her charge. Marsh and irritable, she ruled them with a rod of iron; and believed that the service of the temple was never so faithfully performed as it had been since she became its principal priestess. Fausta has since had countless imitators, most of whom have been as completely deceived as she was.

Coelia was conducted back to the cell in which she had before been confined, beneath the floor of the temple, where only the coarsest viands were allowed her to sustain nature. She was guarded night and day by two vestals, who were directed to summon assistance should they require it. Coecus was satisfied that the death of the vestal would prove to the multitude that the ancient religion of Rome was still paramount, notwithstanding the predilections of the emperor in favour of Christianity, and the privileges he was inclined to grant to the Nazarenes. He therefore hardened his heart against all feeling of pity at the terrible fate about to be inflicted on the innocent maiden, and now prepared, with all the energy of his nature, to make arrangements for the grand procession about to take place, and which he had resolved should precede the cruel ceremony he had determined to carry out. He was well aware that the Emperor Constantine would forbid so barbarous an act; but as he was engaged in the East in building his new city, it was impossible for him to hear of it for a long time to come, and although, when he became cognisant of what had occurred, he would undoubtedly blame the pontiffs, Coecus believed that he and the other members of the college had yet sufficient influence in Rome to set even Augustus himself at defiance.

The day broke bright and beautiful. All the altars in the temples and the shrines in the streets were gaily decorated with wreaths and flowers; while banners and gaily-coloured cloths were hung out from the windows, or over the walls of the private houses, in the streets through which the procession was to pass. As usual, numbers of religious mendicants—belonging to a brotherhood devoted to begging—with huge satchels on their backs, and figures of gods or demigods in their hands, were on foot, eager to collect contributions from the multitude assembled on the occasion. The members of several other heathen brotherhoods also might have been seen hurrying through the city, to take their part in the spectacle.

Now the procession streamed forth from the temple of Flora, which formed one of a line of magnificent temples extending from the Flavian amphitheatre to the north of the Palatine and Capitoline hills—that of Rome and Venus being the most easterly, and nearest to the amphitheatre. As it appeared, shouts of joy and applause were raised by the multitude. There had been no lack of persons ready to perform the duty of carrying the banners and figures of the gods and the goddesses. Coecus had also secured the assistance of as large a number of the female part of the population as he could collect, for he believed that could he keep them attached to the old faith, there would be less danger of their husbands becoming its opponents. Some hundreds of dames and damsels dressed in white, their heads adorned with glittering jewels and bright wreaths, issued from the temple, scattering handfuls of flowers before and around them. Bands of musicians performed their most lively airs suited to the occasion; vast numbers of young children, dressed likewise in white, with floral ornaments, chanted at intervals hymns in honour of the goddess. Priests also, of numerous temples, with shorn crowns, there were, carrying banners or figures of the gods they served, or sacred relics. The heathen magistrates and officers of state had willingly consented to attend and exhibit themselves in the procession, although the Christians had universally refused, under any pretence, to take a part in the idolatrous performance. Coecus, as he watched the pageant winding its enormous length along the streets, the banners and gilded statues glittering in the sun, before he took his accustomed place with his brother pontiffs, felt satisfied that the larger portion of the population of Rome still sided with them.

Gaius alone, as he walked along, muttered not a few expressions of discontent. “To say the least of it, these processions are a bore,” he grumbled. “They may please the mob, but sensible men ridicule them; and we who superintend them, and have thus to parade through the streets, have become the laughing-stock of all the wise men and philosophers. It will in no way benefit us, notwithstanding the trouble we take in the matter: how completely I have failed of convincing my young nephew of the advisability of the worship of the immortal gods his running away and refusing to return is strong evidence. As to putting to death this poor girl Coelia, I do not half like it. The emperor will visit us with his anger should her Christian friends prove her innocence, as they are sure to attempt doing. They are wonderfully active in defending their own friends, when they can do so by means of the law, without having recourse to force. This may be on account of their mean and timid spirits; though it is said that they fight well in battle, and that the emperor places great dependence on their courage and fidelity. Well, well, ‘Times change, and we must change with them,’ as one of our poets sings; but for my part I would rather have retained our old-fashioned ways. What has endured so long must be the best. The oldest religion cannot but be the right one, at all events most suited to the multitude, while it has not failed to bring a copious revenue into our coffers, and that, after all, is the matter of chief consequence to us. All the accounts, however, which come from Byzantium show that Augustus is becoming more and more inclined to favour these Christians. I wish that Coecus hid not been so obstinate, and would at once have consented to abandon our failing cause.”

When passing close to the Arch of Constantino, which had been erected after the visit of the emperor to Rome close to the Flavian amphitheatre, he glanced up at it with a look of contempt. “What can be expected of our Romans nowadays, when the whole architectural talent of our city can only produce a monstrosity like that!” he observed to a brother pontiff walking next to him. “‘The times are changed, and we must change with them,’” he repeated, “if we wish to retain our position.”

The other pontiff only shook his head, and groaned.

Chapter Eleven.

Released.

As the procession moved along towards the Sacra Via, Gaius observed a number of persons of a better class standing aloof, and watching it with looks far removed from admiration. Although the most earnest Christians kept away from such exhibitions, there were several people of good position who he knew had embraced the new faith, while there were others, among whom he recognised a poet, an architect, a sculptor, two or three philosophers, and some other men of intellect, who, although not Christians, he suspected had no belief in the immortal gods of Rome, as they were wont to look with most supreme contempt on spectacles such as that in which he was taking a part.

“There they stand, sneering at us,” he muttered; “perhaps they come to look as they believe it to be for the last time at our gods and goddesses parading our city; but they are mistaken,—our old divinities will hold their places still in the faith and affections of the people, albeit they may be habited in somewhat different garments.”

Now and then the eye of Gaius caught that of some young gallant, who nodded to him familiarly, and smiled at his evident annoyance as he endeavoured to keep up his dignity. The procession moved along towards the Capitoline Hill, on which stood the great temple of Jupiter, where the chief ceremonies of the day were to be performed. The people waved garlands, and shouted, the more devout prostrating themselves before the statues as they passed along, until the hill was gained. Coecus had taken care to have a large number of animals ready for the sacrifice, so that the people might not be stinted in their expected portions of meat. He well knew that they chiefly valued these ceremonies for the food they were certain to obtain after them.

The procession once more filed off through the streets, depositing the figures of the gods and goddesses in their respective temples and shrines; but the business of the day was not over. Coecus and his brother pontiffs had undertaken to superintend a ceremony of a very different character.

On arriving at the temple of Vesta they there found Fausta prepared for the part she was to play. Within the court was seen a litter closely covered in, borne by men with shrouded faces, and habited in dark robes. Its appearance was lugubrious in the extreme.

“Have you prepared the guilty creature for her just doom?” asked Coecus of the Vestalis Maxima.

“She awaits you in her cell,” answered Fausta; “but you have not as yet inflicted the scourging—which, according to the ancient custom, she should suffer.”

“We will omit it in her case,” answered Coecus, with whom his brother pontiffs had previously pleaded, even their minds revolting at causing one so young and innocent to suffer such degradation. “It would of necessity have to be inflicted in private; therefore, no one will know whether or not she has suffered. No object therefore will be gained,” observed Coecus.

“Are we in these days thus to neglect our ancient customs?” exclaimed Fausta. “That she is young and beautiful is no reason why she should escape the punishment which is her due.”

The pontiff made no reply; perhaps even he discerned the love of cruelty which the remark of the ancient priestess exhibited.

“I am thankful I have not to submit to the discipline which the old virgin is inclined to inflict on her disciples,” muttered Gaius. “I would as lief see a tigress deprived of her cubs placed in charge of a flock of sheep as a band of young maidens given to the custody of a bitter old woman like Fausta. If they were not inclined to act naughtily before, they would be driven to do so, in very despair, when subject to her tender mercies.”

“We can delay no longer,” said Coecus to the elder vestal; “let the criminal be brought forth and placed in the litter.”

His orders were obeyed. After a short interval a figure, closely veiled, in coarse attire, was conducted out, and unresistingly placed in the litter. Coecus then gave the word to the bearers and attendants to move on. Fausta and three other vestals accompanied the funeral procession, but no weeping relatives and friends—as in most instances would have been the case—followed Coelia. She was alone in the world, without loving kindred. Her male relations were far away with the armies of the emperor, and her mother, sisters, and female connexions, had been removed by death since she, in her extreme youth, had been dedicated by her heathen father to the service of the goddess.

She was thus considered a fit victim, whose barbarous fate there was no one to revenge. Marcia had spoken of her as her sister, but she was a sister only of the affections. Slowly the mournful procession moved on, and a stranger would have supposed that a corpse was being borne to the funeral pile; but those who watched at a distance knew well—from the direction it was taking, to the Campus Sceleratus—that there was a terrible fate prepared for the occupant of the litter. Such a spectacle had not been for a long time seen in Rome, and did not fail to attract a large number of the population.

Gaius, who was looking about him, remarked amongst the crowd a considerable number of persons whom he knew to be Christians, who walked along with sad and averted looks. Some he recognised as presbyters and deacons, and other officers of the Christian Church. He felt no little surprise at seeing them: he even fancied that he saw the Christian bishop; but as his costume differed but slightly from the rest of the people, he was uncertain that such was the case. Me did not feel altogether satisfied about the matter; but still, as they were unarmed, he believed that, even should they feel inclined to rescue the doomed vestal, they would not make the attempt. “What can it mean?” said he to himself. “I wish that Coecus had left the matter alone; it is my belief that we shall gain nothing by the death of this young creature, and we shall have much greater difficulty hereafter, when we pretend to turn Christians, in persuading these presbyters and others that we are in earnest. However, it is too late now to expostulate with him. Coecus is a man who, having once determined on carrying out an object, is not to be deterred from it.” The Campus Sceleratus was at length reached. It was a gloomy spot, and was called the Campus Sceleratus, because it was here that vestal virgins convicted of breaking their vows had for ages past been entombed alive; for even although doomed to this fearful punishment, they retained the privilege of being interred within the walls. Ruin and desolation reigned around, for only the poorest and most abandoned were willing to erect their abodes in the neighbourhood of a spot deemed accursed. Beyond rose the dark walls erected around the city—a sign of the degeneracy of the inhabitants, whose breasts and stout arms in former days had been considered sufficient for its protection. Near it was the Porta Collina, from whence started two important roads (the Via Salaria and the Via Nomentana), passing close to the enormous baths erected by the Emperor Diocletian. Thus, people from all parts of the city had easy access to the spot. A large crowd soon collected. Even some of the frequenters of the bath sauntered forth, prompted by their curiosity to see what was taking place.

Coecus had kept his intention a secret; how it had become known he could not tell. Although he wished to have some spectators who were likely to approve of his proceedings, he had no desire to have them witnessed by so large and mixed a concourse. Still, he was determined to go through with what he had undertaken.

The litter stopped near the centre of the field, on the summit of a slight elevation.

The earth turned up in heaps showed the entrance to the horrible tomb prepared for the hapless vestal. The sun was now sinking behind the Pincian hill, but still shot forth its rays above the trees which crowned its summit, and lighted up the dark litter and those who stood around. In the hollow below were the fossors, with the public executioner and his attendants, ready to receive the doomed vestal and to lead her into her tomb. Coecus, who had to perform the part which would have been taken by the Pontifex Maximus—a dignity long held by the emperors, as it was still by Constantino—raised his hands to the skies; but his words, if he uttered any, were not heard. He then gave directions to the bearers to place the litter on the ground, and advanced, in order to lead forth his victim. He started back. Without assistance a figure rose from within, and stepped forth, when, casting off the dark garment which shrouded her, instead of Coelia, the vestal Marcia, in her white robes, with a purple fillet encircling her brow, appeared in all her radiant beauty.

“She whom you cruel men would have destroyed has escaped!” she said. “Me you cannot accuse of the crime with which you falsely charged her. My eyes have been opened; from henceforth no longer will I serve your false goddesses! I declare myself a Christian, and appeal for protection to the emperor. Ah! you dare not stop me,” she added, as Coecus, hoping that what she had said had not been heard by those around, stepped forward to grasp her arm. At the same moment several persons were seen approaching, who were at once perceived to be presbyters and other men of influence in the Christian Church. They were attended by several lictors and other officers of the law.

Coecus drew back as Marcia spoke, but his presence of mind did not desert him.

“I see that there is One who protects the Christians more powerful than the gods of the ancients,” he exclaimed. “We were ignorantly endeavouring to perform what we considered our duty; but it is evident that a miracle—of which I have heard the Christians speak—has been wrought. Brother pontiffs, what say you? For my own part I am inclined to embrace the faith which has become that of the fair and beautiful Marcia.”

“Anything you please,” muttered Gaius in a low voice; “but it seems to me that we have gained but little by this proceeding.”

Coecus, however, was, as has been seen, a man of prompt action. Ordering the fossors to fill in the tomb, he declared that from henceforth no vestal should be buried on that spot. He expressed his belief that he had been greatly deceived by some of the witnesses who had been suborned to swear falsely against the innocent Coelia. He then advanced towards Amulius, and the other presbyters, and expressed his wish to be instructed in their faith. “I will,” he added, “in the meantime retain my position as chief of the pontiffs; but it shall be that we may together design the means of advancing further the Christian religion.”

Whether or not Amulius and the other presbyters trusted to the expressions of Coecus it was difficult to say, but the larger number of persons among the crowd, many of whom were Christians, believed him; while the idolaters, who had been wont to look up to him as the director of their religious mysteries, were unable to comprehend the meaning of the wonderful change which had taken place. That the chief pontiff of Rome, who had clung to her idolatries, and even defied the emperor after he had expressed himself openly in favour of the new faith, should thus suddenly declare his intention of becoming a Christian, seemed to them a thing altogether incomprehensible.

The first rejoiced under the idea that they had gained a great accession to their strength, since the chief of their opponents had thus openly declared himself willing to become one of their number; while to the crowd of heathens it was a matter of indifference, so long as they should receive their accustomed doles of food, and could enjoy the spectacles with which they had so long been indulged.

Chapter Twelve.

Captured.

When Jovinian found himself in the hands of the Roman soldier, he naturally struggled to get free. He was held fast, however, by the man who had seized him.

“Why, by Mars, I believe he must be the youth we were sent to look for with the slave Eros whom we captured yesterday and took back to his master, the pontiff Gaius,” exclaimed the soldier, holding his torch so that the light fell on Jovinian’s countenance.

“Whether or not you speak the truth, I am a Roman citizen, guilty of no crime, with perfect right, prompted by whatever cause, to visit these galleries,” answered Jovinian, feeling that his best course was to put a bold face upon the matter, and not to exhibit any signs of fear.

“You cannot deny that you are the youth we are in search of—the nephew of the pontiff Gaius,” said the soldier. “Although we may have missed the larger game we were sent to hunt down, we have secured you, and shall obtain the reward promised us; so come along.”

“What! and give up the search for the others we expected to capture!” observed another soldier. “The youth was in company with two or more persons. Will you consent to lead us to where your friends are concealed?” he continued, addressing Jovinian; “it will be well for you if you do, for if we take them we will allow you to go free.” So debased was the soldier, that it did not occur to him that he was making a proposal which was sure to be refused, “I know not where those you speak of have gone, nor would I lead you to them if I did,” answered Jovinian. “I insist, however, on being set at liberty. By what authority do you detain me?”

“By that of the grip I have on your arm,” answered the soldier, laughing; “your boldness proves you to be the youth we were sent to look after; so come along, I say, and if you will not show us the way your friends have taken we must try and find it ourselves.”

While the man was speaking some of his companions discovered the gallery along which Jovinian had been endeavouring to make his escape. “This way, this way!” cried several of the soldiers; “they must have gone down here, and we shall soon overtake them.”

The party, dragging Jovinian with them, entered the gallery; but he observed that most of their torches were nearly burnt out, and he knew that if they continued on long they would be left in total darkness. This, however, the soldiers did not appear to have thought of. Jovinian was relieved of all anxiety about his friend Severus and the fossor from finding the soldiers proceeding along the gallery by which he had at first attempted to escape until convinced that it was not the path he ought to have followed. What he had expected soon happened: first one torch went out, then another.

“We must beat a retreat, or we shall be losing our way,” said the man who held him, calling to his comrades. “No time to lose! Quick! quick!—our safest plan is to retreat by the road we entered; let all the torches be put out except one, which will suffice to guide us; these galleries have no end, they say, or may conduct, for what I know, to the infernal regions.”

Even the plan proposed availed the party but little. They had made their way much farther than they supposed along the galleries.

The first torch was quickly burnt out, a second and third were soon after extinguished; and in a short time, before they had got to any great distance from the entrance to the gallery where Jovinian had been captured, the torch alone of the soldier who held him by the arm was left alight.

“Here, Bassus,” said his captor, addressing a comrade, “hold him fast and bring him along. I will go ahead and lead the way, or we shall be left in darkness.”

The speaker hurried forward, and Jovinian felt his arm clasped by his fresh guardian.

Directly afterwards the other man, in his eagerness, stumbled over a block of stone, and dropped his torch into a pool of water, by which it was immediately extinguished. The men groped their way in the direction they had before been going. “On! on!” cried their leader: “we must escape from this as fast as we can.”

Other passages turned off from the gallery they had been following; and, as a natural consequence, some of the men went into one of them, others into a second, and more into a third, and then, suspecting that they were going wrong, they tried to retrace their steps, and in a short time completely lost themselves.

Jovinian and his guard had not gone far when the latter whispered to him, “If you know the road out of this, and wish to make your escape, you are welcome to do so. It is my belief that we shall be all lost in this labyrinth; the further we go the less hope there will be for you. I would not involve you in our destruction. I am a Christian, and would gladly accompany you, but I must not desert my comrades.” As Bassus spoke he released his captive’s arm.

Jovinian was at first inclined to doubt the man, but this last remark convinced him that Bassus was a follower of the Lord.

“If you will accompany me I will try and find the way,” he said; “and would rather have you with me than be alone.”

“No, no; go, and save yourself,” said Bassus. “I am committing a military crime in letting you go; but I feel sure that I shall never be questioned on the subject.”

At length Jovinian, finding that he could not persuade Bassus to accompany him, took his advice. With arms outstretched before him, he hastened along the gallery away from the soldiers. He had carefully noted the distance he had come since leaving the mouth of the passage along which Severus and the fossor, he was now satisfied, had proceeded. He hoped that they would come back and look for him, and if not, that he might be led by Providence to the abode of Gentianus. For some time he could hear the soldiers shouting to each other, but their cries grew fainter and fainter. The entrance to the gallery he was seeking for was on the left side, and then he ought, he supposed, to take the first opening on the right, instead, as he had before done, of going straight forward. On he went, but in the darkness his progress was of necessity very slow; still, as he had the path mapped, as it were, clearly in his mind, he proceeded without hesitation. At last he entered the gallery he was seeking for.

Chapter Thirteen.

The Assassins.

The way before Jovinian was now unknown, and he had to walk with the greatest caution. He might meet with some pit, or hole, or flight of steps, or the gallery might turn off abruptly to the right or left. He had heard that persons had been lost in these galleries, and wandered about for days, unable to find their way out, when they had sunk down from hunger and fatigue, and died. These were, however, heathens who had gone in pursuit of the Christian fugitives. The God of the Christians, he knew, would be watching over him; he, therefore, had no cowardly fears, but went forward in the full confidence that he would be protected.

Even with a torch the undertaking would have been a difficult one. It appeared to him that he had gone on for half an hour or more. Every now and then he shouted out, in the hope that Severus might hear him; but no answer came to his cries, except an occasional echo from the galleries on either hand. He remembered that he and his friends had proceeded a considerable distance before they encountered the soldiers, so that it must of necessity take him a long time to get back. He was surprised that Severus and the fossor had not come to look for him, feeling confident that he was following the gallery they had taken. How much longer he wandered on he could scarcely tell. At times he felt almost inclined to sit down in despair; but then he said to himself, “He who watches over Israel neither slumbers nor sleeps; I will trust to Him,” and with renewed courage he went on. Although he might not discover the abode of Gentianus, or find his way out of the catacomb, he was sure to encounter some of the persons who might come to visit the tombs of the martyrs, or to pray at the graves of their relatives, and they would certainly render him all the assistance in their power.

It also occurred to him that other parties might have been sent in search of Gentianus and Severus, and it would be dangerous to fall into their hands.

He might conceal himself, however, should he discover any suspicious-looking persons approaching. He was too anxious to experience any sensation of hunger; but he at length began to feel very weary. He fancied, indeed, that he must already have been groping his way for several hours. If so, he could hardly have proceeded in a straight line, and might, for aught he could tell, be actually turning back in the direction from which he had come. “Had I myself only to depend on, such might be the case!—but the God of love and mercy will lead me; I will trust Him,” he exclaimed.

Becoming accustomed to the darkness, he found that he could move much faster than at first, and, with his hands stretched out, the instant his fingers came in contact with the rock, he was able easily to avoid it. At length his feet struck against a slab of stone. It was the facing of a tomb, which had never been placed in its intended position. This showed him that he was in a part of the galleries likely to be visited, and reminded him also that he might probably stumble over other similar impediments.

He sat down to rest, at the same time listening for a sound which might assist to guide him, should persons perchance be in any of the neighbouring galleries. He had sat thus for some time, and was on the point of moving onwards, when a faint cry reached his ear; it came from the direction towards which he had been proceeding, he had gone a few paces, when he saw a light streaming along the gallery, on the left. He hurried towards it. As he approached the spot from whence the light shone forth, he observed that it issued from a lantern held by a female, whom he recognised as Rufina. Another female was bending over a person who lay stretched on the ground. The first was Julia, the other Eugenia, whom she appeared to be endeavouring to restore to animation, uttering, at the same time, expressions of grief and endearment. “Oh, mother! mother! speak to me,” she exclaimed. “Revive! the danger is over; we have escaped our pursuers, and are safe here!” So engaged were Julia and Rufina in their efforts to recall Eugenia to consciousness that they had not heard Jovinian approach. Rufina, her ear catching the sound of footsteps, at length perceived him. At first she cast towards him a look of alarm, but discovering who he was, she uttered an exclamation of joy. “Here is Jovinian, dear lady,” she exclaimed; “your husband Severus cannot be far off, and we shall be able to escape from the wretches who were following us.” From what Jovinian heard, he knew that Severus and his guide must still be wandering about the galleries, or else that they had been overtaken by some of the parties sent to capture them. Unwilling, however, to deprive his friends of the hopes Rufina had endeavoured to raise, he did not express his fears; but, kneeling down by the side of Eugenia, he tried to assist Julia and Rufina in restoring her to animation.

“There is a fountain near,” he said; “I heard the sound of the water bubbling forth as I came along: very likely a cup or basin may have been left near it to enable passers-by to drink; let me take the lantern, and I will quickly return.”

“Oh, go! go!” said Julia; “we shall not fear to remain in darkness.”

He was not disappointed in his expectations; a small metal cup was placed in a niche by the side of the rock, out of which the water bubbled forth, making its escape by some hidden course beneath the ground. This showed that the gallery must be frequently visited.

Jovinian hastened back with the cool liquid, with which Julia bathed her mother’s brow and lips, pouring a small quantity down her throat.

Julia thanked him more by her looks than with her lips. “Oh, see! she is reviving now,” she exclaimed.

After a short time Eugenia was able to sit up, and declared herself strong enough to proceed, should it be necessary.

“We are as safe here as in any other part of the gallery,” observed Rufina. “Should any person approach, we can seek for shelter in one of the many passages which turn off close to us.”

Eugenia’s first inquiry was for her husband.

“I trust that he is safe,” answered Jovinian; and he then described how he had been parted from him. His answer appeared rather to increase than to calm Eugenia’s alarm. Jovinian now inquired of Rufina what had caused them to take to flight; for he was unwilling to question either Julia or her mother, who was, indeed, little able to answer him.

“It was I who have been the instrument in God’s hands of warning them of the dangers with which they were threatened, and of assisting them to escape from their heathen enemies,” answered Rufina. “It happened in this wise: Eros had ventured forth, unwisely as it proved, from his hiding-place, when he was captured by some emissaries of your uncle Gaius. We mourned him as lost, feeling sure that his life would be sacrificed to the vengeance of the pontiff. We were not mistaken: he was doomed to be crucified. The night before he was to suffer, when it was believed by his guards that he would never again hold communication with his fellow-creatures, he sat with heavy chains on his legs and arms; they, either supposing him to be asleep, or not caring whether he heard or not, began to talk of various projects on foot; some of those, which only showed in what vile offices they were engaged, were matters of indifference to him. At length, however, they spoke of a design for the destruction of Gentianus and Severus. They hoped to obtain a guide—one well acquainted with the galleries, a recreant to the faith of the Gospel—and by his means they felt sure of accomplishing their object.

“What he heard brought deep grief to the heart of Eros. A slave bound in chains and expecting to die on the morrow, he could render no assistance to the noble patrician who was thus placed in such fearful jeopardy, and about whom I had so often spoken to him.” Rufina then described how the life of Eros had been saved by the vestal Marcia. “As soon as he was at liberty,” she continued, “he hastened to me, and told me what he had heard—I being better able to warn our friends than any one he knew. There was not a moment to be lost, he said, for that very day the assassins would set out on their search. Eros offered to accompany me; but this I declined, and hastened as fast as my feet would convey me to the entrance of the galleries. After much difficulty I found the ladies, Eugenia and Julia, with the patrician Gentianus; I warned them of the approach of the assassins, entreating Gentianus to fly with his daughter and Julia.

“‘I should only impede them,’ he answered. ‘Rufina, I charge you conduct them to a place of safety; I will remain here; I am prepared for whatever Heaven will allow my enemies to do.’

“In vain we pleaded with him. He made his commands imperative on us. ‘Seek for Severus, and warn him,’ he added; ‘his life is of more value than mine; he may still live to preach the Gospel and to exhort sinners to turn to the Saviour.’ Again he charged us to fly, in a way we could not disobey; and Eugenia, who had ever implicitly followed his commands, taking Julia by the hand, accompanied me in the direction I considered the safest.

“Scarcely had we left the gallery when we heard the shouts of the assassins, as, led by their treacherous guide, they burst into the long-concealed chamber. I judged by their voices that they were expressing their disappointment at not discovering Severus. The guide, either knowing his way no farther, or having performed what he had undertaken, must have refused to lead them on, for they did not follow us, as I feared they would have done. I could not leave Eugenia and Julia, or I would have retraced my steps, and endeavoured to ascertain the direction they had taken. Judging by the sounds I heard, I believed that, dreading to remain in the gallery, they had endeavoured to regain the upper world.”

Jovinian trusted that such might be the case; but greatly feared they were more likely to have gone in search of Severus. He offered to try and find his way to the abode of Gentianus, if Rufina could give him sufficient directions. “I have been so many hours moving in the dark that I do not fear to make the attempt,” he said, “and the lamp hanging to the roof, which it is not likely has been extinguished, will guide me when I approach the chamber.”

Eugenia, deeply anxious to know what had occurred to her father, gladly accepted Jovinian’s offer.

“Oh that I might go with, you!” said Julia, taking his hand.

“No,” said Rufina; “it will be far safer for you to go alone.” And she then proceeded to give him such directions as he believed would enable him to direct his course aright.

He set out, counting his steps, that he might not fail to know the distance he had traversed. More than once he stopped, fearing that he had missed his way; but, feeling the importance of his errand, he persevered in his endeavour, and so well did he remember his directions, that he made no mistake. At length he reached the entrance to the gallery which led to the chamber. It had been left open by Rufina, who had been unable to shut it, and at the farther end he saw the faint light of the lamp still burning. He stopped and listened. No sound reached his ear. He feared that the assassins, disappointed at not finding their chief victim, had wreaked their anger on the head of his aged father-in-law. He hurried forward as he approached the chamber, hoping to see Gentianus still seated in his chair; but the chair was empty. In another minute he was kneeling beside the old man, who was stretched his length on the ground. Jovinian at first thought that Gentianus was dead; but as he lifted up the head of his venerable friend, the few faint words uttered by Gentianus showed him that he was still conscious.

“Have they escaped?” he asked; “have my beloved Eugenia and Julia been preserved from the daggers of the assassins? And Severus,—can you give me news of him, my son? or have their cruel weapons struck him down?”

Jovinian replied that he had but just left Eugenia and Julia, and trusted that Severus, being accompanied by the fossor, would have been enabled to conceal himself from the assassins, even should they have gone in pursuit of him. “But can I render you no aid?” he continued; “let me endeavour to staunch the blood which flows from your side.”

“It is too late now,” answered Gentianus; “you must not attempt to move me. I know not how many daggers entered my body, though the hands of those who desired my death failed to strike home. I would forgive them, as I would also the relentless foe by whom they were despatched on their bloody errand. Hasten back, my son, and bring my beloved daughter and child; I would thankfully see them once more ere I die.”

Jovinian rose to obey the commands of Gentianus. As he did so he heard footsteps approaching. Stopping a moment, he recognised Severus and the fossor. “Heaven has sent you assistance!” he said, again kneeling down by the side of his wounded friend. Ere long Severus joined him, and they together endeavoured to ascertain the injuries received by the old man.

“It is useless,” said Gentianus; “you cannot for long prolong my life, and I am willing to depart, and to be with Christ. Go, Jovinian, summon my beloved daughter and her child; I would speak to them again ere my spirit wings its flight to Him who has gone before to prepare a place for me.”

Severus, struck with horror at what he saw, had scarcely spoken, nor had he time to inquire by whom Gentianus had been wounded; but the words he heard assured him that his wife and daughter were still safe.

Jovinian would have gone alone, but the old fossor, who carried a lantern, at a sign from Severus, accompanied him, and he was thus able, much more speedily than otherwise would have been the case, to return to where he had left his female friends.

He endeavoured to prepare Eugenia and Julia for what had occurred, his heart at the same time beating with gratitude to Heaven for enabling them to escape the fearful danger to which they had been exposed. What had caused the assassins to retreat he could not tell; but he dreaded that they might return, and discover Severus. He resolved, therefore, to advise his friend to seek immediately some other place of concealment.

Gentianus was still conscious when they regained the chamber; indeed, he appeared to have somewhat recovered his strength. His daughter and grandchild threw themselves down beside him, and assisted Severus in supporting his head.

“Do not mourn over me, my children,” he said, taking Eugenia’s hand. “The days of my pilgrimage were naturally drawing to a close; God in His mercy has allowed them to be somewhat shortened, and has saved me from witnessing the result of the corruptions and errors which have crept in among our brethren at Rome in consequence of their departure from the clear teaching of the blessed Gospel. They having neglected the light which was in them, it is becoming darkness. I see it but too plainly,—the greed of riches and power possesses the hearts of many of those who should have been the humble overseers of Christ’s flock; and the presbyters and deacons but too willingly support them, for the sake of sharing the wealth they seek to acquire.

“Many rejoice that the emperor supports the Christians, and has bestowed worldly rank and dignity on the overseers and presbyters; but I warn you, my children, that he is a far greater foe to the true Church of Christ than those monarchs who have been deemed its greatest persecutors. Oh, let me charge you, my beloved ones, to cling closely to the simple Gospel! Be living stones of the temple of which Christ is the chief corner-stone! Let not Satan succeed in inducing you, with the offer of wealth, dignity, or honours, to depart from the truth. Endeavour by God’s grace to stem the tide, and never cease to protest against the errors and corruptions which have crept in among those who have a name to live, but are dead. Seek for guidance and direction with prayer and supplication, and, if you find that you cannot succeed, go to some other land, and preach the truth of the Gospel among its heathen inhabitants; ground them soundly in the faith, teaching them that there must be no compromise, that they must turn to the true God, and worship Him in spirit and truth through Christ, abandoning all their idolatrous practices, that they must live as Christians lived in the apostolic days, not looking to emperors, or rulers, or men great in the world’s eye for support, but to Christ the risen One alone.”

“With God’s grace I will follow your counsel,” said Severus, to whom Gentianus had stretched out his hand. Jovinian also took it, and with deep earnestness repeated the same words.

“Now, my children, I feel myself sinking. My beloved Eugenia, I leave you with confidence under the protection of Severus.” Then, taking Julia’s hand, he placed it in that of Jovinian. “May heaven give you life and strength, and may you, together, fight the good fight of faith, and prove a blessing to each other, as God, in His loving-kindness, has ordained that those united with His will shall ever be to one another.”

Jovinian pressed Julia’s hand. “With her, I promise, thankfully and joyfully, to obey your wishes,” he said.

Thus were Jovinian and Julia betrothed.

The old man continued to address those grouped around him, while Rufina and the fossor kept watch at the two entrances to the chamber.

The voice of Gentianus grew fainter and fainter. It ceased at last, and his children knew that his spirit had departed.

Chapter Fourteen.

Departure from Rome.

Although Severus would have gladly remained, and have spread the Gospel among the benighted inhabitants of the capital, he reluctantly determined to follow the counsel of his father-in-law, and the advice now given him by his friends, and to retire to a region on which he had long fixed his thoughts. It was among the western spurs of the Alps, where exists a series of secluded vales inhabited by an industrious and primitive population, and where the great apostle to the Gentiles had, it was said, converted many to the truth. Here, therefore, he would receive a welcome from many brethren in the faith, and be the means of aiding and supporting them, and yet further extending among the surrounding people the blessings of Christianity.

Instead of travelling by land—a long and tedious journey, with many steep and rugged passes to traverse—he determined to embark at Ostia, from whence a pleasant voyage over the waters of the Mediterranean of three or four days, should the wind prove favourable, would enable him to reach the port at which he hoped to disembark.

Jovinian, on hearing his plans, entreated that he might be permitted to accompany him, although Amulius had offered the youth a home, should he have desired to remain in Rome and continue his studies. Severus gladly accepted Jovinian’s offer to bear him company.

“I would not willingly have parted from you, my son,” he said, “although I wished to leave you free to follow the bent of your own inclination. I will also gladly assist you in the studies which you may desire to pursue.”

Jovinian expressed his thanks—his only fear being that his uncle Gaius might attempt to detain him. He was aware that the pontiff, being his nearest relative, had some legal claim over him; and he knew too well also, even had such not been the case, that might often prevailed over right in Rome, as elsewhere. It was therefore settled that he should pass the time before the commencement of the journey with Severus and his family.

During their stay news reached the party in the catacombs of the events which had taken place at Rome: of the pontiffs’ last unsuccessful effort to promote the cause of paganism; of the escape of the vestal Coelia; and of the strange and almost incredible report that Coecus himself had declared his readiness to embrace Christianity.

“Then the pontiff has already commenced his project for destroying the true faith which I heard discussed,” observed Jovinian to Severus.

“Would that we could warn our Christian friends not to trust him! They might influence a few; but I fear that the multitude would rather confide in one who will ever be ready to pander to their tastes than in those who have their true interest at heart,” answered Severus. “We must use every effort, however; and Amulius and other faithful friends will, I trust, not be deceived.”

Then came further news from Byzantium. The emperor, although not baptised, had given undoubted proof of his desire to be considered a Christian. He had held conferences with Christian bishops and presbyters, and had issued decrees bestowing rank and dignity on numerous bishops. It was said that he intended dividing the empire into four ecclesiastical departments, after the model of the several civil divisions. Thus there were to be four prefectures, containing thirteen dioceses, which embraced one hundred and sixteen provinces. Over these ecclesiastical officers were to preside, bearing the titles of patriarchs, metropolitans or archbishops, and simple bishops,—dignified titles hitherto unknown in the Christian Church! One chief object of the emperor in thus bestowing rank and wealth on the Christian ministers was to obtain their assistance in governing the State by means of the religious sentiment or superstition of the people. The Christians had hitherto been the most docile and loyal of his subjects, as their faith inculcated implicit obedience to magistrates and all established authorities. His successors were to find that the semi-paganism which he had established under the name of Christianity had no such effect on the minds of their subjects, and that they were as ready to take up arms and resort to force whenever their passions were aroused as the heathens had been.

These, and other events of a similar character, confirmed Severus in his resolution to quit the country.

At length the day he was free to depart arrived. Amulius had made all the necessary preparation. Three “petorritas”—the ordinary carriages at that time in use—drawn by mules, arrived at a convenient spot near the entrance to the galleries. Two litters also came—their occupants remaining concealed within. Amulius and several friends, who had come to bid Severus and his family farewell, stepped out of the petorritas. Garments and several necessary articles had been purchased by Amulius for the use of the family, and these were already packed in the carriages. The faithful Rufina was to return to her master, but remained to the last with those whom she had so essentially served. Severus led forth his wife, and Jovinian followed with Julia.

They were about to enter one of the carriages, when Amulius remarked, “We have brought two other travellers who are desirous of accompanying you.” Ongoing to the litters he handed out two females habited in the ordinary dress of Roman ladies.

Jovinian at once recognised in one of them, although their heads were veiled, the vestal Marcia. As those around him were all of the faithful, there was no necessity for concealment.

The other lady was introduced by Marcia,—she was Coelia, whose life she had been the means of preserving. Marcia now explained that she and another vestal, who had also become a Christian, and was particularly attached to Coelia, had been placed by Fausta in charge of the prisoner, and that, having taken her place, she had allowed her to escape, aided by Christian friends, who had been watching outside the temple. They were under the guidance of Eros—he having, with the ever-active Rufina, been the means of perfecting the plan for her release. “The unhappy Vestalis Maxima,” she added, “when on her return to the temple she discovered that so many of those under her rule had become Christians that the sacred fire itself had been allowed to go out, and that even Coecus, as she supposed, had deserted the ancient faith, stabbed herself in despair.”

Just as Jovinian was stepping into the petorrita he found his hand grasped. Looking up, he saw Eros.

“I am to accompany you with the other runners on foot,” he said, “and I have a favour to ask: it is that you will entreat Severus to allow me to go with you, for Rome is no place for me, and I will gladly serve him faithfully without wages.”

Jovinian willingly promised to do what Eros desired, feeling sure that the request would not be refused.

The direct road to the port of Rome was about sixteen miles; but as a considerable circuit would have to be made, it would occupy a large portion of the day. The friends, therefore, who had come out of Rome, returned, and the travelling party set out. The first part of the journey was by by-paths, and being somewhat rough, the mules could only proceed at a slow rate. When once the high road was gained they were able to move much faster. It was well paved with slabs skilfully joined, which formed a smooth stony surface, enabling the wheels of the vehicles to run easily along. Here and there villas were seen, the inhabitants of which were still wrapt in slumber.

The travellers—although their equipages were simple—were received with respect at the inns where they stopped to rest their mules or partake of refreshment. They selected those whose hosts were Christians, and who welcomed them as brethren. Ostia was inhabited by a considerable number of Christians, engaged in commercial pursuits, and who had collected there from various parts of the world. The church of Ostia, said to have been formed in the days of the apostle Paul, was presided over by an aged bishop, with several presbyters and deacons. That it was of great antiquity was certain, as the apostle, while remaining at the port, when either embarking or landing on his journeys to and from Rome, would undoubtedly have gained many proselytes to the faith.

Jovinian passed his time happily in company with Julia, to whom he was attached with all the strength of his ardent nature. Notwithstanding his present happiness, he did not feel altogether secure while remaining in the neighbourhood of Rome. His uncle Gaius, who possessed, he believed, a legal claim over him, might discover his retreat, and prevent him from quitting the country. About Eros he had no fear, for having been once set free, the emancipated slave could not again legally be forced back into captivity, Eros himself, however, was not quite so well satisfied about the matter, and had, with the permission of the master of the Dolphin, gone on board, and obtained concealment in the hold. It might have been wise in Jovinian to have followed his example—at all events to have lived on board the vessel until his friends were ready to embark. Instead of that he went everywhere about the town with them, and attended public worship. They were to go on board early in the morning, and to sail as soon as the tide was high enough to enable the Dolphin to cross over the bar. Many of the principal Christians in Ostia accompanied the party down to the place of embarkation, where a boat was waiting to convey them on board the Dolphin, which lay with her sails loose out in the stream.

Severus, with his wife, and Marcia and Coelia, had already taken their seats; and Jovinian, who had walked down by the side of Julia, was on the point of assisting her on board, when he felt his arm seized, and a man in the dress of an emissary of the law exhibited an official document before his eyes. “You are, young sir, still a minor; your uncle Gaius claims you as his ward; resistance is vain, for I can summon those who would compel you to obey,” said the officer.

Julia clung to Jovinian’s other arm. “Oh, come, come!” she whispered: “he cannot detain you, and the boat will in an instant be away from the shore.”

Jovinian felt greatly inclined to follow this hint. As he was strong and active, by a strenuous effort he might shake himself free from the officer’s grasp. It was a great trial to him. Severus, whose attention had been called to what was occurring, stepped forward at once to his assistance; but the officer, fearing that a rescue was intended, summoned his attendants, dragged Jovinian from the strand, and delivered him to them. His numerous Christian friends could not, on principle, resist the law under which the officer professed to be acting.

In vain Julia entreated Jovinian to return to the boat; he was too securely held to make his escape. The mariners were anxious to sail, and not to lose the advantage of the wind and tide.

Severus had but a short time to speak a few words to his young friend. “The law must not be disobeyed,” he said; “but let me urge you to hold fast to the truth; we will pray for you and welcome you joyfully whenever you can quit Rome and join us.”

“I look forward to the day when I shall be free, and able to hasten to wherever you are settled,” answered Jovinian. “Your prayers will support me; I, too, will pray for myself, that I may be kept to the truth.”

The heathen officer could not be induced to allow Jovinian to exchange further farewells with his friends, being still afraid—seeing the number of persons around—that an attempt might be made to rescue his prisoner. They did their utmost to console him, after the boat pushed off; but it was with an aching heart that he saw the sails spread, and the Dolphin gliding out into the blue sea, which shone brightly in the rays of the rising sun, beyond the harbour.

Jovinian, with a heavy heart, walked with the officer to the inn, where the vehicle was waiting which was to convey him back to Rome. The blow he had received was so sudden that he could not for some time recover from it. He had been looking forward to days of happiness in the company of Julia and her parents, when his faith would have been strengthened, and he would have been able to profit by the guidance and instruction of Severus. He was now, once more, he supposed, to be exposed to the importunities of his uncle to turn idolater: and although he trusted that he should not be moved, it would be painful to be continually engaged in controversies with his relative. From the treatment he had before received, he was not much afraid that force would be used; at the same time he could not tell to what devices Gaius might resort to influence him. He fervently prayed that he might have strength to resist them.

On reaching the inn, the officer desired him to enter the petorrita which stood with the horses put to, before the door, and then took a seat by his side. The driver urging on his steeds, the carriage moved forward, the officials in attendance, with their garments girt about them, following rapidly on foot. The road, worn by the heavy waggons passing along it, was in several places full of ruts and holes, over which the vehicle went jolting on, the driver caring very little for the shaking his passengers were receiving. No stoppages were made, as the officer had been directed to return without delay to Rome. At length the Appian way—the high road between the capital and the south—was reached, when the carriage moved on more smoothly. They now passed between numerous sepulchres,—monuments erected on both sides the road, in which the ashes of many generations of the noble dead reposed. Jovinian recognised more than one in which his own heathen ancestors were interred. A feeling of gratitude to heaven rose to his heart at the thought that his own beloved mother had accepted the truth in her early youth, and that he had been born under the full light of the Gospel. Several large buildings were passed—that of the sanctuary of Mars, as it was called, beyond the city, within whose walls criminals flying from justice could obtain safety. The carriage then, passing under one of those vast structures of masonry erected to carry water into the city, entered Rome by the Porta Caperia. The vehicle could now proceed but slowly, as obstacles of all sorts occurred every moment. Sometimes a large waggon conveying building materials stopped the way. The streets were also blocked up by the booths of hucksters, butchers, vintners, pastry-cooks, and vendors of articles of all descriptions. Some of the passengers of the lower orders amused themselves by jeering at the young occupant of the carriage, when they recognised the officer of the law, and suggested that he was probably some Thespio who had been robbing his master, or filching the goods from the stalls. Egyptian jugglers were performing their wonderful tricks, allowing the most venomous snakes to wind themselves round their arms and necks,—the crowd which had collected around them showing no inclination to make way for the carriage. Here also could be seen boys selling sulphur matches, others carrying huge basins of boiled pease, a dish of which they dispensed to the poorest classes for the smallest coin.

As they entered the city Jovinian was much struck by observing masons dismantling two or three of the smaller heathen temples, which had been held in but slight consideration—mules and carts being engaged in carrying off the materials.

In their places new edifices were in course of erection, the beams and stones being wound aloft by cranes fixed on the summit of the portions already erected. It appeared to him that there was much more life and bustle in the city than he had ever before observed; but his silent custodian would afford him no information on the subject. “That is not my business,” he answered, when Jovinian asked a question; “your uncle Gaius will inform you all about the matter, young man.”

Jovinian had expected to drive up to the college of the pontiffs; but before reaching it the carriage turned off to the left, and stopped at a mansion under the Palatine hill. As it drew up before the ostium—the entrance to the house—two slaves came forth, whose countenances Jovinian did not recognise. They seemed, however, to expect him, and the officer, without hesitation, delivered him into their hands, following, as they conducted him through the atrium into an inner court, in a small room at the side of which he saw his uncle reclining. Several books were on the table before him. Gaius rose, and put out his hand to receive his nephew, his countenance exhibiting no sign of anger. The officer, having formally delivered his charge into the hands of Gaius, retired, and the uncle and nephew were left alone.

“And so you would have deserted me, your only relative, and followed the fortunes of strangers?” said Gaius, in a half-pathetic, half-comic tone, but which certainly exhibited not the slightest feeling of resentment.

“I escaped from you, my uncle, because you desired me to embrace a faith I abhor; and although I have now been brought back, I shall be still, I trust, withheld from following your counsels.”

“Ah! that is a matter which troubles me. I am thankful I did not succeed,” exclaimed Gaius, in the same tone as before; “I have seen that the system of idolatry is rotten, since the emperor and other good men have deserted it; and I wish to be instructed in the doctrines of the faith you hold.”

Jovinian was struck, as he well might be, with astonishment at hearing this, although he did not express his feelings. As he gazed steadily at the countenance of Gaius, he thought that he detected a twinkle in his eye which much belied his assertion. “I would thankfully be the means of bringing you to a knowledge of the truth,” he said at length, “but God alone can enlighten your mind.”

“Well, well, all I require you to do is to instruct me in the articles of your belief, and in the forms of your worship, and I may hope in a few weeks to make a very respectable appearance as a Christian; and if you prove an intelligent tutor I will allow you all the liberty you may desire. You can visit our relative, the presbyter Amulius, or any other friend you may desire to see, and report to them the progress I am making.”

“What, my uncle, are you really serious in your wish to become a Christian?” asked Jovinian, who had not forgotten the discussion he had overheard among the pontiffs, although he felt it would not be prudent to let his uncle know that he had been an eavesdropper on the occasion.

“Of course I am,” answered Gaius. “Surely the religion which the emperor adopts must be one we must all desire to follow.”

Jovinian sighed; he knew the truth too well to be deceived by his uncle’s remark, and he felt that, even should Gaius have some faint wish to become a Christian, he was very far as yet from the kingdom of heaven. He resolved, however, to do what he conceived to be his duty, and to instruct Gaius as far as he was able in the principles of Christianity. He judged it wise not to complain of being dragged away from his friends—supposing his uncle had a legal power to act as he had done—and he hoped when his services were no longer required that he should be allowed to rejoin Severus.

Chapter Fifteen.

Jovinian and his Uncle.

Jovinian was treated with much kindness, and allowed all the liberty he desired—being permitted to visit Amulius and the few other friends he possessed. He still had doubts of his uncle’s sincerity. He could not forget the scheme proposed by Coecus; and Gaius might desire to take the step he proposed for the sole object of forwarding it.

Still, the temptations to join the religion professed by the emperor were great. It might pave the way to honour and wealth. Although many doubted that the emperor was really a Christian, the edicts he had issued showed that he was influenced by Christian counsellors. Among them were those for the abolition of the punishment by crucifixion, the encouragement of the emancipation of slaves, the prohibition of gladiatorial games, and the discouragement of infanticide.

Another edict ordered the use of prayers for the army; but that to which perhaps even the idolaters least objected was one for the observance of the Sabbath throughout all the cities and towns in the empire. The Christians, however, were greatly puzzled when they found it designated as “Dies solis,” or Sunday; and it was supposed, not without justice, that the emperor selected that title in consequence of his lingering affection towards the worship of the sun, to which he had, in former times, been addicted. The other days in the week were, to please the idolaters, called after the names of the various gods, and especially dedicated to them. The second day was Luna’s day, sacred to the moon; the next was Mercury’s day; while Jupiter and Venus had also their days; so that the populace were still kept in remembrance of their ancient gods and goddesses, although they were professedly Christians.

Jovinian found it no easy task to instruct his uncle in the truths of Christianity. Gaius readily understood and remembered the facts mentioned in the Bible; but he appeared utterly unable to comprehend their spiritual meaning, although he listened to all his nephew said.

“How is it that I see so many sects and divisions among those who call themselves Christians?” he asked: “bishops, presbyters, and people in one place quarrelling and disputing with those in another. I hear of Athanasius and Miletius, Eusebius, Arius, and numberless other heads of your sects, condemning each other,—the one party refusing to hold communion with the other, while both profess to serve the same Lord, whom you call Christ. Now look at the system of religion which has prevailed undisturbed for centuries in Rome. We have had no quarrels or disputes, and all have submitted implicitly to us, their pontiffs, the directors of their rites and ceremonies. Our men and women have been at liberty to worship the gods and goddesses they have preferred. We have added new demigods as occasion required, nor did we refuse to place the divinities of other nations in the Pantheon, whenever they could prove a good title to the honour. We have raised our emperors after death, however little we may have loved them in their lifetime, to the same advanced rank. I do not say that the religion in which you are attempting to instruct me may not prove in the end the best, especially as it has been adopted by the emperor; but you must acknowledge that the worship of the immortal gods has the advantage of antiquity to recommend it, and that under it Rome became great and powerful, and conquered the world.”

Jovinian was puzzled how to answer some of these objections. He could not deny that disputes raged furiously among the Christian churches, especially in the East, and that many of the bishops seemed more intent on increasing their worldly wealth and dignity than on spreading the Gospel. In regard to the immortal gods, he asked his uncle whether he had ever seriously believed in their existence, or had the slightest authority for supposing that they were other than creatures of the imagination?

“Well, well,—as to that, the people believed in them, and we, the directors of their religious rites, have reaped the benefit of their superstition,” answered Gaius.

“But you must acknowledge,” said Jovinian, “that idolatry has debased the people with its numberless obscene and cruel rites, that the consciences of its votaries have become scathed, and have allowed them to indulge in the grossest crimes without shame or remorse. Now, on the contrary, while we acknowledge that we are vile and sinful beings, utterly unfit to enjoy a pure and holy heaven, yet we know that God has provided a way by which we can be made pure and holy, have our sins put away and forgiven, at the same time that we are bound to strive to imitate our Saviour, and to live pure and holy lives, free from the rebuke of a rude and perverse generation.”

“That may be,” answered Gaius; “but I wish to have the cause of these dissensions of which I hear explained to me, that I may decide whether I shall join Athanasius, Miletius, Arius, or any other party.”

Jovinian hastened to consult Amulius how he should reply to Gaius.

“Remember that the apostles have told us that from the first these dissensions have existed among those calling themselves Christians,” answered the presbyter. “Instead of becoming ‘as little children,’ and submitting themselves to the teaching of the Holy Spirit through God’s written Word, they bring their crude philosophy, their pride of intellect, their passions, their lust of power and wealth, into the creeds they endeavour to form. Most of them, it is true, profess to be guided by the Holy Spirit; but they act like a person who invites a charioteer to drive his horses, and then seizes the reins and turns them in any direction he may please. I have long watched the fearful struggle going on between the Prince of this world, the real supporter of idolatry, and the true faith as it is in Christ; and the signs I have observed too surely warn me that the former will triumph.

“Although the emperor professes to be a Christian, all his acts show that the mists of heathen darkness have not been dispelled from his mind, and that the encouragement he affords nominally to the Christians is fraught with the greatest danger to the true Church of Christ. Here in Rome, especially, I apprehend the worst. As you well know, the Romans are more wedded to idolatry than the inhabitants of any other city in the Empire. They still cling to it, notwithstanding the favour shown by the emperor to the Christian Church.

“The emperor, who is resolved to have uniformity of faith, and to make all his subjects Christians if he can, will not fail to offer such bribes as are not likely to be refused by the heathen leaders. Still, though he may wish to encourage the Christians in Rome, he has no affection for Rome itself, and would gladly forget that such a city exists, for it was here that some of his darkest crimes were committed.

“Here also he was insulted by the idolatrous Romans in a way he can never forget. I was a witness of the scene. Soon after his arrival a magnificent ceremony was held to celebrate the Battle of Regillus, when, as the idolaters believe, the twin gods Castor and Pollux, having fought for Rome, galloped on their fleet steeds to bring the glad tidings to the city. The aim of the idolaters was to surpass all previous anniversaries. The temples were lighted up, and decorated as usual, victims smoked on every altar, and all the members of the equestrian order, numbering five thousand horsemen, clothed in purple, and crowned with olive-leaves, rode in state to the Forum. It was altogether one of the most splendid pageants ever seen at Rome; and it was supposed that Constantino would take part, as previous emperors had done, in the religious rites usual on the occasion. But this he positively refused to do, and it was reported that he openly indulged in his sarcastic humour, by jeering at the sham knights and the empty pomp he beheld while watching the procession in the distance from his palace.

“I can see him now,—his countenance handsome, his figure tall, although somewhat stout and broad-shouldered,—and his whole appearance betokening sturdy health and vigour. His eye had a peculiar brightness, such as few men’s possess, and I especially noted it when it assumed, as it did several times, a glare which could not fail to remind me of that of a lion; while, as he uttered his remarks, he threw back his head, bringing out the full proportions of his thick neck. Rough and unrefined in appearance, his voice was remarkable for its gentleness and softness. In those days he had not assumed, as is now the case, that splendour of costume which he has copied from the princes of the East. He carried simply a spear in his hand, as an insignia of his office, and to show that by the spear he had won and intended to keep his Empire. Since then, I hear that he never goes abroad without a helmet bound round with an oriental diadem studded with jewels, that his robe is a purple silk richly embroidered with pearls and flowers worked in gold, while he wears wigs of false hair of various colours, a short beard ornamenting his chin. On this occasion he appeared simply as a victorious general. His refusal to join in the religious ceremonies usual on the occasion so displeased the turbulent populace that they threatened vengeance of all sorts. Some of the most evil disposed proposed to attack the Christians at whose instigation it was supposed the emperor had acted; others dared even to throw stones at the head of his statue.

“When a courtier rushed in, bringing news of the outrage, he smiled, and passing his hand over his face, observed,—‘Truly it is surprising, but I feel not in the least hurt; nothing do I find amiss in my head, nothing in my face.’ Although he had thus received the news so calmly, it created a disgust in his mind, both against the city and religion of Rome, which he has never overcome; and to this day he speaks of Rome—alas! with too much justice—as an ‘idolatrous and abandoned city.’ In spite of the wealth and influence of our bishop, our numbers, compared to that of the population, have continued to be small; and had it not been for the refuge afforded by the subterranean galleries outside the city, the church in Rome during the days of persecution would have been extinguished.”

Jovinian was allowed to pursue his studies at home under such tutors as Amulius recommended.

Many months thus passed away, faster than he could have supposed possible.

Gaius now treated his nephew with apparently perfect confidence, speaking unreservedly to him on matters of all sorts.

Jovinian thus heard much more of what was going on than he otherwise probably would have done. He found that both Gaius and Coecus—although professedly Christians, as were some of the other pontiffs—visited the college frequently, on which occasions discussions were held with closed doors. So great at length became the confidence which Gaius reposed in his nephew, that he invited him frequently to attend these meetings,—extracting a promise, however, that he would not divulge what he heard. On these occasions the pontiffs discussed the plans that had been proposed for maintaining their rank and position in Rome. Those who professed to have become Christians appeared to be and evidently were, on most friendly terms with the idolaters, all being united by a common interest. Their great object was to maintain their college in its integrity.

“We may thus,” observed Coecus one day, when visiting Gaius, “by keeping up our influence over the mass of the people, secure the election of the candidate of whom we approve to the office of bishop or any other dignities of the Church. We may select some of our own brethren, or any other persons whom we deem suitable.”

The plan was universally approved of. Its fruit was to be observed in after years, when the bishops of Rome found themselves controlled by the college of cardinals, the successors of the pontiffs.

Christianity appeared to be making great progress in Rome. Several new churches and basilicas were in course of erection, and even some of the heathen temples were being converted so as to suit the worship of the Christians.

The idolaters generally, however, objected to allow their temples to be so employed. Jovinian was greatly struck by the appearance of the statues which adorned the new places of worship, and he recognised among them some which had undoubtedly been heathen idols. In several of the churches were statues representing the virgin Mary, which had previously acted the parts of Isis, Juno, Venus, or some other goddess; and he could not help remarking that by far the larger number of worshippers bent before these statues and offered them the same respect which they had been accustomed to pay to the heathen goddesses. Among those who met at the college of pontiffs was a visitor who had come from a college long-established at Mount Carmel, where students in the Babylonian worship were instructed: he was said to be learnt in magical science. He spoke, however, of his admiration of the Christian faith, and came, it appeared, to discuss with Coecus and the other pontiffs the possibility of uniting it to the ancient faith without offending the followers of the latter. The idolaters seemed so completely in favour of this proposal that Coecus expressed his confidence that it would succeed.

Jovinian was sick at heart at all he saw. His uncle Gaius, although he had obtained the rank of a presbyter, was too evidently no nearer the truth than he was before. Idolatry still prevailed in all directions. In few places of Christian worship was the truth faithfully preached. Even Amulius appeared to be going with the stream, or, at all events, to be making but slight efforts to stem it. “I, too, shall be carried away if I remain,” said Jovinian to himself; “it is a sin to expose myself to temptation.”

The bishop, who had long been at the head of the Church, died, and another was elected whose character was but little known, although Jovinian observed that Coecus, Gaius, and other pontiffs were very active in his election. He had not long been seated in the episcopal chair when he, too, died; and soon after news came that the emperor had expired. He had received the rite of baptism on his death-bed; but it was evident that he was not of Christ when it became known that he had expressed his belief that his brothers had poisoned him, and had charged his son, Constantius, to put them and their offspring to death,—a charge too faithfully fulfilled.

He was preparing for an expedition against Persia when sickness overtook him. Feeling that it was mortal, he desired to be baptised—a stop he had hitherto not taken, although he had for years presided at councils and preached to his people, and even been designated as the “Bishop of bishops.” He was received as a catechumen in the church of Heliopolis; he then moved to his palace in the suburbs of Nicomedia, when, calling Eusebius and several other bishops around him, he desired to have the rite administered. Here, having laid aside his purple robes, he was habited in white, and thus, stretched on his death-bed, he received baptism from the hands of Eusebius. One of his last acts was to recall Athanasius, a rival of Eusebius, who had been banished. Thus, with calmness and dignity, he awaited death. His last will he gave into the custody of his chaplain Eustiocius, to be delivered to his eldest son, Constantius, who was now absent; and on the 22nd of May, in the sixty-fourth year of his age, after a reign of thirty years, he expired. His body was conveyed in a coffin of gold to Constantinople, where it lay three months in state, with lights burning around and guards watching. On Eustiocius exhibiting the will to the bishops of Nicomedia, so alarmed were they at the contents that they placed it for security in the hands of the dead man, there to remain until Constantius should appear to receive it. When his eldest son arrived and read the document, he found that the emperor expressed in it his conviction that he had been poisoned by his brothers and their children, and he called—so it was expressed—on Constantius to avenge his death. This fact alone proves, that whatever amount of Christian knowledge the emperor might have possessed, he had not understood its chief principles, at all events. Constantius faithfully fulfilled his father’s dying bequest by the massacre of his uncles and their offspring, amounting to no less than six persons, two alone escaping.

The idolatrous population of Rome, when the tidings reached them, ignoring the fact of his having professed himself a Christian, resolved to regard the deceased emperor as one in the series of Caesars. A picture of his apotheosis was exhibited. Festivals were instituted in his honour. He was enrolled, as had been his predecessors, whatever their character, among the gods of Olympus, and incense was offered before his statues. The true Christians in Rome mourned at what took place, but their influence was weak compared to that of the idolaters, supported as the latter were evidently by many who had professed to embrace the new faith. Jovinian resolved no longer to remain in Rome, but to join, as soon as possible, his friend Severus, who, with his wife and daughter, were anxiously, they wrote word, looking for his arrival. To Jovinian’s surprise, Gaius offered no objection. “Go and dwell with those of like mind with yourself; you are too honest for us Romans, and will never, I see, make a figure either in the Church or State. Men, to succeed here, must regard all creeds alike; supple courtiers, who are hampered by no ideas of honour or integrity, but know the importance of filling their coffers while the sun shines. You, Jovinian, will die a poor and unknown man if you remain in Rome, whereas in some country district, should you enter the Church, you may rise to the dignity of a presbyter,”—and Gaius laughed ironically. “Farewell, my nephew; we have disputed occasionally, but remembering that you are the only child of my poor sister Livia, I have always had the truest regard for you.”

Jovinian, feeling that it was his duty, was about once more to place the simple truths of the Gospel before his uncle, and to entreat him to accept them.

“Cease, cease! my good nephew,” exclaimed Gaius. “I settled that matter in my own mind long ago, when I resolved on the course I am taking. I intend to enjoy the good things of this life while I can obtain them, and leave the affairs of the future to take care of themselves.”

Farewell visits were paid to Amulius and others, who sent brotherly greetings to Severus; and Jovinian, bidding adieu, as he thought it probable, for ever to Rome, set out on his journey northward.

Chapter Sixteen.

The Journey—The First Introduction of Monasteries into Italy.

Jovinian had settled to proceed by land instead of going by sea to Genoa, as Severus had done. Amulius and several other persons in Rome wished to make him the bearer of letters to various Christian friends residing in different parts on the northern road. As no public means of conveyance existed in those days, it was customary to send epistles either by the hand of special messengers or by those travellers proceeding in the desired direction. Jovinian would thus enjoy the benefits of finding a house to rest at, and a kind greeting at many of his stages. At some places he would, however, have to stop at a roadside inn, or at the hut of a peasant. His attendant, Largus, rode alongside him, leading a mule which carried their baggage, among which were books for his own use and others to be presented to Severus.

Neither Jovinian nor Largus carried arms. Any attempt to defend themselves against robbers would be useless, for should such make an attack on them, they would do so in overwhelming numbers; while bears and wolves were not likely to be met with in the regions through which they were to pass.

The road for the first part of the way was tolerably level, so that good progress was made. Etruria, with its ancient temples and shrines of the gods, to the worship of whom the people still tenaciously clung, was traversed. Then, after crossing the Amis—near the town of Pise, where a day was spent with Christian friends—a more mountainous region was entered near Luca. Now the road led along the sides of the lofty Apennines, towards Liguria. Jovinian had relieved his mind by delivering most of his letters, and as from a height he had ascended he beheld the Cottian Alps, their lofty peaks capped with snow, he anticipated a happy termination to his journey. But he had still many rugged mountain passes to traverse. The day was drawing to a close, and neither he nor Largus were certain where they would find shelter for the night. Rugged and precipitous rocks rose up on the right hand, while on the left yawned deep chasms, unfathomable to the eye. The stones, as they slipped beneath the horses’ feet, went bounding down until the sound died away in the depths below. To proceed faster than they were going was impossible without the risk of falling over the precipices, but the path was descending; and at last a gorge was reached, the sides so lofty that it appeared as if the sun could never penetrate to the bottom.

“Surely no human beings can fix their habitations in such a spot as this, and we shall have to pass the night under the blue vault of heaven,” observed Jovinian.

“We must push on, and find our way out of it before darkness sets in,” answered Largus.

Just as he spoke some figures were seen descending from the heights above, leaping from rock to rock. They made their way towards the travellers.

“Who can they be?” asked Jovinian.

“I do not like their looks; if they are honest I shall be very much surprised,” said Largus.

The two travellers did not attempt to alter their pace, seeing that they could not escape by flight. No shafts were aimed at them, and in a short time they found themselves surrounded by a party of armed men, with unkempt hair, long beards, and soil-stained garments, which showed the wild life they were accustomed to lead.

“Who are you, and where are you going?” asked the leader of the robbers—for such it was very evident they were. He drew a dagger as he spoke, and held it ready to strike Jovinian.

“We are simple travellers, carrying but few articles which you would deem of value—our necessary garments and some books,” answered Jovinian.

“And what about your money?” asked the robber, laughing; “that is of more consequence to us than the articles you mention; however, we will not stop here. You must spend a night with us. You cannot reach any human abode before dark, and we will take the opportunity of looking into these matters.”

Jovinian and Largus could only comply, and, attended by the robbers, they proceeded in the direction in which they were before going. They were soon out of the gorge, and entered a region even more wild and barren than the one they had left.

Black rocks lay scattered about, amid which a rapid stream hissed and roared along through a narrow bed. Further off, on the other side of a broad valley, rose precipitous cliffs, rent by the convulsions of Nature, which had formed dark gorges between them. In some places the mouths of gloomy caverns could be distinguished in the sides of the cliffs—fit abodes for wild beasts, or lawless men such as those into whose power the travellers had fallen. Towards one of these caves the robbers were conducting their captives, when suddenly from behind a rock a person started forth, whom Jovinian, from his strange appearance, took to be a madman or some being possessed of an evil spirit, driven from the haunts of men. If is dress, of coarse texture, stained with dirt, hung in rags and tatters about him, exposing a hair garment, worn next his skin. His person was emaciated in the extreme, his hair cut close, his head and neck sprinkled with ashes. He waved about him a staff, which he carried in his hand.

“What are ye about, ye men of violence?” he exclaimed, pointing his staff at the robbers. “Begone! fly! or be prepared for the vengeance of one who knows how to protect the innocent!”

The robbers drew back, trembling with fear; and as the recluse—for such he was—continued waving his staff, they took fairly to flight, and left Jovinian and Largus to pursue their way with their mules and baggage.

Jovinian, as he now observed the strange being to whom he was so much indebted, was reminded of those heathen eremites of whom he had read as long existing in the far East, who, by self-imposed tortures, abstinence from the society of their kind, and long prayers, hoped to merit a blissful immortality among the shadows of the blessed. Wishing to thank the recluse for the services just rendered, he rode towards him.

“You are, I judge by your appearance and bearing, Christians, and as such are welcome to rest during the coming night in my abode, for you can reach no other shelter before nightfall,” said the recluse, without listening to Jovinian’s thanks. “Or, should you be moved by the holy life led by me and my companions, you shall be at liberty to take up your residence with us.”

Jovinian thought it wise to make no reply to the last part of his invitation, but gladly accepted the shelter offered him.

“Follow me, then,” said the recluse; and, making use of his staff to support his steps, he strode on over the rough ground before the travellers towards one of the gorges which opened out at some distance before them, mounting the steep sides of the hill at a pace with which the horses could hardly keep up. He stopped before a wooden porch built of logs, at the entrance of a cavern.

“Your steeds will find grass at the bottom of the gorge, and water at a rill which trickles out of the mountain-side; here no one will molest them—even those bold outlaws dare not approach my abode,” said the recluse, as he signed to Jovinian and Largus to dismount. Fortunately the travellers had brought provisions, or they would have fared but ill on the lentils and water which constituted the food of the recluse. Bringing water from a neighbouring rill in a large bowl, their host insisted on washing the travellers’ feet—although not until they saw it would cause offence longer to refuse did they permit him to perform this act of humiliation.

As the shades of evening drew on, a voice was suddenly heard chanting a hymn from the opposite side of the gulf. It was echoed by another further up, until nearly a dozen voices had joined in the solemn strains.

“They are my brethren who have come here to dwell, and devote themselves to calm contemplation, fasting, prayers, and penance,” said the recluse. “You shall be made known to them to-morrow, and hear the words of heavenly wisdom taught from their lips.”

Jovinian and Largus made their beds by the aid of their saddles and horse-cloths in the outer porch, and were glad that they were not invited to enter the interior of the cavern. It appeared dirty in the extreme.

Mephitic odours pervaded the air. At the further end was a rough cross formed of wood, in front of which two palms were burning. They saw their host prostrate himself before it, and lie at full length with his arms stretched out for a long period; but he did not invite them to join in his devotions. He then rose and closed the intermediate door, so as to shut himself out from their view. Occasionally, during the night, they heard the sound of a lash, while groans and cries issued from the cell. Suddenly, as they were just dropping off to sleep, they were aroused by a voice from within: “Begone, Mercury—I know thee well, and thy ever-changing form; licentious messenger of uncleanness, thou canst not deceive me; and thou, mighty Jove, ended is thy reign, thy thunderbolts fall harmlessly, thy lightnings cannot strike me.” Thus, one after the other, the heathen gods were addressed as if they were present endeavouring to win back the anchorite to their worship.

At daybreak next morning their host roused up his guests, and invited them to join him in prayer. So extravagant were the expressions he uttered that Jovinian could with difficulty retain a due composure.

While they were breaking their fast, the recluse, who refused to eat, recounted to them numbers of miracles which he affirmed that he had performed, but which Jovinian was convinced—were he not purposely imposing upon them—were the hallucinations of a disordered brain. Jovinian could not fail to observe in his unhappy host a vain-glorious exaltation of self, and a spirit of pride combined with a false humility, which the system of asceticism was so calculated to foster. He saw, too, that this vain attempt to merit the favour of God arose from utter ignorance of God’s loving and merciful character, that it set at nought Christ’s finished work—His blood which cleanseth from all sin,—and was directly opposed to all the teaching of the Gospel.

His host afterwards entreated Jovinian to remain a few days, that he might learn more of the mode of life; and practices of himself and his associates.

“Before I can join you I must consult the holy volume which is my rule of faith, and ascertain whether your practices are in accordance with its precepts,” answered Jovinian. “I have not so learnt Christ, and I cannot believe that He who spent His ministry on earth in going about doing good among human beings would have His followers spend their lives where they can be of no use to any one.”

The pale brow of the anchorite flushed as he heard the young man speak. “Come, you may think better of my proposal; but I will now take you to visit my associates.”

The tour which Jovinian made among the other huts rather strengthened than altered his first impression. The inmates, he observed, were profoundly ignorant of Christian truth; a self-righteous ignoring of the righteousness of Christ prevailed universally among them. Some had probably been mad when they resorted to their present mode of life, and others had produced madness by their self-inflicted tortures or abstinence from proper nourishment. When he spoke to them he found that they were far from living in brotherly love: jealousy and ill-will prevailed, while several, asserting their superior sanctity, accused the others of being guilty of all sorts of horrible crimes.

Such was the commencement in Italy of the anchorite or monkish system, which had long existed in the East, and which soon spread over the western part of Christendom.

Jovinian returned to the hut; and, desiring Largus to saddle the horses without delay, bade farewell to their host.

“You will come back and join us?” said the anchorite, not at all aware of the impression made on Jovinian’s mind.

“Not until I find that the system you are pursuing is according to God’s way, and that I can thereby promote His honour and glory,” was the answer.

“Alas, alas!” exclaimed the anchorite, as Jovinian and his attendant rode off; “you will never gain heaven if you thus refuse our way of seeking it.”

Jovinian made no reply; arguments were useless with one who appeared little better than a madman.

Chapter Seventeen.

The Meeting.

As Jovinian and his attendant proceeded over the rugged paths, they naturally looked out somewhat anxiously to reaching their journey’s end in safety.

For several days they were compelled to put up at the huts of the mountaineers, and twice to seek shelter in caverns which it was evident had been used by other wayfarers. They were now travelling over some of the Cottian Alps. Here the mountains, broken by precipices, amid which they had to wind their way, rose on every side—the rocky bulwarks of those secluded valleys towards which they were directing their course. Here crag rose above crag, enormous masses of rock extending into the glens beneath—abysses of a depth which the eye could not penetrate. Innumerable springs of water gushed forth from the rocks, some uniting and forming torrents, which dashed foaming downwards into the hollows below. At length, surmounting a lofty ridge, they looked down upon a valley which presented scenery of the most beautiful description. So completely encircled was it by a rocky chain of mountains, that it appeared as if no rough winds could ever disturb its tranquillity. Sparkling fountains, issuing from the sides of the hills, made their way towards a bright stream which flowed at the bottom of the valley, irrigating the land in its course. The declivities were clothed with trees of every description, among which were numbers bearing fruit—the mulberry, the chestnut, the cherry, the walnut, and others. Cottages could be seen scattered about in every direction, showing that this favoured spot was thickly inhabited.

Here and there were dwellings of greater pretensions, which peeped forth from amid the groves. One edifice specially struck Jovinian: it had the form of a basilica such as those lately erected in Rome, and he had no doubt that it was used for Christian worship. No heathen temples were anywhere seen, although here and there a mass of ruins might have marked the spot where the shrine of an idol had stood. Jovinian’s heart beat more joyously than it had done for a long time. One of those residences, he was certain, must be the abode of Severus. Many months had passed since he last had heard from him, and a still longer period since he had been able to despatch a letter to his friend. Jovinian, therefore, was not expected; but his arrival would, he hoped, cause pleasure as well as surprise. The travellers, therefore, did not spend many moments in contemplating the enchanting scenery spread out before them, but, urging on their steeds, descended by a narrow pathway, leading from the heights they had gained through a deep gorge, which had to be passed before the valley could be entered. From the first peasant they met they inquired the way to the house of Severus.

“It is hard by the basilica which he has had erected for us,” was the answer; “and if Christians, as I know you to be, you will be welcomed as brethren, for so every one is received who comes in that character to his door.”

Already the shadows of the mountains were extending over the valley. They drew near a villa of elegant form, although not of costly materials; and Jovinian observed Severus walking to and fro on the terrace before the entrance. Throwing himself from his horse, Jovinian advanced towards his friend, who immediately recognised him, although he had grown into manhood since their separation.

Hurrying forward, Severus embraced him warmly. “We did not doubt your faithfulness, but we feared some accident had happened to you, since no letter has reached us for a year or more,” said Severus. “You will rejoice the hearts of my wife and child, who have been most anxious about you.”

Jovinian was soon in the presence of Eugenia and Julia—the latter blushing as she received his affectionate greeting.

“I have never had cause to regret coming here instead of remaining at Rome,” said Severus. “Although I hold that we are bound to bravely fight the good fight of faith against the world, the flesh, and the devil—being in the world, yet not of it—I should have proved of far less benefit to my fellow-creatures in Rome than, by God’s grace, I have been able to be here by faithfully preaching the pure Gospel, instructing the children, and advancing at the same time the temporal interests of the community. I have not confined myself to this valley alone, but have visited many others surrounding it. It is with gratitude to our Heavenly Father I am able to say that not a heathen temple remains within them, and that the people have mostly, if not altogether, abandoned all their idolatrous practices and superstitions; but still there is much work to be done, as there ever will be while the prince of this world has power over the children of men; and to that work, I trust, my beloved son, you will, from henceforth, devote yourself.” Such was Jovinian’s earnest desire.

It was with no small pleasure that he again met Eros, who greeted him with warm affection. The once ignorant slave had become the trusted overseer of Severus’ property, and at the same time an active promoter of the truth. There were two other persons of whom Jovinian wished to hear—Marcia and Coelia.

“They are both happily married, and are mothers. Marcia resides at the further end of this valley, and Coelia in the one beyond, where their husbands, greatly aided by them, minister to the spiritual wants of their neighbours,” was the answer.

Jovinian, who visited them, could scarcely recognise in the cheerful smiling matrons the once unhappy vestals.

Before long Jovinian became the husband of Julia; and he found in her an active helpmate in all his efforts for the good of the people among whom they had cast their lot.

Chapter Eighteen.

Jovinian revisits his Native City.

Years passed by; Jovinian became a deacon and presbyter of the Church of the valleys, and, in conjunction with other faithful men, was the means of extending the blessings of the Gospel among the inhabitants of even the most remote districts. No sound of the tumults which agitated the larger portion of the western empire penetrated to these remote valleys. The news which came from Rome was unsatisfactory. Revolts and cruel warfare had occurred in various directions. Magnentius had assumed the imperial purple. The tide of war had extended westward, in the very neighbourhood of the valleys of the Cottian Alps. A battle had been fought, when, the usurper being defeated, Constantius became sole master of the Roman empire. In the council held at Milan he obtained the banishment of Athanasius of Alexandria, a bishop highly respected for his orthodoxy; and Arianism was once more in the ascendency. Christianity, by the accounts received, appeared to be spreading at Rome, but so corrupted by idolatry that in many respects it could scarcely be distinguished from the old faith. At length Julian became master of the Roman empire, and, for a short time, the heathen system was declared to be the religion of the state.

Many at Rome, and elsewhere, who had been supposed Christians, now openly resumed their idolatrous practices, proving the real character of their faith.

By the death of Julian—who was shortly after succeeded by Valentinian—Christianity once more obtained the support of a sovereign.

For many years Jovinian and Julia enjoyed uninterrupted happiness, and were blessed with a numerous family.

At length Severus and Eugenia, both advanced in years, were taken from them, their places being well filled by their daughter and her husband. Although contented with his lot, and knowing that he was of use in the position he filled, Jovinian had for long desired to re-visit Rome, and ascertain for himself the state of affairs in regard to the Church in that city. He hoped that he should find some faithful men with whom he could hold brotherly intercourse, and that he might return to the home of his adoption with fresh strength and knowledge. He had now a son who would be able to perform the duties he had taken upon himself; and Julia so ably ruled his household that he could leave his home for a period without detriment. Although she naturally felt some anxiety at the thoughts of his performing so long a journey, she did not attempt to alter his resolution, believing that he would thereby benefit those he was about to visit, and gain for himself spiritual strength.

Instead of travelling by land—the fatigues of which he was less able to endure than he had been on his former journey northward—he decided on proceeding to the nearest port at which he could embark. Even then he had many fatigues to endure, a mountainous region to traverse, and torrents to pass over. Under the providence of God, however, the port was reached in safety. He found a vessel on the point of sailing for Ostia, and, after a rapid passage, he landed at that town.

He had reason to mourn the changes he everywhere witnessed. The former bishop had long been dead, and his successor seemed bent on gaining proselytes by every possible means.

There were several new Christian churches; but as Jovinian entered them he saw people prostrating themselves before figures closely resembling the heathen gods. A few persons seemed somewhat dissatisfied with the state of things; but in the whole place he found nobody to whom he could speak openly as to a brother.

His stay, therefore, was short; and engaging a vehicle, he hastened on to Rome, by the same road he had taken when compelled to return by his uncle Gaius. On approaching the sanctuary of Mars, the driver, who professed to be a Christian, informed him that it had been taken possession of by a body of holy recluses. On getting near the gate, a man was seen rushing with frantic speed, a sword dripping gore in his hand, as if he were flying from the avengers of blood. As the murderer neared the gate, it was thrown open; and springing in, he was received by several men in long coarse garments, and at once the door was closed. When the officers of the law arrived, they were refused admission. “We claim the ancient privileges of the place,” cried the monks. The officers, not venturing to dispute the point, returned to the city.

“What will the recluses do with the murderer?” asked Jovinian of the driver.

“He will become one of them,” was the answer. “Several of their number have been guilty of like crimes, and have thus escaped from justice!”

From what Jovinian had witnessed at Ostia, he was somewhat prepared for the scene which Rome presented as he drove through the streets. Christian basilicas—some of considerable magnificence—rose in every direction; but a large number of heathen temples remained, a few only having been pulled down to afford sites or materials for the before-mentioned edifices. Many temples were, however, closed, while others had been slightly altered to fit them for the Christian worship. At the corners of the streets were shrines, as in days of yore. They one and all contained female statues, which the driver told Jovinian were those of the mother of God. In the arms of several of the statues was an infant, who, his loquacious guide informed him, was “Jesus,” her son. Jovinian recognised the figures as those of the Babylonian Astarte and her son Horos: she, under the name of Isis, had long been worshipped in Rome.

Amulius had gone to be with the Lord whom he served on earth; but he had left a son, Prudentius, who had inherited his property, and had invited Jovinian to take up his abode with him should he ever visit Rome.

Prudentius—who had been a mere boy when he had last seen Jovinian—remembered him with affection, and warmly greeted him on his arrival. He had a numerous family, whom he had brought up in the simple faith of the Gospel; but he expressed his anxiety lest they should be led away by the corruptions which everywhere prevailed.

“By my father’s wish I refrained from entering the ministry, and have practised the law instead,” observed Prudentius. “It was his opinion that I should thus be far more free to advocate the truth,—for, had I become a deacon or presbyter, I should have been under the orders of superiors who were too likely to support the errors long creeping in among us.”

“I had heard that the inhabitants of Rome had become almost universally Christians,” said Jovinian.

“Alas, alas! they are so only nominally,” answered his friend. “Paganism in a modified form prevails as of yore. The more abominable rites, it is true, have been suppressed; but although the people have been taught no longer to trust in the heathen gods, they have retained their superstitions and the larger portion of their former customs. The aim of the bishops and other leaders in the Church has been to amalgamate the two systems, so as to induce the pagans to more readily afford them their support.

“Recently multitudes have been added to the Church; but, as you will have an opportunity of judging, the number of faithful men among us is few indeed. Our present bishop is, it is said, very ill; and, should he die, we have reason to fear no improvement will take place under his successor.

“The Arians are still numerous at Rome, and will make an effort to have a bishop of their own profession elected. Damasus, a presbyter, who has lately appeared among us, is said to have been educated among the recluses of Mount Carmel, in the East,—a college which I have ample reason to believe supports the Babylonian worship so prevalent in all parts. He has been received here by a powerful party, of whom I have ever had the greatest mistrust, as I have observed that they are among the chief promoters of the worship of the Virgin Mary, which is so rapidly gaining ground in the city. These men belong to what is known as the ‘Holy College,’ and are the successors of the heathen pontiffs, by whom, after the latter had become Christians, they were successively elected. They exercise almost as much influence among the Christian population as their predecessors did among the heathen.”

Jovinian recollected the plans he had heard discussed by Coecus, and saw too clearly how successfully they had been carried out.

On inquiring of his friend for information about the last days of his uncle, who had long been dead, Prudentius replied, “Yes: hearing he was ill, my father, being a relative, went to visit him, and afford him the last consolation of religion; but Gaius made no sign, and, turning his face to the wall, so died.”

“The pontiff Coecus: what ending did he make?” asked Jovinian.

“He lived to a great age, and, when Julian attempted to overthrow the Christian Church, he openly advocated the restoration of the heathen temples; but, finding that his plans were unsuccessful, he took poison and so died, and went to his place,” answered Prudentius.

“But the harm he has done lived after him,” observed Jovinian; and he then recounted to his friend the knowledge he had gained of the plans of the pontiffs for the destruction of religion.

Many days passed by; and the more Jovinian saw of the state of things in Rome, the more convinced he was that those plans had been fearfully successful.

The Bishop, Liberius, was declining rapidly, and great excitement prevailed among those who would take part in the election of his successor. A fresh candidate had appeared, in the person of Ursinus—a man of considerable influence in Rome, who had lately become a deacon, but who was in no way distinguished for his Christian virtues.

Jovinian and Prudentius had together been visiting some of the churches, and were returning with heavy hearts at what they saw, when they met Juventius, the city prefect.

“The Bishop Liberius can live but a few hours longer,” observed the prefect. “I feel greatly anxious as to what may happen. Armed men are collecting from all quarters, and repairing, some to the residence of Damasus and others to that of Ursinus; and I much fear that the rival factions will resort to force instead of waiting the result of a legal election.”

“Can these men believe themselves to be ministers of our holy Religion, followers of Him who exhorted His disciples to love one another, to refrain from violence, and do all the good they can to their fellow-creatures?” exclaimed Prudentius. “Alas, alas! how do they differ from those who in the early ages gained the love and respect even of the heathen!”

As they were speaking, a man rushed past them, crying as he ran, “The bishop is dead! the bishop is dead!”

“Then I must summon my guards to preserve order,” observed Juventius, hurrying off.

“Can the prefect possibly fear that those who are desirous of becoming the leaders of Christ’s flock should resort to force of arms?” exclaimed Jovinian.

“He has observed what has been taking place in the city for some days past, since the illness of Liberius became known, and he considers the temporal value of the post the candidates are seeking,” answered Prudentius. “If we wish to avoid the risk of getting entangled among the mob, it would be wise to return home.”

The two friends were at this time at a considerable distance from the house of Prudentius. They accordingly bent their steps as he advised. They were approaching the Basilica Sicininus, when they saw advancing towards it a large body of armed men, headed by a person whom Prudentius recognised as Ursinus, one of the candidates for the vacant bishopric. This basilica being the principal church, it was considered that the party which held it would have the best chance of success. Another band directly afterwards came rushing along from an opposite direction, evidently with the intention of endeavouring to intercept the first.

The two friends, with the greatest difficulty, avoided being carried on with the tumultuous throng by stepping into a deep archway which happily presented itself. They observed, however, that the first party gained the threshold of the entrance to the church, and with loud shouts and shrieks took possession. The second band attempting to force a way in, being less numerous, was driven off, leaving several dead on the ground, while others were bleeding from severe wounds.

As they retreated they uttered cries of vengeance, threatening ere long to return and drive out the occupants of the sacred edifice.

Jovinian and Prudentius now again attempted to make their way homeward; but they were once more stopped by having to avoid a band led by Ursinus, who issued out of the church, leaving a strong garrison within it. Before long they met another party of the supporters of Damasus, whom, however, they put to flight. Now reaching the abodes of some of their opponents, they broke into the houses, which, having thrown out the furniture, they set on fire.

This example was quickly imitated by others of the opposite party. The friends had not gone far when they caught sight of Damasus himself, at the head of a larger band than had yet appeared, supported by several presbyters, deacons, and other officials, while among them appeared a party of men wearing cowls and coarse garments, who were evidently monks invited by Damasus to assist him. Whether ecclesiastics or not, the whole multitude carried arms, spears, swords, or daggers. They were encountered by a band of the hitherto victorious followers of Ursinus. A fierce fight took place under the walls of the burning houses; neither party would give way, and many had fallen, when Juventius, the city prefect, appeared with his guards. In vain he shouted and ordered the combatants to desist; no one listened to him, until, rushing forward, he endeavoured to separate them.

Indignant at his interference, the leaders turned their rage towards him, and, attacked by both parties, he was compelled to retreat. A part of the maddened mob pursued him, shouting out that as he was a civil officer he had no business to interfere in the affairs of the Church. Finding not only that all his efforts to restore order were futile, but that the rioters were sufficiently strong to overpower him, he, together with his guards, escaped for safety into the suburbs.

The wildest disorder and confusion prevailed throughout the streets of Rome during that night.

Not without great risk to themselves had Jovinian and Prudentius been able to reach home.

From the roof to which they mounted they could see fires blazing in all directions, while the shrieks and cries of the enraged factions rose up from the streets—some near, and others in the far distance.

Whenever the followers of Ursinus met those of Damasus, they attacked each other with the greatest fury.

During the whole night the tumult raged. In the morning bodies of dead men were seen scattered about in all directions. Ursinus still held the basilica, which his followers began to fortify. The party of Damasus resolved to dislodge them. For this purpose he and his supporters were employed the whole day in gathering together all they could induce to join them. Heathens, provided they came armed, were as welcome as others. The prospect of sacking the houses of the other party afforded them sufficient temptations. Once more did the prefect attempt to restore order; but barely escaped with his life. The voting for the two rival candidates for the bishopric had been going on,—first one party, then the other, being at the head of the poll. The rage of the rival factions increased when either appeared to be successful or were losing ground. The tumult raged with even greater violence than on the previous night. Now Damasus, at the head of an organised band, advanced through the streets towards the basilica. Ursinus himself, with a less numerous party, in vain attempted to reach it, in order to support its garrison. The doors were burst open, and the forces of Damasus rushed in. A fearful combat took place. The edifice in which prayers and hymns of praise were wont to ascend resounded with the frantic shouts of the combatants, with the shrieks of the wounded and the groans of the dying. For hours the fight continued to rage. Now the assailants gained an entrance; now they were again driven out by the desperate efforts of the besieged, who believed that a general massacre would take place should they once be overcome.

At length so many of their number had fallen, that, bursting through the door opposite to that at which the chief attack was going on, they made their escape, pursued by their enemies. The party of Damasus, flushed with victory, drove back the followers of Ursinus wherever they were met; and he himself, believing that his cause was lost, retreated with a few of his ecclesiastical supporters from the city.

When morning broke he was nowhere to be found. His few followers wisely retired to their homes; and the prefect, returning, was at length able to restore order.

Fearful were the scenes which Rome presented, as Jovinian and Prudentius once more ventured forth. Smoking ruins in all directions; corpses scattered in every street; some, where the combat had been fiercest, lay in heaps, many blackened and charred by the burning houses near which they had fallen. Fighting had taken place in several other churches besides the Basilica of Sicininus, and blood stained their pavements; the bodies of many of the dead still lay where they had fallen. Prudentius proposed going on to the Basilica of Sicininus, where the fiercest struggle had taken place. On entering the church they started back with horror. Before them lay, with distorted countenances and in attitudes showing the ferocity with which they had fought, scattered throughout every part of the building, the corpses of the slain. They were chiefly those of the defeated party, although several of their opponents had of course fallen. On counting them, they were found to number one hundred and thirty-seven. The prefect had issued orders for the interment of the dead. It had been a question whether they should receive Christian burial, or be deposited together in one of the catacombs outside the walls. But Damasus insisted that the followers of Ursinus only should be thus buried,—“he having arranged,” he said, “a fitting funeral for those who had fallen as martyrs for the truth.”

Prudentius, when he met the prefect, inquired whether he intended to bring Damasus and his followers to account for the tumult.

“It is more than I dare do!” he answered. “Were I to make the attempt, it would probably cause another outbreak, with equally disastrous results. Supported by the emperor, your Christian bishop has more power than I have, and I must allow him full licence to promote, as he thinks best, what he calls the interests of religion. I leave you to judge, however, whether the late events are calculated to recommend it to the minds of the heathen. The Romans may yet rue the day they consented to be ruled by their bishops.”

Damasus was declared duly elected, by the presbyters and deacons, and the Christian population of Rome.

The following day he paraded through the streets in a handsome chariot, attended by a numerous body-guard richly clothed. In his hand he carried the Lituus,—the long used insignia of the augurs, since known as the bishop’s crozier,—proving that he considered himself to be their lineal successor.

Having taken up his residence in the palace of the Lateran, he gave a magnificent banquet to his chief supporters, which was said to surpass in sumptuousness those, not only of the more wealthy citizens, but of the emperor himself. He had become possessed of the wealth left by his predecessor, and had reason to be sure that more would, ere long, flow into his coffers from the piety of the matrons of Rome. In this he was not mistaken; eternal happiness being freely promised to all who would thus enrich the Church. Many pious people also devoted their wealth to the building of basilicas, to which they claimed the right of appointing the ministers, following the example of those who had erected heathen temples, of selecting the priests to attend them.

Every day Jovinian remained at Rome brought more sorrow to his heart.

There were still many heathen temples; and from the Altar of Victory—which had been restored by Julian—the smoke of sacrifices ascended. In many of the basilicas statues which he recognised as those of Isis, or some other heathen goddess, now generally clothed in rich garments, held most prominent places. Numerous other clothed statues were placed in niches with lamps burning before them. Jovinian had no difficulty in distinguishing those which had before represented the heathen gods and goddesses from the figures of the apostles and martyrs, also carved in wood or stone—the latter exhibiting a melancholy proof of the decadence of art in the capital. Everywhere, indeed, he found that the plan of Coecus had been successful. The worship of the Babylonian goddess, under her new name, prevailed throughout the city. Although Christianity had not been crushed, it had been fearfully corrupted; in reality, idolatry had won the victory in the battle which it had long been waging with the Christian faith; no longer in Rome was the simple Gospel preached. Flowery discourses, at which the people signified their approval by loud applause, were delivered from the pulpits. The Christian ministers now appeared in the same rich garments which had been worn by the heathen priests. Relics were adored, and supposed to work miracles; prayers were offered up for the dead, and to the martyrs, as well as to her whom they called “Mary the virgin mother;” people were taught that penances were meritorious; ascetic practices were inculcated; the existence of purgatorial fires, as believed in by the heathen, was taught as a reality, from which the dead could be emancipated alone by the prayers of the priests; while so notorious had become the efforts of the clergy to obtain wealth from the devout among the female sex, that an edict was published by the emperor forbidding ecclesiastics to receive any gifts, inheritance or legacy, at the hands of devout women, and the ministers were compelled, according to custom, to publish this decree from all the pulpits in the city,—thus becoming the heralds of their own rapacious propensities.

In vain Jovinian made every effort to stem the tide of corruption. He preached, whenever he could obtain an opportunity, in the churches, faithfully pointing out the fearful errors into which the Christians were falling, until every basilica was closed against him. He continued, however, to preach in the houses of a few faithful men, and even at times in the open streets; but at length—branded by the bishop as a heretic and a disturber of the public peace—he received an order forthwith to quit the city. As his liberty, if not his life, would have been in danger had he ventured to disobey the order issued by the powerful pontiff, he bade farewell to Prudentius, and turned his face northward.

From the tranquil valleys among which he had taken up his abode he often wrote to his friend, and received letters in return. In one of them Prudentius, giving way to despair, thus expressed his opinion: “By the unholy union which has been effected, idolatry has strangled Christianity in her baneful embrace (Note 1), and has sent forth instead a gaudily-dressed being, which, calling herself the True Faith, insists that all mankind shall fall down and worship as she dictates.”

“Be not in despair, my friend,” answered Jovinian. “God has promised to protect His Church; and be assured that He will raise up faithful men in coming ages who will protest against all these corruptions, and the time will come when the simple Gospel will be again faithfully preached, and the practices of the apostolic age be restored even in Rome itself, where the mystery of iniquity has begun its fearful reign.”

The End.

Note 1. Sir Isaac Newton states that before the end of the fourth century the idolatrous worship of the Virgin Mary had been universally established, while nearly all the corrupt practices of the Church of Rome had been already commenced, although many of her dogmas were not introduced till centuries later.

W.H.G. Kingston

"The History of Little Peter, the Ship Boy"

Chapter One.

Peter’s Home and Friends.

“Are you better, mother, to-day?” asked little Peter, as he went up to the bed on which Widow Gray lay, in a small chamber of their humble abode.

“I trust so, my boy,” she answered, in a doubtful tone, as she gazed fondly on the ruddy, broad, honest face of her only child, and put aside the mass of light hair which clustered curling over his brow, to imprint on it a loving kiss. “I tried to get up to help Betsy when she came to tidy the house, but did not feel strong enough; and the doctor, who looked in soon after, said I had better stay quiet, and gave me some stuff which I trust may do me good. Betsy kindly stopped and put everything to rights, but since she went I have felt lonely, and have been longing for you to come home.”

Betsy was an old woman who lived nearly half a mile off, on the hill-side. She had known Mary Gray from her childhood, and came every day, without fee or reward, to assist her during the grievous illness from which she had long been suffering, while little Peter was away tending Farmer Ashton’s sheep on the neighbouring downs.

Widow Gray’s cottage stood towards the bottom on the sloping side of some lofty downs, which extended far away east and west, as well as a considerable distance southward towards the ocean, which was, as the crow flies, about ten miles off from the highest point above it. The hill formed one side of a valley, through which flowed a sparkling stream bordered by trees, with here and there scattered about the cottages of the hamlet of Springvale. Far away at the lower end rose amid the trees the slender spire of the little church. On the other side of the valley was a further succession of open downs, crossed only by a single road a considerable distance, off, so that a more secluded nook than Springvale could not be found for many a mile round.

The widow’s cottage gave signs of decay, though it was evident that such attempts as required no expense had been made to keep it in repair. The holes in the roof had been stuffed full of furze and grass, kept down by heavy stones from being blown off by the wind; the broken panes in the windows were replaced by pieces of board or stout paper; and rough stakes filled up the spaces where the once neat palings had given way. Each foot of the small garden was cultivated, though clearly by an unscientific hand. Indeed, little Peter was the sole labourer, he devoting to it every moment he could spare from attendance on his sick parent after his return from his daily work, patching up many a rent in the cottage produced by weather and time.

Peter, indeed, did his very utmost to support his mother, by working early and late—not a moment was he idle; but do all he could he often was unable to gain enough to find food for her and for himself, though he was content with a dry crust and a draught from the bright spring which bubbled out of the hill-side. The little cottage and garden was her own, left to her by her father, Simon Field, a hard-working man, who by temperate habits and industry had been enabled to purchase the ground and to build the cottage, though that, to be sure, was put up chiefly by his own hands. Simon Field, however, was more than an industrious man, he was a pious and enlightened Christian, and had brought up his children in the truth as it is in Christ Jesus. Mary, the youngest daughter, had gone to service, and had obtained a situation in the house of a lately married couple, of whom Simon had heard a good report, and felt confident that she would be treated with Christian kindness and consideration. One by one, Simon Field’s wife and children were taken from him, and when Mary’s kind mistress also died, she returned home to live with her father.

Just at that time Jack Gray, a fine, open-hearted and open-handed sailor, came to the hamlet, where his widowed mother lived. He made love to Mary Field, and won her heart, unhappily before she had ascertained his principles and character. To her simple mind, ignorant as she was of the world, he appeared all that she could desire. As he attended church with her, and behaved with propriety and apparent devotion, she supposed him to be religious, and before he went away to rejoin his ship she promised, with her father’s permission, to be his wife on his return.

Soon afterwards Simon Field, who had for some time been ailing, followed his wife and children to the grave, and Mary became the owner of the little cottage with its acre of ground. Though she had many suitors, she remained faithful to Jack Gray. Nearly three years had passed away before he returned. She then fulfilled her promise and married him, but before long she could not help confessing to herself that he had changed for the worse. Instead of being the quiet, well-behaved young seaman he had before appeared, he was noisy and boisterous, and more than once got into a broil at the public-house in the hamlet; still, as he was kind and affectionate to her, her love in no way diminished. He laughingly replied to her when she entreated him to be more circumspect in his conduct:

“Why, old girl, I am quiet as a lamb compared to what I am afloat. They call me on board ‘roaring Jack Gray,’ and roar I can, I tell you, when I am doing duty as boatswain’s mate.”

Jack Gray, who would not look for employment on shore, in spite of Mary’s entreaties that he would do so, determined when the greater part of his pay and his prize-money had been expended, again to go afloat.

Mary’s home was certainly quieter when he was gone, though she would willingly have detained him. She had, however, enough to occupy her in looking after her new-born child, little Peter, who, when his father next came home from sea, had grown into a fine, sturdy boy.

The navy was at this time reduced, and “roaring Jack Gray,” who soon grew tired of a life on shore, had to seek for employment in the merchant service. All Mary could hear of him was that he had gone away on a long voyage to foreign parts. The news at length came that the ship he had sailed in had been lost, and that all the crew had perished. For some time she lived on in hopes that her husband had escaped, and might some day return. Not without difficulty was she at length persuaded by her friends that she was really a widow.

While her husband was in the navy, she had received a portion of his pay—now she had to depend entirely on her own exertions for the support of herself and little Peter. On her child she devoted all her care and attention, and brought him up faithfully in the nurture and admonition of the Lord, and when he did wrong corrected him carefully and wisely. She had taught him especially to love the Book of books, and at an early age little Peter could read fluently and well. When she fell ill he repaid her loving care with the most tender devotion.

“Mother, shall I read to you?” he asked, as he took his accustomed seat by her side.

“Do, my boy,” she answered, taking a small strongly-bound Bible, carefully secured in a leathern case, from under her pillow. “I have been trying to do so, but my eyes are dim, and I could not see the print; but, praised be God, I can remember parts, and I have been repeating to myself our merciful Father’s blessed promises to us His children.”

“That’s true, mother,” said Peter, opening the book at the third chapter of Saint John’s Gospel.

“‘God so loved the world, that He gave His only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in Him should not perish, but have everlasting life. For God sent not His Son into the world to condemn the world; but that the world through Him might be saved;’” and Peter read on to the end of the chapter.

“Shall I read more, mother?” he asked.

“Read, read,” she whispered, “for it will soon be too dark.”

At length Peter could see to read no more, and closing the book, he put it carefully back into the case.

“Keep it, my child,” said his mother, solemnly; “cherish it, and never part with it while you live. Put it in your breast-pocket now; I would like to see it there, next to your heart, where I pray its truths may find a firm lodgment. It was a gift to me from my dear young mistress on her deathbed. She had intended it for her own child, and she charged me, should I ever have one, to instruct him from his earliest days in its glorious truths. Peter, I have done so, not trusting in my own strength and knowledge, but with earnest prayer that those truths may be imparted to you. And oh, Peter, while you take care of the book, make it a lamp to your feet and a light to your path. Read it with prayer, seeking the aid of God’s Holy Spirit to instruct you in its truths, and you will not read in vain.”

Mrs Gray spoke with solemn earnestness, and Peter promised to follow her counsels, uttering a petition to Heaven at the same time that he might have grace to do so.

“Peter,” she continued, “I am soon to be taken from you, but I die in peace, for I know that God has heard my prayers, and will watch over you and guard you from evil, and support and comfort you, but do you yourself seek comfort and guidance from Him, and you will not be left destitute.”

She was silent for some minutes.

“Peter,” she said, drawing him closer to her and speaking in a low voice, “I grieve to part from you, but I grieve more when I think of your poor father. God knows how earnestly I have prayed for him, and I cannot even now believe that he was taken out of the world still ignorant of God’s love and free pardon to all who believe in His Son. I have often dreamed that he has come to me, looking just as he was when he went away, only paler and more careworn; he seemed to ask me to fetch him from some far-off land whence he could not escape. It may have been but an empty dream working on my fancy, and yet I cannot believe that it was so. Oh, what joy it would bring to my heart could I know that he loved the Saviour, and that he is yet alive and the door of mercy still open.”

Peter’s heart was too full of sorrow to let him speak. The waning light prevented him from clearly distinguishing his mother’s countenance, but there seemed to be a strange brightness in her eye as she spoke with failing voice, and the hopes her dying words expressed were imparted to him.

“Bless you, my boy, bless you!” she murmured, in a scarcely audible voice.

His hand was in hers, she pressed it as she spoke, and tried to draw him nearer to her heart. He leant over her, and put his other arm under her head; gradually he felt her hand relax its loving grasp, but many minutes passed before the fear came over him that her spirit had fled.

“Mother, mother!” he earnestly cried; “speak to me.”

There was no answer. He had never been with death before, but he knew too well that she was indeed gone from him.

He sat there long with his face on the bedclothes, too much overwhelmed with grief to move. He longed to go and call Betsy, yet he could not bear to leave his mother’s body. Soon, however, a step was heard, and the old woman herself entered the room.

There was still light sufficient to enable her to see at a glance what had occurred. She stepped up, and closing her dead friend’s eyes, gently led little Peter into the outer room. She had brought a couple of candles with her, purposing to spend the night at the cottage if she was required, and lighting them, she left one with Peter, bidding him sit down while she took up the other.

“When you feel sleepy, my boy, go to bed; the rest will do you good. I’ll stay with your mother; it will be nothing strange to me. I have had so many I loved taken from me, that I am accustomed to watch by the bodies of those who, I hope, went where I am sure she is gone. It’s a blessed thing to know that she is happy in heaven; let that comfort you, Peter, and don’t take on so, boy.”

Saying this, she returned to Mrs Gray’s room.

Peter’s head sunk on the table—he wept sorely and long. As he bent down, he felt the book his mother had just given him, which he had placed in his bosom. He took it out and began to read it. Promise after promise beamed forth from its sacred pages on his young soul, lighted by God’s Holy Spirit, for he took God at His word, and was comforted. After awhile he crept up the ladder to his little attic room, as Betsy had desired him, and was soon fast asleep.

He awoke at daybreak, not forgetting his duty to Farmer Ashton’s sheep, and when he got down-stairs he found his kind old friend waiting for him with a crust of bread and a bit of cheese.

“You must not disappoint the farmer,” she said; “I’ll do all that’s wanted for your poor mother.”

“I hadn’t forgot the sheep,” said Peter; “but, Betsy, may I see her? I could not go without!”

Betsy led him into the room. His mother’s face looked so calm and peaceable, just like an angel, he thought; he almost fancied she was asleep.

“Now go,” said Betsy, after he had gazed at her for some moments. “The red streaks are already in the sky.”

Peter lingered for a moment, then recollecting his duty, hurried down the hill to Mr Ashton’s farm.

His mother’s funeral took place a few days afterwards, he and Betsy and two or three other friends being the mourners.

He found to his dismay that he could not return to live at the cottage. He had had thoughts of taking up his abode there all by himself. During Mrs Gray’s illness debts had accumulated, and creditors claimed the little property, which had to be sold, and when his mother’s funeral expenses had been paid, four or five pounds only remained as the young orphan’s inheritance.

Betsy took him to her cottage, where he shared the bed of one of her grandchildren, and he continued as before to tend Farmer Ashton’s sheep.

Often, as the motherless boy sat watching his flock on the sunny downs, he cast his eyes towards the distant blue sea, and wondered what strange lands might be beyond. The thought of his father would then come across his mind. His imagination pictured him still living in those far away unknown regions. What if he could find him and tell him the glorious gospel news! He should be obeying his mother’s most earnest wishes. He knew but little of geography; he had read of Palestine and Egypt, and other distant countries, but he had a very indefinite idea as to where they were situated, and as to the rest of the globe, it was, although not quite a blank, yet filled up by his own vivid imagination with strange lands, in which wonders of all sorts existed.

Day after day, as he gazed in the same direction, his desire to visit those wondrous regions increased, till he resolved to go on board a ship, and sail forth over the ocean to visit them.

Little Peter was in earnest in all things; his faith was earnest, his speech was earnest; truthfulness beamed from his eyes, he was in earnest in whatever he was about. Farmer Ashton discovered this by the way he looked after his sheep. Peter knew every one of them, and reported the least sign of disease—not a sore foot escaped his vigilant eye. The farmer offered to increase his wages if he would stop, when Peter told him he wished to leave his service and go to sea, and was very angry when, though thanking him kindly, he said that he had made up his mind on the matter and meant to go. The farmer warned him that he would have to endure all sorts of dangers and disasters, and was a fool for his pains. Betsy also had used every argument to dissuade him from his purpose, but nothing could change it. When she found that all she could say had no effect, she gave him the money she had charge of, and assisted him in getting ready some clothes that he might set forth in a respectable manner to the neighbouring port to which the carrier, who passed through the hamlet once a week, undertook to convey him.

Chapter Two.

A Start in Life.

The carrier’s cart stopped on a height above the little town of Oldport. Peter gazed with wonder and admiration on the wide ocean spread out before him, now bright and shining under a blue sky and light summer breeze. It surpassed his utmost expectations—a beautiful highway it seemed to those distant regions he had longed to visit, and he fancied that there could be no impediment in his course till he could reach them.

As soon as the carrier had deposited him and his bundle at the inn close to the harbour, he set out to walk along the quay, and looked at the vessels whose tall masts rose in a long row above it. As he had never before seen a vessel, he was unable to judge of their size; to his eyes they seemed mighty ships, capable of battling with the wildest waves which could ever rage across the bosom of the deep. They were in reality colliers or other small coasters, as no vessels of any size could enter the harbour. He was ready to go on board the first which would receive him.

Peter had never had any playmates or young companions. He had lived alone with his mother, who had taught him to read, and trained him in the love and fear of God. The Bible was almost the only book he knew. He was, in consequence, grave beyond his years. The few neighbours used to laugh at him as “an odd, old-fashioned little fellow,” as, indeed, he was; but everybody respected and trusted him.

He walked up and down the quay once or twice before he could make up his mind what to do. At last he determined to address a sailor-looking man who was leaning against a stout post round which two or three hawsers from the neighbouring vessels were secured.

“Is one of those ships there yours?” asked Peter, in a hesitating tone.

“Why do you want to know, my lad?” inquired the seaman.

“Because I want to go and be a sailor in one of them,” said Peter.

“Then take my advice, and give up wanting,” said the seaman. “Better by half remain on shore, and tend sheep and cattle, as I have a notion you have been doing. None of the vessels are mine; I am only mate in the John and Mary, yonder,” pointing to a schooner which lay alongside the quay. “We have got a boy, and I would not have a hand in taking any youngster away from home unless he knew more about what he would have to go through than I suspect you do. Now go back, lad, whence you came,” continued the mate, folding his arms and puffing away at the pipe he had in his mouth.

One or two other sailors laughed at him or roughly turned aside without deigning to answer.

At last he reached a two-masted vessel, in reality a brig, somewhat larger than the rest, but her deck was black with coal-dust, and everything about her had a dark, grimy look. A rough, black-bearded, strongly-built man, better dressed than some of those he had spoken to, was stepping on shore by the plank which formed a communication between the vessel and the quay. Peter guessed rightly that he was the captain. Beginning to feel that his hope of going to sea was less likely to be accomplished than he had expected, he determined, with a feeling somewhat akin to desperation, to address him, though the expression of his countenance was far from encouraging.

“Do you want a boy on board your ship, sir?” he said, touching his hat, as his mother had taught him to do when addressing his betters.

“What, run away from home?” asked the man, stopping, and looking down upon him.

“I have no home, sir,” answered Peter.

“What, no father and mother?”

“No, sir,” said Peter. “Mother is dead, and father, they say, is dead, too.”

“Then you will do for me. As it happens, I do want a boy. Here, Jim,” he said, turning round, and addressing a sailor as rough-looking as he was himself, but much dirtier, who appeared at the companion-hatch; “here’s a lad for you. You had better keep an eye on him, as maybe he will change his mind, and run off again. Go aboard, boy,” he added, turning to Peter, “Jim will look after you, and show you what you have got to do.”

The captain went into the town, and old Jim, who proved to be the mate, took charge of Peter.

Old Jim asked him several questions. The answers which Peter gave appeared to satisfy him.

Peter inquired the captain’s name.

“Captain Hawkes; and our brig is the Polly,” answered Jim. “You won’t find a finer craft between this and ‘No man’s land,’ if you know where that is.”

Peter saw that she was the largest vessel in the harbour, and so readily believed what the mate said.

The old man asked him if he was hungry, and Peter acknowledging; that such was the case, he took him down into the cabin, and after giving him some bread and ham, offered him a tumbler of rum and water. Peter, who had never tasted spirits, said he would rather not take the rum, whereon old Jim laughed at him and drank it himself.

“We shall all get under weigh with the evening tide if the wind holds fair, for it’s off the land you see, and will take us out of the harbour,” he observed. “You had better lie down till then on the locker and get some sleep, for may be you will find your first night at sea rather strange to you.”

“Where is the vessel going to?” asked Peter, who fully expected to be told that it was to the Holy Land, or India, or some of the few other distant countries of which he had heard.

“We are bound to Newcastle first to take in coals, and it’s more than I can tell you where we shall go after that.”

“Is Newcastle in a far-off country?” asked Peter.

“It’s a good bit from here,” said old Jim; “and if you want to be a sailor, you will have a fair chance of learning before the voyage is out, and so take my advice and don’t trouble yourself about the matter. Do as I tell you, just lie down—you would have slept all the sounder if you had taken the grog, though.”

Old Jim was afraid, perhaps, that Peter would get talking to the rest of the crew, and hear something about Captain Hawkes which might induce him to go on shore again, the last boy having run from the ship, though shoeless and penniless, rather than endure the treatment he had received.

Peter, not suspecting old Jim’s motive, sat down on the locker in the cabin. Not feeling disposed to sleep he took up his Bible, as he had been accustomed to do when tending sheep on the Springvale downs, and began to read. Old Jim gazed at him with open eyes. To see a ship’s-boy reading a book, and that book the Bible, as he guessed it to be, was entirely out of his experience. “He must be a curious chap,” he said to himself; “I don’t know that he will suit us, after all; but then he will soon get all that knocked out of him I have a notion.”

Peter, who never failed to pray that God’s Holy Spirit would enlighten his mind when he read the Bible, was so completely absorbed in perusing the sacred page, that he did not observe old Jim’s glances, nor hear his muttered words. At length, feeling his eyes heavy, he closed the book and replaced it in his bosom. Then he lay down, as he had been advised, on the locker, and was soon fast asleep. The fatigue he had gone through, and the heat of the cabin, made him sleep soundly, and he did not hear the noise of the men’s feet on deck as the warps were cast off, or their “yeo! yeo! yeos!” as they hoisted the sails.

The captain, who came into the cabin to deposit his papers and several articles he had brought on board, did not rouse him up, and the Polly gliding smoothly out of the harbour, was some distance from the land before he awoke.

The sun, a bright ball of fire setting the heavens all ablaze, was sinking into the ocean astern when Peter made his way on deck; the coast with its sandy bays, rocky cliffs, and lofty headlands, their western sides tinged with a ruddy glow appearing on the left, while the calm ocean of an almost purple tint with a golden hue cast across it, stretched away to the right.

Peter felt its beauty and majestic tranquillity far more than he could have found words to express. The dark sails, the dirty deck, the begrimed countenances and slovenly dress of the crew contrasted with the purity of the sky and ocean all around.

The captain and old Jim his mate were standing aft, speaking to each other. They were apparently talking about him, for they cast their glances towards where he stood looking round and uncertain what to do.

He was aroused by the captain shouting to him: “You are one of the sleeping order, youngster, I see; you have had a long snooze; you will have to keep your eyes open in future. What is your name?”

“Peter Gray, sir,” answered the boy.

“Peter is enough for us,” said the captain. “Now go forward; your berth is in the forepeak, you will understand; and Jim and the cook will find you work enough. You don’t expect to be idle?”

“No, sir,” said Peter, “I came to learn to be a sailor.”

“They will teach you, and fast enough, too, with a rope’s-end if you don’t look sharp about you,” said the captain, with a laugh, “and soon make you dip your hands in the tar-bucket and swash-tub. Have you got any working duds with you?”

“I don’t know what duds mean, sir,” answered Peter.

“Not know what duds mean, and you a sailor’s son, as you tell me? Clothes, to be sure,” cried the captain, laughing again.

“I have got another suit for Sundays, when I go to church, sir,” answered Peter.

The captain and old Jim laughed in chorus at the reply.

“We have no Sundays aboard here, and don’t carry church steeples at our mast-heads,” cried the former, again laughing at his own wit as he considered it.

He and his mate were in a merry mood, for they had just had one successful voyage, and as the weather was fine they hoped to make another. The captain himself had taken a parting-glass or two with his friends on shore. So little Peter found him and his mate in their best humour.

“Do you hear, boy?” cried the captain, seeing that Peter did not move; “go forward and see what they have got for you to do.”

Peter did not know where forward was, but observing the direction in which the captain was looking, supposed it to be at the other end of the ship.

“I left my bundle down-stairs there, sir; shall I take it with me?” he asked.

Again the captain and mate laughed. Of course they felt their superiority to the poor ignorant little shepherd-boy.

“We have no down-stairs here, no more than we have Sundays; but your bundle is not to stop in my cabin, I should think. Get it and take it with you.”

Peter, having got his bundle from below, went forward, accompanied by old Jim.

“Now, lads,” said the latter to the four unkempt beings who formed the crew of the Polly, “here is a boy for you, and just see he don’t go overboard or run away; the skipper is tired of getting lads to do your work.”

The men looked at little Peter and grinned. “Now, boy,” said old Jim, turning to Peter, “come below and I’ll show you your berth. You must keep your eyes wide open, or may be you will not see it.”

The mate descended through a small hatchway by an upright ladder into a dark place, where Peter, as he was bid, followed him. He could hear the mate’s voice, but could not distinguish him in the gloom, which at first appeared impenetrable.

“Come here,” cried the mate. “What, are you blind?”

Peter was stretching out his hands trying to grope his way. By degrees a glimmer of light which came down the hatchway enabled him to distinguish old Jim, and as his eyes became more accustomed to the gloom, he discovered that he was in a triangular-shaped place, with shelves on either side which formed the bunks or standing bed-places of the crew, the heel of the bowsprit making a division in the fore part. Some chests were on the floor, and thick coats, sou’-westers, with numerous other articles, were hung up against the bulk-heads, which formed the third side of the forepeak.

“That’s your berth,” said old Jim, pointing to the foremost sleeping-place in the bow of the vessel. “The boy who has gone has left his blankets, so you will have the use of them. And mind when you are called you turn out pretty quick; we cannot have laggards aboard the Polly.”

“Thank you, sir,” said Peter, depositing his bundle in the dark, close-smelling bunk. “I am accustomed to be afoot by daybreak, to look after Farmer Ashton’s sheep.”

“You will have something different from sheep to look after; and night and day at sea are the same. All hands don’t turn in and sleep till the sun is up, or the ship would be apt to lose her way.”

A laugh at the mate’s wit from some of the other men who had followed them into the forepeak, was heard out of the darkness. When the mate was gone, they gathered round Peter and began to amuse themselves at his expense. He, however, took their jeers quietly, not attempting to reply; indeed, as he did not clearly understand their meaning, the jokes generally fell harmless. Finding at length that they could not irritate him, they told him to go on deck to help Bill. Bill was the man who did duty as cook. Peter found him in the caboose; he was as black and grimy as a negro, with grease and coal-dust.

“They told me you wanted me, Bill,” said Peter.

“Yes,” growled Bill, “clean out those pots and wash up the dishes and plates in that tub. Here is some hot water for you.”

Peter performed the work to the cook’s satisfaction. He gave him some bread and a piece of bacon for his supper, as he had eaten nothing since the afternoon.

Peter was standing watching the moon, whose full orb as it rose in the sky shed a silvery light over the ocean, a spectacle novel and beautiful to him, when old Jim, in a gruff voice, told him to go and turn in. Though he would infinitely have preferred remaining on deck, he did as he was bid.

He did not omit, before he took off his clothes, to kneel down and pray for protection for himself and all on board. No one saw the young boy in the attitude of prayer, or he would not have escaped interruption, but Peter knew that God saw him and heard him. Young and humble as he was, and unpromising as were the manners of those among whom he had been thrown, he felt no fear. His mind was at rest. He climbed into his berth and was soon asleep.

Chapter Three.

Perils at Sea.

The Polly had made good progress on her voyage, the North Foreland had been rounded, and with a fair breeze under all sail she was running to the north. There were numerous other colliers, brigs and schooners and vessels of all sizes, scattered far and wide over the sea, some close at hand, others mere specks, their loftier canvas just rising above the clearly-defined horizon.

Poor Peter had had a hard life of it, ordered about by every one on board, often receiving an undeserved cuff and kick, or finding the end of a rope laid sharply across his shoulders when he did not understand an order which he had never before heard issued. His clothes and face and hands were now almost as dirty as those of his companions, although he did his best to keep them clean, but he had received a rope’s-ending from the cook for taking fresh water for the purpose of washing himself, and he found that the salt water had little effect on his skin. But he did not complain. He had a source of comfort within him of which those around knew nothing. What grieved him most was the fearful language he heard hourly uttered, God’s holy name profaned, foul oaths, and obscene conversation. Whenever he could he endeavoured to escape from it. He either tried to get on deck when his shipmates were below, or below when they were on deck—to get anywhere where they were not. Still, so persistent are depraved human beings under the influence of Satan, in showing their enmity to those who love God, and to God Himself, that they often followed him with their ribald shouts, and kept him forcibly down among them.

Alas! this is no uncommon scene on board, not only many a collier, but many a proud ship that sails over the ocean. Still, Peter had not read his Bible in vain. Influenced by God’s Holy Spirit, he knew that he must return good for evil. Now and then, when a retort rose to his lips, he sought for grace to repress it, and he either remained silent or gave a mild reply. He persevered, too, in reading his Bible. Often when the lantern was lit in the forepeak, and the watch below were asleep, he would rise from his berth, and by its pale light sit on a chest beneath it and read from the sacred page, although he could with difficulty make out the words. At other times he would stow himself away forward, and opening his beloved book, draw comfort and consolation from it till he was summoned to some duty by one of his task-masters. Two or three times he had stolen aloft unnoticed by those on deck, and read uninterruptedly for an hour or more, but the mate at length discovering him, called him down.

“I told you we don’t allow idlers aboard,” exclaimed old Jim, bestowing several cuts with a rope’s-end on his shoulders. “Don’t let me ever catch you again with your book aloft doing nothing, or overboard it goes; we don’t want psalm-singers or Bible-readers among us. Remember my words.”

Peter trembled with alarm for the safety of his book. The mate might put his threat into execution, and what could he do to prevent it? Yet he would fight hard before he would give it up, of that he was determined. At the same time he knew that he must obey orders, and he dare not again venture aloft to read. Even if he read on deck, he might run the risk of losing his book. Yet read he must. He asked for guidance and direction from above. The fear which had thus been aroused of losing his Bible made him consider how he could still better secure it. Hitherto he had carried it inside his shirt, with his waistcoat buttoned over it. He now determined to make a canvas case and sling it round his neck. One of the men had some canvas for mending his clothes. Peter purchased a piece, together with some twine, with one of the few shillings he had in his pocket, and borrowed a sail needle from the mate, who lent it, not knowing the object it was for. Peter had watched the men at work, and by perseverance manufactured a case to his satisfaction, with a canvas strap to go round his neck. He could now carry his Bible night and day, and if summoned suddenly on deck, he would still have it with him, and should it enter the head of one of his shipmates to try and take it from his bunk while he was on deck, he would be disappointed. Peter now felt far more content than heretofore about the safety of his Bible. He had frequently to go into the captain’s cabin to carry his meals from the caboose and to clean it out. Generally Captain Hawkes took no notice of him, but one day, being in a facetious humour, he exclaimed, “Well, boy, have you got through your book yet?”

“No, sir,” said Peter, “I don’t expect to do so for a long time to come.”

“Look sharp, then,” said the captain; “you will never be a sailor till you have.”

“I am afraid, sir, then, I never will become a sailor,” said Peter, quietly.

“How so?” asked Captain Hawkes.

“Because I shall wish to read the book till the last day of my life. I want to read it to know how to live, and just as much to know how to die.”

“We can live very well without it, I have a notion,” said the captain; “but as to dying, that may be a different matter.”

“Beg pardon, sir,” said Peter, “but I have been taught that it is one and the same thing. If you like, sir, I’ll read to you all about it from the book.”

“No, no; I want none of your Bible reading,” answered the captain.

“But, sir,” said Peter, feeling a bold spirit rise within him, “if the ship was to go down, and we all were drowned, and had to stand before God, how those who had the words, ‘Depart, ye accursed, into everlasting fire, prepared for the devil and his angels,’ spoken to them would wish that they had listened to God’s word, and been prepared to meet Him as their Judge.”

“Get out of the cabin, you little canting hypocrite,” exclaimed the captain, fiercely, for God’s words uttered by the young boy had struck home to his conscience; but he “loved darkness rather than light, because his deeds were evil,” and he sought to avoid the light.

Peter went on deck with a feeling of deep sorrow at his heart that the captain would not listen. He wished, however, that he had spoken to him rather of God’s love to sinners than of his threatenings. “The mention of that great love might have touched his heart,” he thought; “I will tell him of it another time.”

He often tried when he could speak alone to any of the men to get them to allow him to read from his book; but he was told to keep it to himself, no one on board wanted it. He hoped, however, to succeed by perseverance; and perhaps when they found that he was becoming a smart and active sailor, and could lay out on the yards and reef and steer as well as any of them, they would be more ready to listen. He did his utmost, therefore, to learn his duty as a seaman. Old Jim began to treat him with less harshness than at first, and in his rough way gave him instruction in the art he wished to acquire; he taught him to box the compass and to steer, and even explained why various manoeuvres were performed. Still, when Peter began to speak about the Bible, or anything contained in it, he either turned a deaf ear or angrily told him to mind his own business.

The Tyne was at last reached, and Peter’s wonder was excited by the large city he saw stretching up the hill, and the numerous other towns and villages which lined the banks of that important river, but still more by the numberless vessels taking in their cargoes of coal, shot down into their holds from the cliffs above them. Much as he wished it he was not allowed to go on shore, the captain suspecting that, like his predecessors, he might not return. Though he had harder work than ever, yet, having fewer task-masters, he was less ill-treated than before.

The Polly having received her cargo, again put to sea, bound, Peter heard, for the Thames.

Hitherto the weather had been fine, and he had escaped sea-sickness and wet clothes. A few nights after leaving the Tyne it came on to blow hard, with the wind right ahead, and the Polly began to tumble about in a way which made Peter feel very miserable. Sometimes, though under close-reefed topsails, she heeled down so much that he could scarcely stand on the wet slippery deck, and he fancied that she would go over altogether. The dark green seas, with their foaming crests, rolled up on either hand, and frequently broke on board in showers of spray, as the brig ploughed her way amid them: now she rose to the top of a mountain billow; now she plunged down on the opposite side, with her bowsprit almost under water, and now the sea struck her and made her frame quiver fore and aft. The scene was a terrible one to look at—how different from that Peter had witnessed the first day he had been at sea!—still he did not fear; he knew that the same Almighty hand who guarded him then protected him now, but he did feel that he might at any moment be summoned into the presence of One he had loved on earth, and who would, he knew, welcome him in heaven, not on account of any merit of his own, but because he took Him at His word and trusted His Son, whom He had sent to save sinners.

The men, and even the captain and mate, were more silent than usual, though when they did speak they gave utterance to the same oaths which had so often issued out of their mouths.

It was trying work on deck, and when Peter’s watch was over, wet and weary he was glad to go below; but when he lay down in his narrow berth, the fearful blows which struck again and again on the bows of the ship prevented him from sleeping. When he did at last drop off he was quickly aroused by another blow, heavier than the former, which made him fancy that the brig must have struck a rock; but on she again went, battling her way across the stormy ocean.

The gale was increasing. At night, when he had again to go on deck, the seas, though not so clearly visible as during the day, appeared much higher, and threatened every instant to roll down upon the deck and sweep every one off it. The fore-hatch was battened down, the crew collected aft. When day dawned their faces looked pale and anxious, and even Captain Hawkes and old Jim seemed to wish that the gale was over. Peter heard the mate report to the captain that he had sounded the well, and feared that the brig had sprung a leak. The pumps were rigged, and the crew set to work on them. The quantity of clear water which came up left no doubt about the matter. The men grumbled and swore, but worked away. Peter was ordered to take his spell, and even old Jim and the captain took theirs. All day long they worked away, and at night also. No fire could be lighted in the caboose, for the seas broke so heavily over the bows of the ship that they dashed in upon the fore-hatchway. Such provisions as could be eaten without cooking were their only fare. Peter wished to read the Bible to his shipmates, but the spray broke over them in such dense showers that the leaves would have been wetted through in an instant. He could recollect, however, many portions, and great was the comfort they gave him. When he ventured to repeat them aloud to those crouched down under the bulwarks near him, they told him to be silent; it was not the time, with a gale blowing, to trouble them with his notions.

“But where should we be if the brig does go down?” he asked, for he saw the too great probability of that event occurring to make him hesitate about speaking.

The men told him to hold his tongue and not trouble them. Numbers do the same when warned of danger not more imminent than that which threatened the brig’s crew.

“Spell ho!” was the cry, and Peter and those he had spoken to took their places at the pumps.

Another day came to an end. During the next night the water gained so much on the pumps that Captain Hawkes resolved to head the brig in for the land in the hopes of making some sheltering port. Whereabouts he was he could not exactly tell. Again and again the well was sounded. The night was pitchy dark, the wind blew harder than ever, and the foam-topped seas raged round the hapless brig. The men laboured at the pumps, the captain and mate working as hard as the rest, for they all knew that their lives depended on their exertions.

Hour after hour passed by. Day was approaching. The captain thought that they must be nearing the land. The men at length cried out that they could work no more without food. Peter was sent down to get it. He crept about in the dark searching in the lockers for what could be found. He felt the water above his knees, but he was so wet that he did not heed it; it was his duty to get the food, he would not return without it. He fancied that he heard loud cries and shouting on deck, though the howling and whistling of the wind and the roar of the sea almost drowned all other sounds. Presently he was sensible that the vessel had received a heavy blow. Another and another followed. He had found the food he was sent for, and was making his way with a heavy load up the companion ladder, when a sudden heave of the vessel threw it over him, and he fell to the bottom. He was stunned with the fall and lay insensible for awhile—how long he could not tell—but he recovered after some time, and the ladder being jerked back into its place, he scrambled up on deck. He saw no one. On looking over the side he discovered the boat, with the captain and crew, pulling away a few fathoms off. He shouted to them, entreating to be taken in. Old Jim cried out in return:

“We will come for you.” But either they found it impossible to return, or feared that the boat would be stove in in making the attempt. Peter supposed truly that they had quitted the brig, believing that she would immediately sink. At that moment another sea struck her, and lifting her up, she once more glided on. Fearing that she would again ground, and that the next sea might sweep over her deck, he sprang to the main rigging and climbed up into the top. Scarcely had he left the deck when the water rushed completely over it. The brig, pressed by the sails still set, glided slowly on. Lower and lower she sank; as she did so, Peter climbed up to the topmast-head, and there he clung. He did his utmost to escape death, though he was prepared to meet it. He caught sight for a moment of the boat tossing amid the mass of foaming waters; when he again looked in the direction he had last seen her, she was nowhere visible.

In a little while he became conscious that the brig had ceased to sink.

In the east, towards where the faint streaks of returning day appeared in the sky, the sea tumbled and tossed as wildly as before, but where the masts of the brig rose above the surface the water was comparatively calm. The vessel had indeed driven first on the tail or extreme point of a bank, and then being forced over it, had drifted inside it some little distance before she had gone down, being then protected from the fury of the waves by the bank itself. All Peter knew, however, was that he was clinging to the mast-head of a sunken vessel, that a storm raged around him, and no human aid was at hand. He had no food, for he had lost that when thrown from the ladder, and it was some time since he had eaten; but he had saved his Bible, and he knew that his Father in heaven would take care of him.

Chapter Four.

On Board the Primrose.

As day dawned Peter looked out for the boat, earnestly hoping that the captain and crew had escaped destruction. It was nowhere to be seen. Here and there he caught sight of a dark sail just rising above the horizon, while in the west he could just distinguish a line of low coast.

How solitary and wretched he would have felt, how ready to give way to despair, had he not known that, all alone as he was, God his Father was watching over him.

He had thus clung on for some time to the mast, when he became aware that the wind had greatly moderated; the waves no longer clashed so savagely over the sand-bank as before. Gradually the sea became calmer and calmer; the clouds cleared away; the bright sun shone forth and dried his wet clothes. He felt hungry, but his strength did not desert him. He descended to the cross-trees, now above water, and seating himself, searched in his pocket and discovered two biscuits which he had put into them when in the cabin and had forgotten. He ate one of the biscuits and felt revived, and then finding that there was no danger of falling off, he drew forth his beloved Bible and read. How full of comfort and assurance it was to him who read with an eye of faith! There was no one to disturb him now. Alas! where were those who had been wont to interrupt him? What would they now have given to have trusted to that book, and obeyed its precepts? Peter did not, however, allow such a thought to enter his mind. He only hoped that they had escaped, and were making their way to the land; not a particle of bad feeling was in his heart against those who had so ill-treated him.

He read and read on till, feeling a drowsiness come over him, he restored the book to its case, and then once more climbed up the mast to look round in the hopes of seeing some vessel or boat approaching.

The sun had completely dried his clothes, and warmed him. A soft air blew off the land. He knew well that vessels would generally give the sands a wide berth. “Still, if God thinks fit to send me help He will direct some craft this way,” he said to himself. “Perhaps some fishing-boats will be passing, or Captain Hawkes may send out to learn what has become of the brig.”

As he looked northward, he saw afar off a large ship under all sail standing to the south. Whether or not she was inside or outside the shoals he could not tell. She came on but slowly, for the wind was light. He judged, however, that she would not pass at any great distance from where he was. How beautiful she looked, with her spread of white canvas shining in the sun. Nearer and nearer she came. He was convinced at last that she was outside the shoals.

“Those on board will scarcely notice the thin masts of the brig above the water,” he thought; “still God will turn their eyes this way if He thinks fit.”

Let no one suppose, that little Peter placed a presumptuous confidence in God’s protecting care of a young boy like himself. He had read that not a sparrow falls to the ground but He knows it; that the hairs of our heads are all numbered, and he well knew that he should be offending his kind Father if he doubted His words. What strength and fearlessness did this simple faith give him.

The proud ship glided on, her canvas swelling to the breeze; it seemed that she would quickly run past him. He could almost distinguish the people on her deck. He shouted, fancying that his feeble voice would be borne over the water towards her. Presently he saw the hitherto full canvas flap against the masts; her courses, and her topsails, and topgallant sails hung down uselessly; the breeze which had hitherto fanned his cheeks died away.

The ship was almost abreast of him, but rather to the southward, so that those on her deck saw the rays of the sun striking directly on the brig’s masts. Without thinking of this, however, he took off his hat and waved it again and again. The ship appeared to be drifting in towards the bank. How eagerly he watched her. Presently he saw a boat lowered from her quarter; several people jumped in, and with rapid strokes pulled towards him. The tide had again risen, and scarcely a ripple was observed on the bank. The boat crossed it, and an encouraging cheer reached his ears; he waved his hat in return, and descending the rigging stood ready to step into the boat as soon as she came.

“Glad to rescue you, my lad,” said the officer, who was steering. “How long have you been on the mast? What’s become of your shipmates?”

“Since last night,” answered Peter; “and I hope they have reached the shore in the boat.”

“I should think if they have deserted you, you would wish rather that they had gone to the bottom as they deserve,” said the officer.

“We should wish harm to no one, and do good to our enemies,” answered Peter.

“Very good,” said the officer, “though the other is most natural. But how were you left behind?”

“I was in the cabin getting up provisions for them, when, as the brig appeared to be going down, they, I suppose, shoved off in the boat and forgot me.”

“Scoundrels! I can only hope their boat was swamped,” exclaimed the officer. “But give way, lads; the ship is closer in to the bank than is altogether pleasant, and we shall have to tow her head off if the breeze does not spring up again.”

The boat was quickly alongside, and Peter soon found himself on the deck of a ship larger than he had ever before seen. He looked round with astonishment and admiration. Every one was busy in lowering the boats to tow the ship away from the dangerous proximity to the bank. Peter was, therefore, for some time left alone. The breeze, however, soon again returning, filled the sails, and the boats were hoisted in.

The captain, a fine-looking young man, with a frank countenance, then called Peter aft, and put to him nearly the same questions the mate had asked.

“How came you to escape, my lad? You don’t even look much the worse for your adventure.”

“God took care of me, sir,” answered Peter, simply.

The captain smiled. “Well, I suppose it’s something to fancy that,” he observed.

“But I know it, sir,” said Peter firmly.

The captain cast a somewhat astonished glance at him. “Well, lad, you must be hungry and sleepy; the steward will give you some food, and find you a berth forward. If we have an opportunity, we will put you on shore, that you may return to your friends.”

“I have no friends on shore, sir,” answered Peter, “and I want to go to sea.”

“Then do you wish to remain on board?” asked the captain.

“Yes, sir, please; I wish to visit foreign lands.”

“Very well, you will have the chance with us, and I’ll enter you as one of the ship’s boys,” said the captain. “Below there!” he shouted, and the steward, a black man, appeared. “Give this lad some food, and find him a berth, Emery,” said the captain, in a good-natured tone. Turning aft he said to himself, “There is stuff in that lad, though he has evidently been brought up among the Methodists.”

The black steward took Peter into his pantry, and having given him a good meal, pressing him to eat as much as he wanted, led him forward. On the way he told him the ship was the Primrose, of 600 tons, bound out to the Mauritius, and that afterwards she was to visit other places in the Eastern Seas. Entering the seamen’s berth, he pointed to one of the standing bed-places on the side, and told him he might turn in and go to sleep as long as he liked. Little Peter, who had never before seen a black man, and fancied that all such were savages, was much surprised to hear him speak English and address him in so kind a manner.

“Thank you,” said Peter, “I do feel very sleepy, and am glad to go to bed.”

Before Peter took off his clothes, however, he knelt down, and from the bottom of his heart returned thanks to God for having preserved his life and brought him on board so fine a ship.

If Peter was surprised at the appearance of a black man, much more astonished was the latter at seeing the boy in the attitude of prayer. He stood a moment at the door gazing at him.

“What! the little chap pray and not afraid of being seen!” he muttered to himself; “that beats anything I ever heard; I can’t make it out.” Yet Emery did not feel angry at what he had seen; but as he went aft to attend to his duties, he kept muttering, “Dat is strange; he not afraid; can’t make it out.”

He was soon afterwards sound asleep, when the men, with a fellow-feeling for what he had gone through, took care not to arouse him, and he slept till breakfast time the next day.

Peter found a considerable difference between the crew of the Primrose and that of the Polly. They were generally a hearty, merry set; but, alas! he soon heard oaths and curses coming out of the lips of most of them. Some, too, were morose and ill-tempered and discontented with their lot, and all seemed utterly indifferent about their souls.

Peter, however, was treated kindly, though of course he had to perform the usual duties of a ship’s-boy, shared by the two other lads somewhat older than himself, apprentices on board.

The first day he got into the berth when no one was there, and was able to read his Bible without interruption for nearly an hour. He was thinking that it was time to go out lest he should be wanted, when a tall handsome lad entered the berth.

“What! young chap!” exclaimed the latter, “are you a book-worm? I used to be fond of reading tales and adventures; let us have a look at the story you have got hold of.”

“It’s no story, it’s all true,” answered Peter; “it is God’s word.”

“Is that your style of reading? I have no fancy for it, though each man to his taste, I say,” observed the youth.

“You would find it a very interesting book, though, Owen Bell,” said Peter, who had heard the youth’s name. “I never get tired of it, but I read it whenever I can; for it’s only by reading it that we can know how to obey Christ, and be prepared to live with Him in heaven.”

“Oh, but I have to live down here and knock about at sea,” answered Owen Bell, with a careless laugh. “It will be time enough when I become an old chap, like Simon Hixon, to think about matters of that sort.”

“Who is Simon Hixon?” asked Peter.

“The oldest man on board. You might have heard him growling away and swearing at the cook, after dinner to-day, because the soup was not thick enough,” answered Bell.

“Does Simon Hixon read the Bible?” asked Peter.

“Not he. You had better just try and persuade him to do so, or to listen to you, for I doubt if he can spell his own name,” said Bell.

“Perhaps when he was young he might have said that he would begin to read the Bible when he was old, and you see he has not begun yet,” observed Peter.

“No, because he is such a sulky, swearing old ruffian. If he had been a decent sort of fellow, I dare say he would have begun, if he had intended to do so, just like my father, who used to read the Bible to the day of his death,” remarked the lad.

“But if Simon had begun to read the Bible when he was young, he would not have become such as you say he now is,” observed Peter. “Jesus Christ would have changed Simon Hixon’s heart, and then he could not have become a sulky, swearing old ruffian.”

“You are too deep for me,” said Bell, with a forced laugh. “I never quarrel with anybody, and don’t want to quarrel with you; but let me advise you not to go on talking in that sort of way to the other chaps aboard; you won’t hear the end of it if you do. The cook was shouting for you as I came along the deck; just hide away your Bible and go and see what he wants.”

Peter put his Bible into its case.

“You will let me read it to you sometimes, Owen?” he said, as he went out of the berth.

“Well, I don’t mind if I have a spell of it some Sunday,” said Bell, with apparent carelessness. “It would put me in mind of old times at home; but I should not like to be seen reading it on a week-day. I have no fancy to be called a Methodist, as you will be if you are found out.”

Peter, going to the caboose, asked the cook what he wanted, and was told to clean the pots and pans. He set to work with right good will.

“You have done it handsomely, boy,” observed the cook, when he had finished. “I have not had my pans so bright for many a day.”

The Primrose had a fine run down Channel. On her passage a sudden squall struck her; the watch on deck flew aloft to shorten sail. Peter, who was aft, lay out on the mizen top-gallant-sail yard, and taking the weather earring, succeeded, with Owen Bell and two others, in handling the fluttering sail. As he reached the deck the captain called to him.

“You did that smartly, youngster; it’s not the first time I have observed you. I’ll keep my eye on you. Go on as you have begun, and you will make a famous seaman.”

“I thank you, sir,” said Peter, touching his hat as he went forward.

“I didn’t expect it from a psalm-singer,” observed the captain to the first-mate with his usual good-natured laugh.

“There is no harm in the lad for all that,” was the answer.

Peter, however, had his trials. Being placed in a watch, he had to turn in and out with his watch-mates. The first night, as usual, he knelt down to say his prayers. He hadn’t been long on his knees, before he was interrupted by a suppressed titter, which soon broke into a peal of laughter from all hands, and several shoes came flying about him. He knelt on, however, trying to keep his thoughts calm, and his heart lifted up to God.

“Well, that young chap does sleep soundly,” cried one; “wake him up, Bill.”

“Hilloa, Peter! are you acting parson?” cried Bill, one of the wildest of the crew.

Peter made no reply, and endeavoured, though it was a hard task, to continue his prayers. Similar jeers and questions were now showered on him from all sides.

“Oh, my Father in heaven,” he mentally ejaculated, “help me to continue to pray and soften the hearts of my shipmates towards me and towards themselves. May they see what a fearful state they are in when thus obeying Satan, and strangers to Thee.”

The men and boys, who, prompted by them, had been the worst, were silent for some minutes, and Peter had nearly finished his prayers, when a fresh volley of all sorts of articles was hove at him. Still he persevered. Now his tormentors burst forth afresh with ribald jests and shouts of laughter.

“If he stands all that he will stand anything,” growled out old Simon Hixon, who, though not taking so active a part as the rest, had encouraged them in their conduct.

Peter at length rose from his knees without saying a word, took off his clothes, and turned into his berth. Although he never lay down without commending himself to God, he did not kneel down before turning in after the middle watch was over, and it was not till the second night he again went to bed during the first watch. The same conduct as before was pursued towards him, but although he received two or three severe blows he persevered.

“Well, for my part, I shall be ashamed to try him any more,” he heard Owen Bell exclaim as he rose from his knees. “Peter, you are a brave little chap, and if you had followed my advice this would not have come upon you,” said Owen, addressing him.

“You meant it kindly,” answered Peter; “but as God gives me everything, and takes care of me, I am sure it is my duty to thank Him night and morning for all His benefits, and to ask Him to continue them to me. I would rather not have the things hove at my head, but you know it would not be right for me to put God aside for fear of what any of you may choose to do.”

When on another night two or three began the same sort of work, the rest cried out and told them to let the little psalm-singer alone; even old Hixon held his tongue, and from that time forward Peter was allowed to say his prayers in peace.

Chapter Five.

Strength in Weakness.

When little Peter read his Bible on a Sunday while other men were mending their clothes, or sleeping, or amusing themselves with old newspapers or story books, he was generally allowed to do so in peace, but he wished to study it on week-days, as well, convinced that it was intended to guide him in every affair of life. On each occasion that he was found doing so, however, he was sure to be interrupted. The other boys would play him all sorts of tricks, and the men would send him to perform some work or other, and if they could think of nothing else, would despatch him with a pretended message to the man at the helm. Simon Hixon was his greatest foe, and frequently as Peter passed gave him a blow with a rope’s-end.

One day as Peter was quietly reading his Bible in the berth, Hixon swore that if he found him again at it, he would throw the book overboard.

“It would be a great shame to do that,” answered Peter, “and I hope you won’t try. God would, I am sure, not allow you to go unpunished.”

“You see, youngster, if I am not as good as my word,” growled Hixon.

Peter prayed that the old seaman’s hard heart might be softened, and that he might be prevented committing such a crime.

“I don’t think if you read the book you would wish to destroy it,” said Peter. “It is full of such beautiful things, that you would like to read them over and over again if you were once to begin.”

“I can’t read, so there’s little chance of that,” said Hixon.

“But will you let me read them to you?” asked Peter. “I shall be very glad to do that.”

“What! when I have told you that I would heave the book overboard if I found you reading it?” said the old man.

“That makes no difference,” said Peter, “only just listen to one or two.”

“Not I. I don’t want to hear your yarns,” said Hixon, turning away.

Peter went on reading, and the old man did not further interfere with him.

The ship sailed on. When she was crossing the line the usual ceremonies were performed. Peter heard what was to take place, and, fearing that his Bible would get wet, hid it away carefully. He felt very anxious, however, lest any one should suspect what he had done, and look for it. He and the other young seamen who had not before crossed the line, were ducked, and had all sorts of tricks played on them by Neptune and his attendants. Peter took everything in good part, though he was nearly drowning in a sail triced up on deck and filled with water, when Owen Bell jumped in and pulled him out. He made his escape as soon as the amusements were over, and hurried to the berth to look for his book. To his great joy he found it safe, and immediately hung it again round his neck.

Some more weeks passed away. Hitherto Owen Bell, even on a Sunday, had always made some excuse for not reading with Peter. At length one hot Sunday, when the ship was becalmed in the tropics, and even Owen felt no inclination for sky-larking, Peter got him to sit down while most of the crew were asleep, or occupied in some of the few shady spots they could find. Peter, opening the book, read the account of the visit of Nicodemus to the Lord.

“He was a learned and important man, and yet you see he wanted to be taught, and the Lord did teach him. He showed him he was a sinner by nature, as all of us are, and that he must become a new creature.”

“I cannot understand how he could become that of his own accord,” said Bell. “It’s hard to tell a man to do what he cannot.”

“The Lord never did that,” said Peter, “when He told him that he ‘must be born again.’ He showed him clearly how it must be brought about. You remember what He said about the Israelites when bitten by serpents in the wilderness, and how they were cured immediately they looked on the brazen serpent, taking Moses at his word when he told them to do so. So if we only take God at His word, and look to Jesus on the cross suffering for and bearing our sins, we shall be forgiven, and through the power of the Holy Spirit be born again. What I am sure God wants us to do is to take Him at His word, to believe that He will do whatever He says; and Jesus Himself tells us that he that believeth on the Son hath everlasting life.”

“What an old-fashioned little chap you are,” said Owen, laughing. “You talk like a book.”

“It seems all very clear to me, and I wish that it did to you, Bell.”

“Well, the truth is, that I have been such a bad fellow, and have so many sins to answer for, that I don’t fancy when God comes to count them up He can pardon me. Even when I seemed most careless and full of jokes, I have often had my heart pressed down with the recollection of all the bad things I have done.”

“But Jesus tells us in another place that ‘He came not to call the righteous, but sinners to repentance,’ and when He says, ‘God so loved the world, that He gave His only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in Him should not perish, but have everlasting life,’ He means by ‘whosoever,’ everybody, good people and bad people.”

“But do you think if I was to try and please God and serve Him He would pardon me?” asked Bell.

“He doesn’t say that,” said Peter. “He promises to forgive only those who trust in Jesus Christ, because Jesus was punished instead of them, and if one person was punished instead of another He will not punish that other; it would be unjust to do that. Oh, Bell, why don’t you take God at His word, and believe on Jesus, and then you would be able to obey Him and serve Him, because He will send you the Holy Spirit to help you as He has promised?”

Much more to the same effect the young boy urged on his friend, while he read numerous portions of Scripture to him to prove his words.

The boys were now called off to their duty on board, and the conversation was interrupted. Owen seemed very quiet and serious; but he had no opportunity of speaking to Peter for some days. At last, when they were alone together again he said to him:

“I am sure you are right, Peter; I never before understood that Jesus died instead of me on account of my sins, and therefore if I believe on Him I shall be helped to overcome my sins, and shall not be punished for them, but shall go to heaven, and live with Him in happiness; I see it, and believe it now. The Bible is no new book to me, Peter, I have heard it read often and often at home, and have read it myself too, though I could not understand its meaning.”

After this, Owen Bell took every opportunity of reading with Peter, and as he was as strong as a man, and respected by the crew, no one interrupted them.

One evening they had been reading together, when Owen turned suddenly to Peter, and said:

“Do you think if I was to die to-night I should go to be with Jesus?”

“I know you would, for I am sure you believe on Him.”

“That I do, with all my heart and soul,” exclaimed Owen Bell. “And I wish that I could serve Him and make known His love to others. I feel it myself, and I have been trying to speak to Emery about it, and though he is little better than a heathen, he said he should like to know more about one so good and kind as Jesus must be who died to save others; and Bill, the cook, was ready to listen. I think, Peter, if you offered to read to them they would let you, and tell them all about the love of Jesus, as you told me, and I cannot but fancy that they would trust to Him as I have done. It will be a hard matter to get at the captain and mates; but I should not despair of them if they were to hear of the glorious things which the Gospel contains.”

Peter often afterwards recollected this conversation with Owen Bell.

That night he was aroused from his sleep by the cry of “All hands shorten sail!”

The men rushed on deck half-clothed, for they knew the summons admitted of no delay. In an instant they were flying aloft. A heavy squall had struck the ship, and she was heeling over, her masts bending like willow wands and threatening to go every instant. The sheets were let fly, but before the sails could be furled there came a crash, and the fore-topmast with its yard, to which several of the crew were clinging, was carried away. Their cries were heard as they struggled in the foaming waters under the lee, but no help could be rendered them. Away the ship flew. Every effort was made to clear the wreck and to furl the sails. Some time passed before it could be done. The gale continued to increase.

The captain stood back over the spot in the hopes of picking up some who might have clung to the spars. The names were called over. Among those who did not answer was Owen Bell.

“Poor fellow,” said several.

“A fine young lad,” said the captain, “I hope we may pick him up.”

Peter hoped so too; but he did not mourn for his friend as his shipmates did, for he was sure that if Owen Bell was drowned he had gone to be with the Master, who, though lately found, he had been brought truly to love.

The search was vain, the ship wore round and continued her course. Peter missed Owen Bell greatly. The rest of the men treated him, for his friend’s sake, perhaps, with less unkindness than before, and a more subdued tone was perceptible among them; even the captain and mates seemed to feel for the loss of the men, and fewer oaths were heard than usual.

Peter found an opportunity of speaking to Emery, the negro. “That just what Owen Bell say,” answered the steward; “If Jesus die for me, and love me, I ought to love Him.”

“Yes,” observed Peter, “but not only that; you must believe that He died to take away your sins, and that your sins are taken away; that God looks upon you as free from sin, and will receive you into heaven when you die.”

“How can that be?” asked the black.

“Because God says it,” answered Peter; “what He says must be true.”

“In that book you read?” asked the black.

“Yes, that book contains God’s messages and promises to man. It is through this alone, and the leading of the Holy Spirit, that we know anything about God. Without that we should be worshipping blocks of stone, just as Owen Bell was telling me the other day your countrymen do.”

“Yes, and many other people in the world, and in the countries we are going to,” observed Emery. “But I can’t stop to listen longer; another day you tell me more of this.”

Peter gladly promised that he would do so.

To his surprise one evening, after he had cleaned up the pots and pans, the cook asked him to come and sit in the caboose, and begged him to read a chapter or two in the Bible. Peter did so, and explained it to the best of his power, and frequently after that he spent an hour in the evening in the same way.

The ship had now rounded the Cape of Good Hope. The wind was fair, the weather continued fine. Peter had determined to try again to get Hixon to let him read to him. It seemed so sad that an old man should continue to refuse listening to God’s message of love. One Sunday he found him sitting by himself, as he usually did, stitching away on the sleeve of a jacket. Peter sat down near him and began to read to himself. Hixon eyed him, but not with that angry look which he generally cast when Peter was reading.

“Would you like to hear some of it while you are at your work?” asked Peter at length.

“Well, boy, as you are a good sort of chap after all, and axes me so often, I don’t mind hearing one of your yarns out of your book; though I don’t see how it can do me much good,” he replied, after a little time.

This was all Peter wanted. He read the parable of the “Pharisee and Publican.”

“Which of them do you like the best?” asked Peter.

“Can’t say I care for that proud chap who thought himself better than anybody else. I like t’other more, a good deal.”

“Because he says, ‘Lord, be merciful to me a sinner’?” asked Peter.

“Ay,” said Hixon, bending down his head. He had for some time ceased to ply his needle.

“Then do you know how God says He alone will be merciful?” Peter asked.

“No, ’cept to them as be sorry for what they have done bad, and try to do better.”

“Oh, no, no! God does not say that; Satan is always trying to make people believe it, because he well knows that if people try to make themselves better, trusting only in their own strength, they will fail. God says that He gave His only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in Him should not perish, but have everlasting life. By faith ye are saved.” And Peter, in his own simple way, went on to explain that Jesus Christ, by dying on the cross for our sins, has become our Saviour, and that if men will lovingly trust to Him, God will not punish them, but, on the contrary, will look on them as possessed of the righteousness of Christ.

“That’s wonderful,” exclaimed old Hixon, after Peter had explained the truth in several ways to make him understand it. “I can hardly believe it; and yet I suppose if one chap deserved a thrashing from me, and a bigger one said, ‘Thrash me instead,’ and I did thrash him, and well too, I could not thrash the little one also.”

Hixon continued silent for awhile and said nothing. He was evidently in deep thought, as though perplexed with something he was trying to make out, but could not understand.

“But I suppose a chap must not go and do what he likes after that?” said old Hixon at length, eagerly fixing his eyes on Peter.

“No. If he really loves Jesus, which he must do when he knows that Jesus suffered so much for his sake, and saved him from hell, he will try and be like Him and serve Him, and turn away from and hate his sins,” was Peter’s answer.

“For my part, I don’t feel as how I could ever be good, and give up swearing, and getting in a rage, or drunk, too, if the liquor came in my way. I could only cry out—loud enough, too, like the man you were reading about—‘Lord, be merciful to me a sinner!’ and I don’t think God would hear such a wicked chap as I have been,” muttered the old man.

“The Bible says that Jesus Christ came into the world to save the worst of people as well as the best; ‘I came not to call the righteous, but sinners to repentance.’ These are the words of Jesus Himself. God promises to hear all who come to Him. He says, ‘Knock, and it shall be opened unto you; seek, and ye shall find.’”

“I will try and ask Him for what He knows I want,” said the old man. “And, Peter, just do you pray for me, and if you see me growing sulky, come and speak to me those words you spoke just now, ‘Jesus loves you.’ I don’t think I could stand hearing that and go on fighting against Him as I have been so long doing—though it’s wonderful! very wonderful!”

Peter did not fail to do as Hixon asked him. He seldom had occasion to repeat the blessed announcement. The old man got into the habit of saying to himself whenever he found his anger rising, “Jesus loves me, Jesus loves me,” and his ill-feelings were subdued.

How blessed would be the result if all who read this, and many more, too, were to act like that rough old sailor.

Chapter Six.

Saved from the Wreck.

With the exception of the gale spoken of in the last chapter, the Primrose had enjoyed fine weather for the greater part of the passage. But dark, heavy clouds now rolled across the sky; the wind blew fiercely, and the seas rose up in mountainous billows, such as Peter had never before beheld. The wind, however, was fair, and with her after-sails furled, and closely-reefed topsails only set, the ship flew on before it. As Peter stood on deck he watched sea after sea rolling up astern and threatening to break on board, but with a loud roar, just as they reached her, their foaming summits came hissing down, and she glided up the side of a huge billow ahead. For an instant she seemed to hang on the top of the watery ridge, and then slid down into another valley, up the opposite side of which she climbed as before.

She had thus run for some distance when the wind dropped, and she lay rolling in the trough of the still heavy sea. The sky overhead was dark and lowering, a drizzling rain fell, and the air was oppressive. The captain and officers looked anxious. They had cause to be so, for suddenly the wind again rose, now blowing from one quarter, now from another, and all hands were kept on deck ready to brace round the yards as might be required. For several days no observation had been taken, and old Hixon told Peter that he feared the ship had been driven considerably out of her course.

“Will the captain soon be able to get an observation to steer the right way?” asked Peter.

“If the sky clears he may, but I have known it to remain like this for days and weeks together, and though Captain Hauslar is as good a seamen as I should wish to sail with, he may be out in his reckoning, and there are some ugly rocks and shoals to the eastward, which on a dark night it is a hard matter to see till one is right upon them,” answered old Hixon.

After the ship had been knocking about for some days, the wind again came fair, though somewhat strong, and the captain, anxious to make up for the long delay, and hoping to escape all dangers, with the ship under moderate canvas steered to the eastward, ordering a bright look-out to be kept. The middle watch had been called, and the fresh look-outs, rubbing their eyes, had just gone to their posts. It was Hixon’s turn at the wheel. Peter, who was in the same watch, followed him aft, for the old man had undertaken to give him lessons in steering. As he stood by his side he frequently quoted passages of Scripture from his Bible, and sometimes, by the light of the binnacle lamp, he referred to the book, and read long portions.

Hixon having just received the course from the man he relieved had taken hold of the spokes, when there came a sharp cry from the look-out forward, of “Breakers ahead!” followed quickly by “Land! land!”

“Down with the helm!” shouted the officer of the watch. “All hands on deck; brace up the yards!”

Almost before the ship’s course could be altered, a fearful blow was felt, which made the masts quiver and the ship tremble from stem to stern—another and another followed. The sea dashed up wildly over her, throwing her on her beam ends; then came a fearful crash, and the tall masts fell over her side towards the dark rocks which rose close to her. The captain and all below had rushed on deck. Awakened suddenly out of their sleep they stood aghast, expecting instant death. Some seemed to have lost their senses and cried wildly for help. The captain took his post by the companion-hatch, gazing around and considering what orders to issue.

Hixon, when he found that all hope of the ship moving off the rock was gone, quitted the helm, and seizing Peter dragged him to the weather bulwarks. The next instant loud shrieks were heard. A tremendous sea washing across the deck had carried several of the crew overboard, sweeping some away as it receded, and dashing others against the rocks. The stern, which had been driven furthest in, afforded the most secure place. The captain shouted to the crew to come aft; some heard him, but the roaring of the breakers drowned his voice. Sea after sea struck the devoted ship, and the crashing sound which followed each blow showed that she was breaking up. Still the darkness was so great, and so fiercely did the waters rage between the ship and the shore, that destruction appeared to await any who might attempt to reach it. Already the stern of the ship was quivering under the blows of the fierce seas.

“Hold on where you are, Peter,” said Hixon; “I will try if there’s any way of getting on shore.”

“But you may be washed off,” said Peter.

“My life is worth little,” said the old man, “I am not afraid to die now, and I may, if I succeed, help to save others.”

Fastening a rope round his waist which he secured to a ring-bolt in the deck, he struggled to the side of the ship nearest the shore. Peter could no longer distinguish him.

The captain was standing still, undecided what to do, with the third-mate and five or six seamen who had succeeded in getting aft, when old Hixon was seen making his way along the deck from amid the mass of wreck which cumbered it.

“The foot of the mainmast still hangs to the ship and the head rests on a rock,” he said; “what is beyond I cannot tell, it may be water or it may be land, but the sea does not break over it; it is our only chance if we can manage to reach it.”

“Well, lads, we had better follow old Hixon’s advice,” said the captain. “Those who wish it can go.”

The mate and the other men hung back.

“Come, Peter,” said Hixon, “you and I will set the example then. To my mind the ship won’t hold together many minutes longer; and if we succeed, as I think we shall, they will follow if there’s time. I’ll go sir,” he cried to the captain, and grasping Peter, he led him along, holding on to the rope. They reached the mast, when Peter, keeping close to his companion, scrambled up it. Alone he felt that he might have been unable to succeed, but supported by his old friend he made his way along the mast, which all the time was swayed up and down by the movement of the ship. He feared lest it should be hurled from its position, and the rest might be unable to escape by it.

They gained a rugged rock of some extent, but the water washed round them and the spray occasionally flew over their heads. They were still at a distance from the mainland, but for the moment safer than on board the ship. They shouted as loud as they could to induce the rest to follow them. Every instant they feared that the mast would give way. Again and again they shouted. At last they caught sight of some one moving along the mast. He reached them, and it proved to be Emery, the black steward.

“Are the rest coming?” asked Peter eagerly.

“Hope so; captain tell us to come first,” was the answer; and soon afterwards Bill the cook made his way to the rock. They all shouted together to give notice of their safe passage. At length several seamen were seen creeping along the mast, one after the other, as fast as they could move.

“The ship is breaking up fast!” said one of them; “and if the skipper don’t make haste he will be lost.”

“Oh, I wish you had all come at once!” cried Peter. “I’ll go back and hasten him.”

“No, no, boy; you will lose your life if you do!” said Hixon. “It’s his own fault if he delays.”

“That is no reason why we should not try to get him to come,” said Peter.

“You are right, boy,” cried Hixon, “but if any one goes, I’ll go.”

Hixon was just getting on the mast, when he exclaimed that the skipper and mate were coming along it. At that moment the end of the mast began to rise. Hixon threw himself off it.

“Stand clear of the rigging,” cried several voices. The mast moved more rapidly, the end lifting up in the air, then with a crash came down on the rock, against which it was at once violently dashed by a sea which broke over the wreck. One of the poor fellows who had escaped was dragged off into the seething waters.

“The captain is gone,” cried several voices.

“I see a man close at hand,” said Peter. “Will any one pass a rope round my waist? I am sure I could clutch him.”

There were several ropes scattered about the rock. Old Hixon did not hear Peter, but two or three of the other men did. One of them fastened a rope as he requested. While they held on, Peter sprung off from the rock into the water close to where the person he saw was floating. He clutched him tightly. The next sea which came roaring up would have clashed him against the rock, and his burden must have been torn from him had not his companions, roused by the example set by the young boy, whom they had been in the habit of laughing at, rushed forward and dragged them both up together.

“It is the captain,” cried one. “But I am afraid he is gone,” exclaimed another.

“No! I trust he is still alive,” said Peter, sitting down by the captain’s side, and taking his head on his lap. “He is breathing; he will come to, I hope.”

Peter rubbed the captain’s chest while the steward and Bill moved his arms gently up and down. He uttered a groan; it showed that he was in pain, and had been injured against the rocks, but it was an encouraging sign. They persevered, and at length the captain spoke in a low voice, asking where he was.

“You are safe on a rock,” answered Emery. “We shall know better when sun rise.”

Just then a voice was heard at no great distance, shouting.

Hixon hailed in return, “Where are you?”

“On an island of some sort,” was the answer. “Many more saved?”

Hixon replied that the captain and ten men had escaped.

Although the channel between the rock and the land might be deep, with the help of a man on the latter, if a rope could be passed to him, they might all cross in safety.

They waited anxiously till daylight. The wind had gone down by that time, and the sea was much calmer. A rocky island of some height rose before them, but as the sea rushed in and out in the intervening space, even a good swimmer might have hesitated to cross.

The larger portion of their gallant ship had disappeared, but the afterpart still remained entire.

Several lengths of rope were cut from the rigging of the mainmast, which had been thrown back on the rock. They were eager to get across, for they had no food and no water on the rock. Several attempts were made to heave a rope to the man on the island, but in vain, the distance was too great. At length a short piece of a spar was fastened to the end of the signal halyards. How eagerly it was watched, as it floated now in one direction, now in another; gradually it drew out the line; it was hoped that it might be drifted by some surge towards the man, who was eagerly on the watch to catch it.

“We must not despair,” said Peter to Hixon, who had come to see how the captain was getting on. “If we pray that God will send the spar to shore He is certain to hear us, and He will do it if He thinks fit.”

“What you say is true, I know,” observed the old man; and together they knelt and prayed that a way to serve them might be found.

The captain, who had returned to consciousness, looked at them with astonishment, but said nothing. In a short time a shout came from the men who held the line on the inner side of the rock that the spar had reached the shore, and that Tom had hold of it. A stronger rope was soon hauled across, and then one which could bear the weight of two or three people at a time, if necessary. That was secured between the rock and the mainland. First one man made his way along it, then another and another, and all were going, with the exception of Emery and Bill, who, with Peter and old Hixon, stayed by the captain. The latter, seeing this, cried out, “Shame, lads; would you desert the captain when he is unable to help himself?” The men, however, did not heed him: they were eager to get hold of a cask of provisions which, with another of water, Tom told them had been thrown up on the island. The news made even Emery and Bill inclined to go.

“Go, if you wish it,” said the captain; “only come back and bring me some water, for I am fearfully thirsty.”

This made the men no longer hesitate. Peter sat still.

“Are you not going?” asked the captain.

“I could not leave you, sir, while you are suffering,” said Peter.

“But you want food and water as much as they do,” said the captain.

“They will bring it to me, sir,” answered Peter.

Notwithstanding what the captain said, neither Peter nor old Hixon would leave him. The latter was busily hauling pieces of planking and rope. Having collected enough for his purpose, he set to work to manufacture a cradle sufficiently large to contain the captain. Having arranged his plan he shouted to the other men to come and assist him. Two only, however, responded, Bill and the black; the remainder were wandering along the shore, looking out for whatever might be washed up. The black set the example. Bill followed him back to the rock, but they brought only a small piece of salted tongue and some biscuits, almost soaked through, but no water. The captain could only taste a very little, but there was enough to satisfy Hixon’s and Peter’s appetites. In vain the poor captain cried out for water—nothing had been found to carry it in.

“The more reason we should make haste with the cradle,” observed Hixon.

It was at length placed on the rope, with a line attached, which Bill carried across. Peter volunteered to go in it, and safely passed over. It was then hauled back, and the captain was drawn across. Hixon and the black followed. By this time the rest of the men had disappeared. The captain was soon sufficiently revived by the water which had been obtained to look about him. He told his companions that he believed they were on one of the many wild rocky islets which exist in that part of the ocean, and that they must carefully husband the water, as possibly no spring might be found.

As the captain wished to ascertain whether his surmises were correct, Peter volunteered to climb to the summit of the height above them. It was fatiguing and very dangerous work, but he succeeded at length. On looking around him, he found that they were nearly at one end of a rocky island, which extended for three or four miles to the eastward. Not a tree, or scarcely a shrub, was to be seen. In every direction all was desolation and barrenness. He returned, not without difficulty.

“I thought I was right,” said the captain. “You must do your best, my men, to collect all you can from the wreck; we shall need it; and, Gray, I have a word to say to you. You saved my life, I am told; if we ever get away from this, I will prove your friend.”

“I only did my duty, sir,” said Peter. “I thought I could save you, and God helped me.”

“You seem to have great trust in God.”

“Yes, sir,” said Peter. “He is a very present help in time of trouble, and we all have reason to trust Him.”

“I have never done so before,” whispered the captain; “but I will try in future.”

In the meantime the other three men were collecting fragments of sails and spars, pieces of rope, and several things which formed part of the cargo, a bale of cloth and another of clothing—the latter was especially acceptable to all the party, who, with the exception of Hixon and Peter, had little on when they left the ship; but of still greater value was a cask of biscuits, another of herrings, and a few pieces of pork. What the rest of the crew might have discovered they could not tell.

As the captain could not move, a hut was built of the pieces of sail and spars, and a bed having been made up beneath it with some dry grass and a piece of canvas for the captain to lie on, he and his companions prepared to pass the first night of their sojourn on the desolate rock.

Chapter Seven.

Life on the Rock.

When morning broke the gale had entirely ceased, but no part of the ship hung together, and all hope of obtaining any provisions from her, except such as might be washed up on the shore, was lost. The captain’s condition also caused his companions much anxiety; he was suffering greatly, and appeared to be weaker than on the previous day. They had breakfasted on a small portion of biscuit and tongue, but their scanty supply of water was almost exhausted at their first meal. Peter gave the captain the larger part of his share, and having drunk a little himself, entreated that the remainder might be reserved for him, as he complained greatly of thirst.

None of the rest of the crew had returned. Peter offered to stay by the captain if the three other men would go in search of them, and ascertain whether any water was to be found.

“If we are to live we must do so,” said Hixon; “come along, mates; I know Peter will look after the captain,” and they set off.

After Peter had moistened the captain’s lips, and made his bed as comfortable as he could, he said, “Shall I read to you, sir?”

“What have you got to read? How can you have any books here?” asked the captain.

Peter drew his Bible out of the canvas slung round his neck, and showed it to the captain. The cover, of course, was drenched with sea-water, but the inside was quite dry.

“Yes, you may,” was the answer; “when a man is sick as I am it is a good book to listen to, and I am fit for nothing else.”

Peter made no reply, but began to read. He came to the account of Lazarus and the rich man.

“What does Abraham’s bosom mean?” asked the captain.

“Heaven, sir,” answered Peter; “it must be a glorious place, for Christ has gone before to prepare it for those who love Him.”

“I hope when I die I shall go there,” murmured the captain, more to himself than Peter; “I have not been a bad man, or done much harm to any one, and have tried to do my duty, and have never got drunk at sea; and I hope I have done some good in my time, so I should think God would let me into heaven.”

Peter prayed that he might give a right answer. “God says, sir, in His book, that ‘there is none that doeth good, no, not one,’ and that ‘He gave His only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in Him should not perish, but have everlasting life.’ The rich man we have been reading about does not seem to have done much harm, and very likely he thought himself pretty good, and yet he went to hell.”

“Then how is a man ever to get to heaven?” asked the captain, somewhat petulantly.

“God says, ‘Believe on the Lord Jesus Christ, and thou shalt be saved.’ He wants us to take Him at His word. He tells us that our own good deeds are as filthy rags, and that we must trust to the sacrifice of Christ, to His blood shed for us; and thus we shall be clothed with His righteousness, with His pure and spotless robe; and so God will not look upon our iniquities, because He has accepted Christ’s punishment instead of what we deserved, and we shall therefore not be punished.”

Thus Peter continued to place the loving Gospel before his captain. The latter listened, often asking some more questions. At last he put his hands before his eyes, and murmured, “It’s wonderful that a mere boy should know all this, and be able to explain it so clearly. It’s true; yes, I am sure of that.”

“Let us pray, sir, that God’s Holy Spirit will bring it home to your heart,” said Peter, as if the remark had been made to him. “God has said we shall not ask in vain.”

The captain’s eye brightened; a new hope, new thoughts and feelings, rose in his bosom.

Peter again turned to his book. He read many portions, the captain appearing in no way wearied.

He was so employed when a shout reached their ears, and Peter, going out of the tent, saw old Hixon making his way down the rocks. He brought his sou’-wester full of water.

“Praised be God, we have found a spring two miles off. There was nothing else to bring it in but this,” he said, offering the water to the captain and Peter. “The rest of the men collected near it, but when I told them that they ought to come and help to carry you up the hill, captain, they said they were free now, and didn’t acknowledge any man’s authority.”

“I should have thought, Hixon, from what I know of you, that you would have been among them,” observed the captain.

“So I should, sir, a few weeks ago, but Peter there, out of his Bible, showed me what a sinner I was, and how I must love Jesus Christ and obey Him, and I know He would not have left any man to perish, and so, sir, as long as you live—and I hope we shall escape from this rock—I will not leave you.”

“Thank you, Hixon,” said the captain; “I am sure you speak the truth. But what has become of Emery and Bill?”

“They said they would stop and have some food, and then come back and try and get you up to the spring, which is a warmer and pleasanter place than this.”

In a short time the other men appeared, but the captain felt so much pain when they attempted to move him, that he begged them to let him remain where he was.

“I am afraid, sir, they will soon have eaten up all their provisions, and then they will be coming down to get what we have collected,” observed Bill. “Perhaps, if you are among them, you might persuade them to put themselves on an allowance.”

The captain sent a message by Hixon, but the men only laughed at him, and replied that a ship was sure soon to appear, and take them off, though they took no pains to make their situation known. The captain, however, told Hixon and the rest to form a flag-staff out of the spars which had been cast ashore, and to erect it on the highest point with a piece of the cloth which they had found, as a flag. They did so.

Day after day passed by, and though one or the other was constantly on the look-out, no distant sail met their anxious gaze.

Peter was thankful that the captain appeared to be slowly recovering his strength, though still unable to move. By husbanding their provisions, the little party on the shore hoped to support existence for some weeks to come.

When Hixon arrived one day with their usual supply of water, he brought word that the rest of the crew had deserted the spring and were nowhere to be seen. He thought probably that they had gone down to the shore to try and catch fish, or collect mussels, or anything that might have been thrown up. He and his companions were searching about for the same object, that they might eke out the diminishing store of their more nutritive food, and give the captain a larger supply. Peter, when not thus employed, read to the captain, as also to the other men, and Bill and the black were well pleased to listen, as were the captain and Hixon. Indeed, the light of God’s blessed truth shone on the small shipwrecked party, and shed on them its warmth and healing influence. It never occurred to young Peter to pride himself that the light shone from the lamp he carried within him.

The weather had again changed, and instead of a balmy breeze and sunshine, a fierce gale was blowing, and heavy showers came down upon their heads.

They were sitting beneath the shelter of their tent, while Peter was reading to them, when voices were heard, and several of the crew appeared. They looked wretched, and nearly starved.

“Hilloa!” cried one of them, seeing the cask of provisions near the entrance of the hut. “What, have you still got food? We thought that you must be as badly off as we are.”

The rest came up, and though the captain, with his friends, expostulated, and promised to give the men a small portion, they took possession of more than half of the remaining provisions. With the supply of food they had thus obtained, they returned to their former camp near the spring. The captain was deeply grieved.

“It would have killed me with rage a short time ago, but I feel more sorry for them now; and I am afraid the food will only prolong their lives a day or two, while the want of it may shorten ours.”

As was to be expected, in a couple of days they returned for more. Bill proposed fighting as he saw them coming, rather than give it up.

“It would only make matters worse,” observed the captain, “as they would be sure to overpower us. We must trust that God will find some way for our escape.”

The captain told Bill to give to each of them the same rations which they allowed for themselves, though it was not more than just sufficient to support life. Each day they came for their allowance, but still did not offer to assist in removing the captain. Hixon and the rest were very indignant.

The captain, however, quieted them, and insisted upon the provisions being equally shared amongst all the survivors from the shipwrecked crew.

At length, although their allowance had been still further reduced, no biscuits nor meat remained. A few herrings and some cabbages which had been washed up, and were wellnigh rotten, were the only articles of food they still had. Bill, however, came back with some birds’ eggs and he thought that soon more might be obtained should the weather clear, and the birds visit the island in greater numbers.

Peter had, with the rest, taken his turn in watching by the flag-staff. He was casting his eyes around when they fell on the sails of a vessel just rising above the horizon. He watched her eagerly—she was drawing near. He ran down the hill to give the joyful intelligence to his friends. They quickly returned with him, the captain telling them to leave him alone, as he felt quite well enough to remain by himself. Each man carried a bundle of drift-wood, some dry grass, or branches from the numerous low bushes they found in sheltered spots, to assist in lighting a beacon, should the vessel not draw near till nightfall. A tinder-box had enabled the other party to obtain a light. Bill went for it. When he told them of the ship being seen, they would not believe him.

“Get up and have a look at her,” he answered.

One of them did so. On being convinced, some showed their satisfaction by leaping about and shouting, others growled out that she would not come near the land, but none thought of praying that she might be directed towards them, or showed any gratitude at the prospect of deliverance.

On came the ship, but as she neared the island the shades of evening concealed her from sight. The beacon was immediately lighted, but they had to remain all night in the uncertainty whether it had been seen.

How anxiously they waited for the return of morning, and how eagerly they cast their straining eyes in the direction she had last appeared as daylight broke on the world of waters. As the light increased, she was seen standing for the island. A shout rose from their throats, but they themselves were startled by the hollowness of the sound.

The wind had been increasing. As she drew near, it raged furiously, and a heavy surf beat everywhere on the shore. With sinking hearts, they saw the ship haul her wind, and again stand off the dangerous rock.

“We are deserted,” cried several voices, and loud complaints were made of the stranger’s indifference to their sufferings. They watched till she was lost to sight, and most of them declared she would not return.

“If he is a Christian man I am sure he will,” said Peter, who had been sent up by the captain to ascertain how things stood. He returned with his report.

“Don’t be down-hearted, sir; God, you know, will take care of us. And even if that ship sails away, He can send another,” said Peter.

The flag was kept flying all day, and the beacon fire lighted again at night.

A few herrings and some almost rotten cabbages now alone remained; starvation threatened to overtake the shipwrecked mariners. Most of the crew gave way to despair. One or two had become almost delirious from hunger and talked of rushing into the sea and drowning themselves.

“If you do, mates, you will go into the presence of God Almighty with another great sin unrepented of on your heads, besides those you have already committed,” said old Hixon. “Let us pray to God to help and deliver us; we have no other hope.”

His words had great effect among his late shipmates; for some time they were far more orderly and quiet than they had been hitherto.

Another day passed and the gale continued blowing furiously, and the stranger did not re-appear. Again they were on the look-out. At daybreak she was not to be seen; the wind, however, had abated. As the day drew on, Peter, who was on the look-out, caught sight of a small speck in the south-east; it grew larger and larger.

“The ship; the ship!” he shouted out. The cry was taken up by those scattered about on the rock, and passed on from one to the other. They hurried away along the island in the direction she was seen. Peter waited till he was sure there could be no mistake, and then hastened down to the captain, feeling that the good news would cheer him up. Bill and the black steward were on the opposite shore collecting mussels. Hixon stood gazing at the stranger for some minutes, and then said to himself, “I had better go too, or maybe they will not tell of the captain and the rest.”

As he neared the further end of the rock he found the ship hove-to and a boat approaching the shore. On reaching the little bay into which the boat had put, he found that the starving people had tumbled into her, and that she had already shoved off. He shouted loudly. The boat put back. The captain of the ship, who had himself come in the boat with provisions and water, having heard his account, expressed his indignation at the men who would have allowed their shipmates to be left behind. They replied that they were afraid it would come on to blow again, and that the ship might be driven off and they left behind.

“I would not desert them if I had to remain a week or a month more,” answered the captain, ordering two of his crew to accompany him, and to bring a boat-sail with two spars.

“It’s some miles from here, sir,” observed Hixon.

“Never mind; if it were ten miles we will bring your sick captain with us,” was the reply.

The men told Hixon that their ship was the Myrtle, bound out to New South Wales, and their captain’s name was Barrow.

It was nearly dark when Captain Barrow reached the hut, and was thankfully welcomed by poor Captain Hauslar.

“I am afraid that for my sake you will expose your ship to risk,” observed the latter during their conversation.

“Do not trouble yourself about that, my friend; my first-mate is an excellent seamen, and my crew obedient and trustworthy. It’s too dark to go aboard to-night; we will start to-morrow, if, as I trust, you can bear the journey after a night’s rest and some food.”

The fire was quickly lighted, and a meal prepared such as the shipwrecked party had not partaken of for many a day.

“I will join you and your people in offering thanksgiving to God for His many mercies,” said Captain Barrow. “You, I trust, acknowledge Him in all your ways?”

“I did not till lately,” was the answer. And then Captain Hauslar told him that he was indebted to young Peter for being brought to the truth.

“I should like to have that boy with me, then,” observed Captain Barrow. “One youngster like that can exert a wonderful influence for good among a crew. I frequently get rough characters, and it takes long before they can be brought into order. Every assistance is of value.”

The journey to the boat was performed the next morning, Captain Barrow assisting in carrying his brother commander. Although the wind blew heavily, the ship was reached in safety, and she was once more put on her course.

Chapter Eight.

Peter rises in the World.

Captain Hauslar expressed his astonishment at the good order which prevailed on board the Myrtle.

“I have several old hands who have sailed with me for years,” observed her captain; “but many of the rest were rough enough when they joined. However, by firmness and gentleness, and treating them as fellow-beings with immortal souls, they now cheerfully do their duty, and many have been brought to know Christ and serve Him.”

Every morning and evening, when the weather permitted it, prayers were read; the men were allowed certain hours in the week for mending their clothes, and no work was permitted on Sundays except what was absolutely necessary; Captain Barrow, however, took care it should not be spent in idleness. Those who could not read were taught, and books were provided for those who could make use of them.

“Every ship that sails on the ocean might be like mine,” observed Captain Barrow.

“Yes,” was Captain Hauslar’s answer, “if every master was a Christian. Missionaries may benefit the men partially, but until the masters and officers set them a good example I fear that they will remain much as they are.”

Captain Barrow spoke frequently to Peter and old Hixon, and when the ship reached Sydney he invited them to remain on board and return with him. Both Bill and Emery also gladly entered among her crew, while Captain Hauslar took a passage back in her to England.

After this Peter made several voyages in the Myrtle; Captain Barrow gave him instruction in navigation, for which he showed so much aptitude, that after one or two voyages he was appointed third-mate, and on the next he was raised a step higher.

He had not got over his idea that his father was still alive, but where to seek for him was the question. He earnestly prayed that he might be led to find his father if he were yet alive, and he told Captain Barrow what he was so anxious about.

“There are few coasts from which a man cannot escape, except perhaps from some of the rocks in the Indian seas, or from the islands in the Pacific, which are rarely visited,” observed Captain Barrow. “I would help you if I could, though I should be sorry to part from you. I would advise you, if you still hold to your idea, to get a berth on board a ship making a roving voyage among the islands in those seas, and you might make inquiries at every place you touch at. You can but do your best, and if it is God’s will you should find him, He, depend on it, will lead you.”

However, Peter made another voyage with Captain Barrow. His first-mate having got the command of a ship, Peter obtained his berth. His Bible had ever been his constant companion, and he had not failed to make good use of it.

The Myrtle had just returned home. She required extensive repairs, and as many months would pass before she would be ready for sea, Captain Barrow told Peter that he could obtain for him the command of a vessel bound out to the Mediterranean. He was about to accept the offer when he heard that a ship, the Edgar, was to sail to the Pacific, with the master of which Captain Barrow was acquainted. The master, Captain Sandford, having no first-mate, gladly agreed, when he heard Peter Gray’s character, to give him the berth.

“I am thankful to have my first-officer a Christian,” he said; “for I have too often been defeated in my attempts to bring my crew to the truth by the indifference or hostility of my mates. Three of my men have sailed with me for years, and I can trust them; but the rest are of the ordinary stamp, though I have hopes that by our example and exhortations they may be brought in the way they should go. Ah, Mr Gray, Christians enjoy a happiness and freedom from anxiety which no others possess. I leave my family, knowing that, as His dear children, they are under God’s protection, and they, while I am tossing about on the ocean, are supported by the same faith, being sure that if I am called hence we shall meet again in heaven. When I part from my beloved wife and daughter I can always remind them of that, and the truth cheers all our hearts.”

The Edgar had a fine run down Channel, and there was so much to do in getting things in order, that there was little time for conversation.

The second-mate, Tom Berge, had never sailed with Captain Sandford before. He was a bold, hardy seaman of the rough-and-ready school, and seemed much astonished at the customs of his new captain.

“Our skipper is a good sort of man,” he observed to Peter one day, “but I don’t like so much praying and preaching. I cannot help fancying something is going to happen.”

“We want a great many things, and it seems reasonable to me that we should pray for them to God, who gives us everything.”

“But you don’t mean to say that He hears such prayers as rough chaps like me and others aboard here could say?”

“I am sure He hears the prayers of the youngest as well as the oldest of sailors as well as of landsmen,” said Peter. “Jesus Christ says He came ‘not to call the righteous, but sinners to repentance;’ and also God says, ‘The blood of Jesus Christ cleanseth from all sin;’ so of course He will listen to the roughest sinner who turns to Him.”

“Would He hear my prayers now?” asked the second-mate.

“If you turn from your sins and seek Him, certainly,” answered Peter; “for He has said, ‘Seek, and ye shall find; knock, and it shall be opened unto you,’ and that was said to all.”

At length Berge not only consented to let Peter read the Bible to him, but gladly accepted a copy of which the captain made him a present, and, becoming a diligent reader himself, before the Edgar rounded Cape Horn, could say, “I rejoice in the blood of my risen Saviour.”

There is no part of the ocean in which storms are more frequent or more terrible than off Cape Horn. Just as the Edgar sighted the Cape, she encountered a heavy gale, the seas rising in mountain billows around her.

There was on board a young lad in whom Berge had from the first taken great interest, and who had lately been brought to know Christ. As the gale was seen approaching, the order was given to close reef the topsails, and the lad, with others, flew aloft. He was on the lee yard-arm. The wind struck the ship with unexpected fury. As she heeled over, he lost his hold and fell into the foaming waters. He was a good swimmer, and struck out boldly.

“He must be saved!” cried Berge. “Who will go with me?” and, running to the falls, prepared to lower a boat.

Captain Sandford, though seeing the danger, was unwilling to stop him. While the rest hung back, the four Christian men who have been spoken of sprang to the assistance of the mate, and the ship being brought to the wind, the boat was lowered. Now she rose to the top of a foaming billow, and now she was lost to sight. Boldly she made her way towards where the youth was struggling in the waves. Just then a dark squall with tremendous force struck the ship, and a heavy sea washed over her. She escaped damage; but when the squall cleared away, the boat was nowhere to be seen! In vain those on board waited her return.

“They have been summoned hence,” said the captain; “God’s will be done, they were all prepared to meet Him. For that let us be thankful.”

For several days the ship heeled to and fro, till the wind, coming fair, she once more stood on her course, and entered the bright waters of the Pacific.

Peter observed that the captain felt greatly the loss of the brave mate and his companions. His health had been for some time failing.

One morning, when the lofty Andes had just appeared in sight, he summoned his first-mate to his bedside.

“Gray,” he said, “I feel that I shall not live out the day. I should first wish to see all the crew, and then I would have a word with you.”

The men came, one after the other, and the captain spoke affectionately and earnestly to each, urging them to seek the Saviour while He might be found, and recommending them to listen to the first-mate, who would explain the truth to them.

“Gray,” he said, when they had left him, “I must ask you to visit my wife and daughter when you get home, and bear my last message of love to them. Take this letter and deliver it, if you can, with your own hands. Send them the property I leave on board; I know that I can trust you; with things of this world I have nothing more to do. And now read some of God’s word and pray with me.”

Peter remained with the captain till the last, and with sincere sorrow closed his eyes.

Next day the ship entered the harbour of Valparaiso, where the captain was attended to his grave by most of his own crew and those of several other English merchantmen in harbour.

Peter had much felt the want of Christian sympathy in his sorrow. Among those who had attended the funeral of his late captain, he observed a tall fine-looking man with grey hair. A second glance convinced him that he was his old captain, Mr Hauslar.

“What, Gray?” exclaimed the latter, when Peter spoke to him. “I remember you now. Come on board with me; my ship lies close to yours.”

Peter had the satisfaction of finding that his former friend continued a faithful believer. Delightful to both was the conversation they had together.

The next day Captain Hauslar accompanied Peter to the agents, and from his recommendation they directed him to take command of the Edgar. A young Christian man, whose ship had been lost, but the crew rescued by Captain Hauslar, was appointed to serve as second-mate, and came accompanied by four South Sea Islanders, who were considered good seamen.

While the Edgar was getting in her stores Peter enjoyed the company of his friend, and with renewed spirits and hopes he sailed on his voyage.

The beautiful island of Otaheite and several others were visited. He then, according to his order, sailed northward, to call at the Sandwich Islands, thence to proceed to Japan and through the Indian Seas round the Cape of Good Hope homewards.

Calm as the Pacific is at times, fearful gales sweep across it. To one of these the Edgar was exposed for several days, and Peter had to exert all his skill and seamanship to preserve his ship. He did his best, and putting his trust in God, sought His protection. The gale had driven the ship considerably out of her course. For some days no observation could be taken; an anxious look-out was kept, for coral reefs and islands were near at hand, and with little warning the ship might be driven on one of them.

The night was unusually dark. Peter and his mates had never left the deck. Just as morning was about to break a cry was heard of “Land! on the lee bow!” The ship was put about, and scarcely had she come round when breakers were seen rising in a foaming wall astern.

Chapter Nine.

A Strange Discovery.

As the day dawned an island, covered with the richest vegetation, appeared rising to a considerable height, with a calm lagoon between it and the circling reef. A tempting passage was also seen leading from the stormy ocean into the lagoon.

One of the natives coming aft said that he knew it well. It was his native island, and he offered to pilot in the ship. Should the gale increase, the danger of attempting to beat off that lee shore would be great. Peter therefore at once accepted the offer. The Edgar was headed in for the lagoon. The foaming breakers roared upon either side as she shot between them, and in another minute she was gliding calmly over the smooth water of the lagoon. Piloted by the native in a short time she brought up in a beautiful bay, where she might ride securely.

Scarcely had she dropped her anchor when several canoes paddled alongside. The native hailed one of them, and the people in her came on board. They were soon affectionately greeting him, while the rest of the crew were engaged in buying fruits and vegetables and various articles which the others had brought.

In a short time he came aft to Captain Gray. The information he gave was satisfactory. When he had left the island the people had been heathens, and he had expected to find them in the same condition. Two native catechists had, however, been for some time among them, and an English missionary had a few months before arrived, whose house was situated on the shores of another bay at a little distance; he had been sent for, and would probably, ere long, be on board. Peter, knowing the treacherous character borne by many of the South Sea Islanders, had resolved not to allow his crew to go on shore, or permit more than a few natives at a time on board; he had now, however, no fears for the safety of his ship.

Peter was in his cabin, when a message was brought him that a canoe was coming off, with a white man in her.

“He must be the missionary,” he said, and hurried on deck to welcome him. The canoe came alongside, and an old man in a seaman’s dress, with white hair streaming from under his hat, stepped on board. Peter, shaking him by the hand, inquired whether he was the missionary he was led to expect would pay him a visit.

“Oh, no, sir! he is a very different sort of man to me; I only wish I was him,” was the answer. “He will be here soon, I doubt not. I came aboard to ask whether the ship was homeward bound, and you would let me work my passage in her; I have got some strength left in my old arms yet.”

“I’ll gladly give you a passage, my man,” said Peter, “if you desire to return to England. Have you been long out in these parts?”

“Ay, sir, many a year—I forget how many, for I lost all count of time when I lived among the savages, but I reckon it carefully now since I have been brought to my right mind by Mr Wilson, the missionary you have heard tell of.”

“I should have thought that at your age you would have been content to remain with him and lend him a helping hand,” answered Peter, trying to restrain hopes and feelings rising in his breast which he feared might be disappointed. “The assistance of a Christian white man would be of great value to him.”

“That maybe, sir,” answered the old man, “but there are those at home I long to see again. I left them years ago, and was shipwrecked upon these islands. For some time I had no chance of escaping. Living among the savages here, I grew to live as they lived, and forgot my home and friends. Since I have learned to love God I have been longing to see my family again, but I have not been able to get back, for I have been away on the other side of the island each time a ship has touched here. If you had left a wife and a little boy at home as I have, you would wish to get back to set your eyes again on them, and hold them in your arms.”

“A wife and a little boy!” exclaimed Peter, unable longer to restrain his eagerness to learn who the old man was. “Tell me their names, and where they lived.”

“It was at a place, maybe, you have not been to nor heard of either, seeing it’s of no great size,” answered the old man; “it’s called Springvale, and is not far from the little town of Oldport; and my name is Gray, sir, at your service.”

“Gray!” exclaimed Peter, taking the old man’s hand, and scarcely able to speak. “Come into my cabin, I wish to tell you more about your wife and son.”

Peter had no longer any doubt that his long-lost father stood before him, but he was unwilling to make himself known in sight of his crew, fearing also the effect the announcement would have on the old man.

Conducting the old sailor, whose countenance wore an expression of astonishment, down into the cabin, he closed the door, and placing him respectfully on a sofa, still holding his hand, sat himself down by his side.

“You were telling me,” he said, “that you have learned the truth, and you know, therefore, God’s love and mercy, and that He orders all things for the best. You have been very many years from home, and must be aware that though your son when you saw him last was a little boy, he must now be a grown man; your wife, too, would be an old woman. Have you ever thought of the hardships and trials to which she would probably have been exposed, left all alone to struggle with the hard world, and still having to go through them? But suppose God in His mercy had taken her to Himself, and you knew that she had been spending all these years in happiness unspeakable, would you not have cause to rejoice?”

The old sailor gazed at the young captain, scarcely able to comprehend him clearly.

“God is very merciful; He loves me, though I am a sinner, and orders all for the best. I know that is what Mr Wilson says, and he speaks the truth, for he turned me from little better than a savage into a Christian man,” answered the old sailor.

As he spoke his eyes fell on Peter’s Bible, which lay on the table with the leathern case beside it.

“What are you driving at, sir?” he exclaimed in an agitated tone. “I remember that book, as if I had seen it but yesterday; it was my wife’s. Do you know her? tell me, tell me.”

Peter placed his arm so that the old man’s head might rest on it. “My name is Gray, sir,” he said. “That book was indeed your wife’s, my mother’s, and I am very sure that I am your son.”

“You Peter, my little boy?” exclaimed the old man, gazing in his countenance. “You captain of this ship, and I have found you after these long years! God be praised! And your mother, tell me about her.”

“I tried to prepare you, sir, for what I have to say,” said Peter. “She has been among the blessed for many years, and her last prayer on earth was that I might find you that you might be brought to know the Saviour in whom she trusted.”

“God’s will be done! God’s will be done!” murmured the old man, letting his head fall on his son’s shoulder. “He knows what is best. In His mercy He took her; and I all the time living like a savage, but He found me—He found me; and He has sent you, and all through His love, to tell me about her. I began to fear that she might be poor and suffering, and you living a hard life, or sent maybe to the workhouse, but He orders all things for the best. Praise His name!”

The old man could say no more. His feelings overcoming him, he bent his head and wept like a child.

No one would have recognised the once “roaring Jack Gray,” and for some time the wild, half-clad savage, in the now venerable-looking old Christian man, who sat at supper with the young captain and the missionary who had now arrived.

“I fear that I shall lose your assistance, friend Gray,” said Mr Wilson, “though I rejoice that you have found your son.”

“I have been casting the matter in my mind, sir,” answered the old sailor, “and asking God to direct me, and, now she has gone whom I longed to see, and my son in His mercy has been sent to me, I am very sure that He does not want me to go away from this place. I should be a stranger in England, of no use to any one, and a burden to my son, and here you tell me that I am of help to you among the natives, and I think I am, as I can speak their language, and tell them about the love and mercy of God, who found them out as He found me out, and has sent His blessed Gospel of peace to them.”

“I am very sure Captain Gray will agree with me that, although he may wish to have you with him to look after you in your old age, you are more certain to enjoy happiness here, knowing that you are of use to your fellow-creatures, than you would be in returning to the land you have so long left.”

“I do not wish to bias my father,” said Peter, “and I am very sure that, seeking direction from God, he will be directed aright.”

“It is settled then, my son,” said the old sailor, looking up, “I’ll remain with Mr Wilson, and help him. I can say with old Israel, about whom he was reading to me the other day, when he saw Joseph, ‘Now let me die since I have seen thy face, because thou art yet alive.’”

Peter agreed that his father was right in the resolution he had come to.

The first-mate, and several of the crew who had visited old Mr Gray in his hut, begged that they might be allowed to put up a more comfortable dwelling for him. Peter thankfully accepted their offer, and several of the natives, finding what they proposed doing, gave their assistance. In a short time a neat cottage was erected in the shelter of a cocoanut grove, with a verandah in front and a garden fenced in on one side. Peter had also the satisfaction of taking on shore some clothing and a number of articles which he thought might be of use to his father, as well as a store of provisions such as were likely to keep in that climate.

“Peter, you are over-generous to me,” said the old man, when the gifts arrived, “I never did anything for you.”

“You must consider them as God’s gifts; if He had not bestowed them on me I could not have offered them to you,” answered Peter.

“I see, I see,” said the old man; “He orders all for the best, praise His name.”

Peter paid several visits to Mr Wilson, who, with his wife, had now been nearly a year on the island. He disclaimed any part in the conversion of the old sailor, that having been brought about by the instrumentality of the two native catechists who had preceded him. By that time a large number of the inhabitants of that part of the island had burned their idols, and become nominal Christians, while a very considerable portion were communicants, and evidently endeavouring to walk in the footsteps of the Master they professed to serve.

“There is still, however, a wide field for our labours,” observed Mr Wilson, “for which I trust your father will be spared many years with me.”

Stormy weather, and the necessity of refitting and making certain repairs which the Edgar required, and for which the sheltered harbour afforded peculiar facilities, kept her there for upwards of a fortnight; when parting from his father, Peter proceeded on his voyage to England.

The Edgar arrived in safety in England. Peter had made a successful voyage, and found himself the possessor of more money than he had ever expected to receive.

As soon as the ship was safe in dock, and he had performed all the duties required of him, he left her in charge of the first-mate and proceeded to pay the promised visit to his late captain’s widow and daughter. He found them living in a neat little cottage near London. Mrs Sandford had heard of her husband’s death, and cordially welcomed Captain Gray. She was anxious to receive an account of the last days of his life, which he alone could afford.

“He died as he lived, trusting to the all-sufficient merits of Jesus Christ his Saviour,” said Peter; “it is a blessed thing, Mrs Sandford, that God’s promises are sure, and that those who thus die are taken to be with Him.”

“Indeed it is, Captain Gray; I know that I shall meet my dear husband in His glorious presence, and my daughter enjoys the same certain hope. That confidence has taken away the sting of grief which we should otherwise have felt. It was he who led us to the truth, and constantly charged us to be prepared for what has occurred: he, indeed, seemed to be aware that he should be taken during one of his voyages, yet none the less did he trust in God that all would be well.”

Mrs Sandford, after some further conversation, asked whether he intended going home or taking up his residence in London while he remained on shore, “because,” she added, “as our means are limited, I purpose taking lodgers, if such offer as I should be willing to receive.”

“I have no home,” said Peter, and he gave her an outline of his history; “if, therefore, you can accommodate me I shall be very glad to remain here.”

Soon after this, Mrs Sandford’s daughter Susan entered the room. She was a pleasing, quiet, gentle girl, and appeared fully to share her mother’s faith; and when Peter had talked with her for some time, he felt sure from the remarks she made that she was a true and earnest Christian. Peter had thought and read a good deal. Captain Sandford had left a well-selected library on board. His knowledge had become greatly enlarged, without in any way having his simple faith weakened. The little shepherd-boy was now the thoughtful, intelligent, and gentlemanly man, not possessed, perhaps, of the polish which mixing in the great world gives, but that far more enduring refinement which constant communion with Christ affords. Worldly people, though acknowledging the benefit of Christianity, know not its true source, and are surprised to find Christ’s humble disciples so free from coarseness, and so gentle and courteous in their manners.

Susan had been taught in the same school.

Several weeks passed away. Peter came to the conclusion that he should wish to marry no other woman than Susan Sandford. Perhaps Susan had discovered this, for he was not a person who could well hide his feelings; at all events he ventured to tell her so, and she promised to become his wife. He would gladly have married before going to sea, but Mrs Sandford, who was a prudent woman, insisted on his waiting till he had returned from his next voyage.

That voyage was a long one, for the owners again sent the Edgar into the Pacific. Peter was able to pay a visit to his father, whom he found labouring with devoted zeal as a catechist among the natives, and submitting humbly to the directions he received from Mr Wilson, the missionary. The old man was delighted to hear of his son’s intended marriage, and begged him if he could to bring out his wife to see him.

“The utmost desire of my heart will then be fulfilled,” he exclaimed; “and, oh! how loving has God been to me by bringing me in His great mercy out of darkness into His glorious light! Every day I live I wonder more and more; and, Peter, it is my belief I shall go on wondering through all eternity, because I am sure we shall never understand the love and mercy of Jesus, the author and finisher of our faith, in all its fulness.”

Peter willingly promised to do as the old man wished. Had he still been the rough ignorant sailor Jack Gray once was, he might have felt an unwillingness to introduce his wife to him, even though he was his father; but now how different was the case when he was to bring her to the venerable Christian, patriarchal in appearance, and mild in manners, so gentle and loving to all around! It was a pleasure to see the natives come up and speak to him, they all evidently holding him in great respect.

Again the Edgar had a prosperous voyage, and Peter having yet further increased his means of supporting a wife, Mrs Sandford no longer hesitated to allow her daughter to marry. She had a further reason; her own health was failing, and before the Edgar was ready for sea Susan lost her mother.

When Peter proposed that his wife should accompany him, she gladly consented, and as the natives among whom his father lived had promised to collect a large quantity of cocoanut oil to ship on board the Edgar, Peter was once more able to visit the island.

He was told on his arrival that his father was ill.

The old man’s eyes brightened up at the sight of his sweet-looking daughter-in-law and son. He blessed them both, and entreated that they would spend the evening at his house. He spoke cheerfully, and with great thankfulness, of the progress of the Gospel in the island. Peter hoped that he might yet be spared to spend many more years in his useful labours among the dark-skinned natives.

The following day, however, a relapse occurred, and holding his daughter with one hand, his head resting on his son’s arm, and his faithful friend Mr Wilson and the two catechists standing by, the old sailor breathed his last—a heavenly smile resting on the face of the once “roaring Jack Gray.”

Peter made many voyages accompanied by his loving wife, and by foresight and prudence having realised a little independence, added to what her father had left Susan, he was able to purchase the plot of ground on which his mother’s cottage stood with several acres around. Here having built a neat house, he settled down, and making his Bible a light to his path and a lamp to his feet, his abode was truly as a light set on a hill, he and his family proving a blessing to all around.

W.H.G. Kingston

"Manco, the Peruvian Chief"

Chapter One.

My family and home—We conceal a fugitive Indian.

It was evening. The sun had just set beneath the waters of the Pacific, which could be distinguished in the far distance; and the whole western sky, undimmed by a cloud, was burning with a radiant glow of splendour such as to the eyes of the untutored Peruvians might well appear an emanation from the Deity they worshipped.

I was looking out, with others of my family, from the windows of the country house we inhabited, on the glorious spectacle. We were residing in Peru, that romantic region with which the name of the conqueror Pizarro must be for ever associated—the kingdom of the once powerful and enlightened Incas, on the western shore of South America. At the time of which I speak, however, its greatness, its prosperity and happiness, had passed away; it was a mere province of Old Spain, and governed by a viceroy sent from that country, while the race of its ancient sovereigns, though still existing, was humbled and disregarded, and almost unknown.

My parents were English, and England was my native land. My father, Mr Henry Rexton, had been a soldier in his youth; but when he married my mother, who was the daughter of an eminent British merchant, he quitted the army; and my grandfather induced him, by advantageous offers, to take a share in his house of business. The firm traded with Peru; and certain mercantile transactions of importance requiring for a time the superintendence of a partner, my father and mother went out there, taking with them me and a younger sister, their only children then born. Year after year unexpected circumstances occurred which compelled them, much against their wish, to remain in the country; and well do I remember how frequently in our family circle the subject of conversation was the happiness we expected to enjoy on returning home. On first going to Peru, we resided in Lima, the modern capital; but at length the heat of the climate affecting my mother’s health, in the hopes of it being restored by a cooler atmosphere, my father engaged a house in the country, at a considerable distance from the city. It was situated among the lower ranges of the lofty Cordilleras, one of those mighty ranges of mountains which stretches from one end to the other of the South American continent, the eastern portion of them being more properly known by the name of the Andes.

Our house stood on a level spot on the summit of a spur of the main chain. To the east behind it rose range above range of mountains, the more distant towering to the sky, and covered with eternal snows. On either side other spurs stretched out far towards the west, forming deep gorges below us; while along the side of the ridge on which the house was situated ran a narrow road, one of the few paths in that neighbourhood, penetrating among the mountains into the regions on the eastern side. From our windows westward, over a wide extent of broken ground among the mounds, many of which might in other countries be called mountains, would be seen the fertile plains of Peru stretching away to the ocean, distinguished on clear days by a silvery line in the horizon. The house was of one floor only, and built of brick and tiled. The rooms were large and numerous, and it was surrounded by a court-yard. It was of ancient construction, indeed it appeared to have been built originally for a fortification to command the pass through the mountains; but the outer walls had fallen into decay or been pulled down, though it still retained enough of its former character to enable it to be speedily prepared to resist any sudden attack by undisciplined forces destitute of artillery. Around it were plantations of olive and orange trees, on the slopes near it were vineyards, and on the level spaces fields of maize or Indian corn, and many trees and plants of a temperate clime. At the bottom of the ravine rushed a broad and powerful stream, fed by the snows of the neighbouring mountains; and on its banks, in a wider part, some little way to the west, was a large village inhabited chiefly by Indians, the descendants of the hapless race conquered by the Spaniards. In the neighbourhood, on the other side of the river, was a silver mine, in working which many of the inhabitants of the village were employed.

My father’s house had, I believe, advanced money to the owners; and this was one of the reasons which made him select the locality for his temporary residence, besides its peculiar healthiness and beauty. He was a firm friend to the Indians, for he pitied their hard fate; and he endeavoured by every means in his power to mitigate their sufferings under the cruel tyranny to which, even at that time, they were subjected. As he did not own the mine, he could not prevent their strength from being often overtaxed; but having some knowledge of medicine, he used to prescribe for them when they were sick, and he to the best of his means relieved them when overtaken by poverty, so that they all learned to love and reverence the English stranger who had come among them. His conduct was uninfluenced by any expectation of a return, but he afterwards had reason to know that the despised Indians were not ungrateful for his kindness. My father was a true Christian, who looked upon all men helpless or suffering, whatever their hue, or race, or religion, as brothers, whom it was his duty to aid and protect. He received his reward; and my belief is, that no person ever performs a good disinterested action without being rewarded for it even in this world. I, at all events, have met with numerous instances which tend to show that such is the case. The means of crossing the river to the mines was by a large hanging bridge, called by the Spaniards “Puente de Soga,” which could be seen from the windows of our house. On either side of the river, some fifty feet above the water, stout posts were driven into the steep bank, to which four ropes, formed of twisted cow-hides the thickness of a man’s arm, were fastened. These ropes were laid parallel to each other, a few feet apart; and were again fastened by thinner ropes laid transversely, and forming a sort of network. On this foundation were spread roots of the Agave tree, branches of trees, straw, and earth, so that even beasts of burden could walk across. On either side of the bridge, and about three feet above it, two other ropes were carried across to serve as a balustrade; but as it had sunk in the middle, and the ropes were very slack, it frequently swung from side to side as passengers went across, in a most terrific way. It formed a very picturesque object in the landscape.

I have now given a sufficiently full description of our house and the scenery surrounding it, to enable my readers to form a tolerably correct idea of the picture I wish to present to them.

At the time when the adventures I have resolved to narrate commenced, I had just attained my fifteenth year. I looked older, for I had grown rapidly in that warm climate; and, accustomed to exercise and athletic sports, I was of a well-knit strong frame, and had a very manly appearance, though possessed of the light hair and complexion of the Saxon race, somewhat tanned, however, by constant exposure to the sun. My brothers and sisters, for I had several, all bore the same marked characteristics of our Northern ancestors, contrasting strongly with the swarthy hue on the countenances of the people among whom we lived. They used to call us the fair-haired children of the North; and from the love and respect with which they regarded us, I believe they associated us in their minds with the revered race whom their traditions told them once ruled the country with paternal sway—the family of the fallen Incas.

I shall have to tell more fully, in the course of my narrative, the beautiful legend, for so I may call it, regarding the origin of the Incas; how they appeared suddenly among the ignorant inhabitants of Peru, claiming to be the children of the Sun, and, gathering their scattered tribes together, formed them into one people, and gave them laws and institutions, and brought peace and prosperity to the land, which continued till the Spaniards arrived, and, with unexampled treachery and cruelty, overthrew their monarchy and reduced the people to abject slavery and misery. The Indians around us were nominally Roman Catholics; but though they conformed openly to the ordinances of that Church, and partly believed in the power assumed by its priests, they pertinaciously retained many of the superstitions of their ancestors, and practised their rites in secret.

Having given a brief account of my family, and their position in the country, I must begin to unwind the thread of my Tale. We were seated, as I have said, in our sitting-room, gazing on one of the most magnificent of Nature’s spectacles—the setting sun. The younger children were playing about the room, while my sister Lilly and I, with our father and mother, were seated near the open window. We were talking, I well remember, about our distant home, when our conversation was interrupted by seeing a man leap over the wall of the court-yard, and rapidly approach the house.

“Who can he be? What brings him here?” exclaimed my mother, while my father rose to make inquiries on the subject.

Scarcely had she spoken, when the door was thrown open, and the person we had seen rushed into the room. He was a tall man, of well-knit, active frame, and though he looked travel-stained and weary, there was something in his appearance and manner which betokened that he was not an ordinary being. His complexion was dark, though scarcely darker than that of a Spaniard; but the contour of his features and the expression of his countenance showed that he belonged to the Indian race. His dress was simple, consisting of a pair of trowsers, and a shirt of the cotton cloth of the country, of a dark blue colour; a poncho of alpaca wool covered his shoulders, while a sash was fastened round his waist, and his feet were protected by sandals, fastened on by leather thongs. He threw himself on the ground before my father, who went to meet him, and taking his hand, he looked up imploringly in his face.

“Save me, Señor!” he exclaimed in Spanish, “you have the power if you will venture to do it. I am flying from what they call justice—the tyranny of our cruel task-masters. If I am captured, my death is certain. You are noble and generous, and I throw myself on your mercy.”

The appeal thus made, with all the energy of despair, was difficult to resist. My father’s feelings were enlisted on the side of the fugitive; but he looked round at my mother and us, who now stood grouped about him, and remembered the difficulties to which we might be exposed, should he yield to the promptings of his heart, from the anger of the Spanish authorities. The Indian divined his thoughts.

“You run no danger,” he continued. “Far be it from me to cause you to suffer for your charity. No one saw me approach your house; neither did your servants observe me enter it. I was on my way through the mountains to the far interior, but not daring to enter any house for food and rest, I felt that my strength was forsaking me, and that I could not hope to combat with the difficulties of the road. If you cannot shelter me, noble Señor, either I must die from fatigue, or be captured by my enemies.”

“Of what crime have you been guilty, that you thus seek to fly from justice?” asked my father.

“Of no crime, Señor, believe me,” replied the Indian in a proud tone, rising to his feet as he spoke. “Of no crime in the sight of Heaven, or even of men, if they had regard to justice. I was selected for the hated Meta, I, a descendant of the great Incas, was ordered to work as a slave—a Pongo in the house of a sub-delegado, a man noted for his crimes and cruelty. I refused to perform the disgraceful office—I was dragged there by force—with a thong he endeavoured to frighten me into performing the work he ordered. His rage surpassed all bounds; he struck me again and again. Was I tamely to submit? My dormant spirit was aroused. I at length struck him again; and when he rushed at me in his fury, I felled him to the ground. I attempted to fly, but I was captured ere I could do so, and was borne off to prison, there to await my doom, which would have been death. My name was unknown. They thought I was an humble Indian; but some of my race were at hand, and, aided by them, I effected my escape from prison. My friends could not conceal me, and my only course was instant flight into the mountains.”

“Let us shelter him, Henry,” exclaimed my mother, in English; “Heaven surely will not allow us to suffer injury from doing what is right.”

The Indian at once comprehended by her looks that she was pleading his cause.

“May the blessing of the God of my fathers light on you and yours!” he cried, kneeling at her feet.

My father thought as she did; but he had learned not to give way on a sudden to the impulse of his feelings, and he wished to ascertain that the Indian was not deceiving him before he promised his protection.

“Who are you?” he asked; “though your tale, alas! is too probable to be doubted.”

“I am one who would not be guilty of a falsehood to save my life,” answered the Indian proudly; “I am the cousin of the Cacique Tupac Amaru, the rightful heir of the last Inca of Peru. You see in me one of the children of the Sun; and though the blood of the conquerors of my country is mixed in my veins, I feel that of my fathers still burning strongly within me. I had heard of your charity and kindness to my people; and for long I have known you, hoping some day to repay you; but I see that you fear my presence might risk the safety of your family, and I will not trespass on you. Give me but some food to sustain my wearied body, and I will depart.”

My father took the stranger’s hand. “You shall not go,” he said. “I will trust you, and at all hazards I will endeavour to conceal you till your strength is recruited. David,” he continued, speaking to me, “see that the servants do not come into this part of the house till I have concealed this poor fellow; and remember, children, do none of you on any account speak of what has occurred. Now, my friend,” he added, turning to the Indian, “follow me; I trust in the truth of your story, and will endeavour to preserve you from injury.”

While I went out to the end of the passage to send any of the domestics back who might by chance have been coming to that part of the house, my father led the Indian to a large unfurnished room, which the children used as a play-room in rainy weather. At one end was a deep recess in the wall, with a door to it, and from the recess a narrow flight of steps led to a vault of considerable depth, from whence there was a passage to the side of the mountains. In the roof of the chamber there was a small trap-door, through which a thin ladder conducted to the roof of the house. It had evidently been constructed when the building was used as a fortification, and was probably intended to enable the garrison to make a sudden sortie on the enemy at an unexpected point. The outside entrance was blocked up by rubbish overgrown with vegetation; and my father had caused a strong door to be placed to the vault, to prevent any intruder, who might by chance have found his way through it, from entering the house. He always kept the keys himself; and as no one ever thought of wishing to enter the recess, a securer place for the concealment of the fugitive could not have been found. Our evening meal was, fortunately, spread in the parlour, so that we were able to supply our guest with the refreshment he so much required, without exciting the suspicion of the servants. I must remark that several of them, of the higher class, were Spanish, though the rest were Indians; and though we believed them to be honest and faithful, my father did not consider it right to trust them with a secret which might compromise them as well as himself and all his family.

He was very sensible, even as it was, of the risk that he was running; but he had resolved, at all hazards, to preserve the unfortunate man who had thrown himself on his protection. While I kept watch, my mother collected some bedding, and took it into the closet; so that in a few minutes our guest was made as comfortable as circumstances could allow. He ate sparingly of the food placed before him, and then, expressing his deep gratitude for the protection afforded him, he threw himself on his couch, and sought the repose he so much needed. My father having secured the door, called me to him, and we all again assembled in the sitting-room as if nothing had occurred, till summoned by the servant to our evening meal. The arrival of the stranger had, however, an influence on my future fortunes.

While our servant José, who was a Spanish Creole, was waiting at table, I could not help looking into his face to try and discover if he suspected anything; but the look of perfect unconsciousness which his countenance bore reassured me. I was afraid also that the children might betray it to their nurses; but our mother had kept them carefully shut up in the sitting-room while our father was concealing the stranger, so that they were under the impression that he had gone away. Lilly and I were therefore the only ones in the secret.

Chapter Two.

Unwelcome visitors.

When we retired to rest, all night long I dreamed of the unhappy descendant of the Inca who was beneath our roof. Some of the incidents of which I had read in Peruvian history were strongly mixed up in my mind with the reality, with the indistinctness which generally occurs in dreams.

I thought our guest was the mild and unfortunate Huascar, the rightful Inca of Peru, who was a prisoner in the hands of his fierce brother Atahualpa when the Spaniards attacked Peru with their small but determined band of robber-warriors. I thought I was aiding Huascar to escape from among his brother’s army. We had passed the guards, who were fast asleep, when we came to a broad river. We attempted to swim across, when I felt my strength failing me. Huascar was bravely buffeting the stream by my side. Suddenly the bank was lined with troops. They shouted to us, and let fly a cloud of arrows at the Inca. He stopped swimming. I endeavoured to drag him on; but as I grasped at him he sank below the water. The shouts grew louder. I awoke. The noise was real, for I heard the voices of some men calling in Spanish at the court-yard gate, and desiring to be let in.

I trembled with alarm; for I at once suspected that the strangers must be the emissaries of government come in search of our guest. I jumped up and began to dress myself, intending to go out to inquire who they were; but before I had left my room I heard José, the servant, hold a parley with them at the gate.

“Who are you,” he asked, “who come at this unreasonable hour to disturb a quiet family?”

“Open in the king’s name, and we will let you know,” was the answer he received.

“I must get my master’s leave first, and he is fast asleep,” he replied.

“We are government officers in search of a fugitive malefactor, and are benighted on our road; so you must awake your master whoever he is, and he will not refuse to give us shelter,” they exclaimed.

I now went out to join José. He was afraid they were robbers; and I suspected that they by some means knew that the fugitive was harboured in the house, and only made this a pretext to gain an entrance. Fortunately my father was not awakened by the noise, or he might have had more difficulty than had the servant in answering the questions put by the officers of justice. Opening a slide in the gate through which he could look out, José let the light of the lantern fall on the strangers, and the inspection convinced him that they were what they represented themselves to be.

“Be quick there,” said the strangers, “for we have but a short time to rest, and we must speedily be again on our road.”

“What shall I do, Master David?” said José. “If we do not let them in they will batter down the door; but still I do not like to disturb the Señor Rexton. They do not look like robbers, so it is all right.” With the knowledge that the Indian concealed in the house was in all probability the fugitive the officers were seeking, I felt that it was all wrong, and would have given much to have kept them out; but still I saw that it would be equally dangerous to attempt to do so. My heart all the time was beating audibly with agitation; and I was afraid that even José would suspect the secret. However, I replied, “Let them in, José, by all means, and do you attend to what they require.”

He accordingly withdrew the bolts and bars of the gate, and two chief officers—alguazils they are called—and four subordinates made their appearance.

Two of them remained without to take care of their horses. They were all fierce, rough-looking fellows, armed with muskets, pistols in their belts, and swords by their sides. The officers of justice (though I do not think the name is a proper one) were often pardoned banditti, cut-throats and robbers of the blackest dye, who were glad to accept the office as an alternative for the garotte; and I believe our visitors were of that description. The inferiors were Mestizos, half Indian and half Spaniards by descent, with dark brown complexions and savage countenances—altogether gentlemen of a very unprepossessing appearance. They were accompanied by a dog, a huge, savage-looking hound, whom they called by the very ugly name of Demonio. If he was a bloodhound, as at first I thought he was, I felt that the detection of the Indian would be certain.

“You were a long time opening the gate, friend,” observed, one of them as they strode into the house. “You took us for robbers, I suppose?”

“O no, Señor, not at all,” said José; “but a servant should not let strangers into the house without his master’s leave.”

“Is that young señor your master then?” inquired the alguazil.

“He is my master’s son; my master is Señor Rexton, an Englishman, and he is fast asleep,” said José.

“Well, you need not disturb him then; all we want is food and shelter for the night,” replied the alguazil. “Be quick with the former, some straw and blankets will serve us for beds. While, hark you, do you send some one to show the way to the stables, that our beasts may be looked after; they require food as much as we do.”

“All shall be done you request, Señores; in the mean time, follow me,” said José; and what was my dismay to see him lead the way to the large empty room I have spoken of, close to which the Indian was concealed! I dared not interfere, lest I might excite their suspicions; so I thought it best to let José follow his own course. Having dragged in a table from one of the other rooms, he placed a lighted candle on it, and then hurried off to call up some of the other servants to help him, leaving me alone with the officers. I was afraid of speaking to them, lest they should ask me questions; so I made signs that the servant would quickly return with what they required. I dared not even look towards the door of the secret passage, to which every instant I expected to see some of them go for the purpose of examining it. However, somewhat to my relief, they seemed not to notice the door, but throwing themselves on the ground, stretched out their limbs to rest themselves, while their hound Demonio crouched down at their feet with his head between his fore-paws, ready to spring up in a moment. I saw by the glare of his half-closed eyes that he was all the time wide awake, and eager to spring upon any one who might molest him or his masters.

My anxiety made me fancy that José was a long time absent, but he had really been away only a few minutes, when he returned with another servant, bringing a supply of bread and meat, and wine. Some chairs were carried into the room; and the officers being joined by their companions, they attacked the viands with a good will. Had José been in the secret, he might have betrayed it, but his perfectly collected manner gave no cause for suspicion.

“You do not chance to have seen or heard anything of an Indian, an atrocious villain who has escaped from justice, and is supposed to have taken the path by this up the mountains?” asked one of the officers.

O how my heart did beat as I heard this! José assured them with an air of perfect disembarrassment that he knew nothing of any Indian fugitive. His answers seemed to satisfy them. He next brought in some bundles of straw and blankets to serve as bedding.

“There, Señores, I hope that you will make yourselves at home, and sleep soundly after your supper,” he observed, as he deposited them in different parts of the room.

“No fear of it, friend; we will not forget your hospitality,” said the chief alguazil, as he helped himself to a large tumbler of wine.

I was glad to see them apparently so well satisfied; but at the same time I thought I detected a sinister expression in the eye of the speaker, with which I was not altogether satisfied. The hound Demonio, too, gave me some uneasiness; for though he came back to catch the pieces of meat thrown to him by the officers, he employed himself meanwhile in snuffing round the room in a very suspicious manner. José stood quietly by to attend to their wants.

“Can I do anything more for you, Señores!” he asked.

“Another flask of this wine will not be objectionable, and a bundle of cigars would be welcome,” answered the chief alguazil, laughing at the thought of the comfortable quarters into which he had fallen, and determined to make the most of them.

“Certainly, Señores; I am sure my master would not object to afford all you require,” said José, going out to fetch what was asked for.

While he was absent, what was my horror to see the dog, who had now finished his meal, begin to snuff vehemently under the door of the secret passage, and then to work away with his paws, as if to try and open it! I turned pale with alarm, for I knew that all must be discovered; but still I thought it best to take no notice of the circumstance.

“What does the dog want there?” said one of the men.

“Rats are there, I suppose,” remarked another, whose wits the wine had somewhat dulled.

“Demonio has a strange fancy for rats,” said a third.

“Rats or not, I should like to have a look behind the door,” observed the chief alguazil, as the dog’s excitement increased.

I said nothing, and the officers seemed to fancy that I could not understand Spanish, so they did not trouble me with questions. Just then José returned.

“What is inside that door?” asked the chief alguazil abruptly.

“Nothing that I know of but an empty cupboard,” he answered quietly. “The room is little used, so that I never saw it opened.”

“Bring the key, and let us see,” said the alguazil.

“I have not the key; and if there is one, my master must have it, and I cannot disturb him for such a fancy,” replied José. “The dog smells a rat; there are many in the house, and he will soon be quiet.”

But the dog would not be quiet, neither was the alguazil satisfied; and at last José was obliged to say that he would go and ask my father for the key. I followed him out of the room.

“José, I will go to my father and get the key, while you stay with the strangers,” I said to him. “Give them plenty of wine, and amuse them as long as you can.”

I hurried to my father’s room to consult what was to be done; though I intended not to mention that the key had been asked for till he had come into the passage, as of course my mother would be very much alarmed at hearing of it.

I had got him out into the passage, and was mentioning the unwelcome arrival of the Spaniards in as calm a tone as I could command, when it struck me that I might prevent his being implicated in the secretion of the fugitive if I took the whole blame upon myself. I at last told him of the suspicions the behaviour of the horrid dog had aroused in the minds of the officers; and entreated him, by every argument I could think of, to let me manage the affair as best I could.

“They can scarcely inflict any severe punishment on me,” I observed, “while they might drag you off to prison, and leave my mother and brother and sisters without a protector.”

“I must take the consequences of what I have done,” he returned. “At the same time I do not repent having endeavoured to save the poor fellow. The act was right, and that must be my consolation.”

But I was not so easily to be turned aside from my purpose; and at last he consented to let me take the key, and to use it if driven so to do, while he remained in his room. I returned, as may be supposed, in no great hurry to the hall; and as I got close to it I heard, amid the loud talking of the Spaniards and José, who was doing his best to amuse them, the scratching and snarling of the savage brute at the door.

“My master is incapable of breaking the laws; that I can assure your Excellencies,” I heard José say. “If the man you seek is inside there, he did not put him in, you may depend on it. If you find anything, it will be a rat or a little mouse, perhaps, for which all this fuss is to be made.”

“What you say may be true, friend; but if the key is not brought we must break open the door,” observed one of the Spaniards. “The dog is not a pure bloodhound; but he has enough of the race in him to know the difference between an Indian and a rat.”

At last I thought it better to go in with the key. When I reached the door of the passage, the brute snarled at me savagely, and I fully believe would have sprung upon me and torn me limb from limb, had not his masters called him off. I trembled so with agitation that I could scarcely apply the key to the keyhole. Luckily the light did not fall on me, or it would have been perceived.

“Come, young Señor, be quick about it; somebody is in there—of that I can be sworn,” exclaimed the alguazil.

“There, take the key yourself, and try and open it,” I answered, hoping that as he did so the Indian would rush out and make his escape, though his chance was a forlorn one. The officer took the key; some of his men approached with lights, while others held their swords and pistols ready for use. José looked very much astonished, though in no way alarmed at the proceedings; but I knew too well what was about to be revealed. The door flew open, and the men and their hateful dog rushed in. The fate of the poor Indian was sealed, I thought. I followed, expecting to see them tearing him to pieces. What, then, was my astonishment and satisfaction to find not a trace of him remaining! The bedding, and even the dishes in which his food had been carried to him, were nowhere to be seen.

“There, I told you so,” exclaimed José triumphantly, “there were nothing but rats.”

But the dog was not so easily satisfied; and to my horror he rushed down the narrow flight of steps leading to the secret outlet. The door at the bottom I knew was locked, and I too justly feared that the Indian would be found there. The officers hesitated about descending; for as only one could go at a time, they saw that a determined man might kill them in detail, if so inclined; so they sent their inferiors forward to make the experiment. I stood by, waiting the result with increased anxiety; for I felt that if the Indian should kill some of the officers, the difficulties of our position would be still more increased. The dog led the way, and I hoped would be the only victim; the others followed very reluctantly. Some time passed; but still there was no sign of their having discovered the fugitive.

“Have you found the rat?” shouted José, laughingly, from above.

“Bring the key of the other door,” thundered the alguazil in return from below. I had got it, but I did not say so.

“Of what door do you speak?” asked José, in real ignorance of the fact that there was a door. I was anxious to gain all the time possible, believing that the Indian must have made his escape through the passage; so I let them talk on till the alguazil peremptorily ordered me to open the door, threatening me with all sorts of pains and penalties if I refused to obey.

“I have heard that there is a long passage leading no one knows where,” exclaimed José; “so, Señores, if you are going to explore it, you had better take some torches, or you may chance lose your way.”

“Bring them here instantly,” shouted the alguazil.

“If you are wise men you will amuse yourselves with the wine flasks while I go to prepare them,” said José. The advice was too agreeable to be neglected, and I was very glad to see the men return and again seat themselves at the table. While they were drinking and José was absent, the dog however continued running up and down the steps, and smelling in every direction.

The officers seemed to enjoy their wine so much that I was in hopes that their suspicions were lulled, and at all events I rejoiced that the Indian would have more time afforded him for making his escape. José at last returned with the torches, which were composed of twisted straw dipped in pitch; and the chief officer descending with less caution than before, led the way, the rest following. At the bottom of the steps was a tolerably broad space, which enabled me to pass the men so as to reach the door, where the hound, snarling at me as I approached, stood ready to rush through at his prey as I supposed. How the Indian could have escaped, still, however, remained a mystery to me. After several attempts I succeeded in turning the rusty lock, and a dark passage cut through the solid rock opened before us. The wet dropped from the roof as we proceeded, and, combined with the noxious exhalations which proceeded from the farther end, almost extinguished the torches.

“It is folly in me accompanying these men,” I thought to myself; and just then a recess appearing in the rock, I stepped into it and let the rest pass me. José was the last; I touched him as he reached me, and whispered to him to return.

He either did not hear me, or wished to watch the proceedings of the alguazil and his subordinates. As I had no torch, I groped my way with no little difficulty to the foot of the stairs, thinking José was following me. To my horror, just as I was about to ascend, I heard the low-muttered growl of the savage hound, and the next instant I found my leg seized in his jaws.

“Help, José, help!” I cried out, but not loud, lest the officers should hear me; “the brute will kill me else.”

But José was not, as I supposed, at hand. I felt the dog moving his jaws higher up my leg, as if he evidently was about to pull me to the ground, while the pain he inflicted almost paralysed me. I certainly was no coward, but I shrieked in my agony. In another moment he would have mastered me, when, by the faint light which came through the door of the room above, I saw a dark figure spring down the steps. The dog let go his hold of me to fly at the new-comer but was met by the point of a sharp dagger, which pierced his breast, and uttering a low yell of pain and rage, the brute fell dead at my feet. The Indian—for my preserver was the fugitive—without speaking, assisted me in dragging the dog out of sight under the steps, and then whispering, “Say not a word about the dog, he will not be discovered,” again sprung up the steps.

I followed him, fearing that the men in the room above would discover him. I caught sight of him as he ascended to the roof of the alcove, by means of a single rope which hung to the ground. In the roof was a trap-door, through which he disappeared, and closed it silently after him, having first drawn up the rope. Again going below, I met José, and told him that the dog was dead, charging him to ask no questions, and to say nothing about it.

I was much afraid lest the men should discover the dog; for the fact of his remaining near the stairs might make them suspect that the Indian was concealed near at hand. My trousers were fortunately only a little torn, though, as the brute’s teeth had met in the calf of my leg, I felt a considerable amount of pain; but I did my best to conceal it, lest the men should accuse me of killing the dog. I might with truth have replied that I had not killed him, but they would then have asked who did, to which question I could not have replied. As the life of a fellow-being was at stake, I felt the importance of being very circumspect in everything I did.

When we returned to the room, the two men who had been left there inquired what had become of their comrades.

“Hunting rats or spirits, for they will find nothing else down there I am sure,” answered José, unconcernedly. “They will be back soon, I warrant, after their fool’s chase, begging your pardon, Señores.”

His words were verified more speedily than he expected, for at that moment cries and shouts were heard, and the officers came tumbling up the steps as fast as their legs could carry them, with their hair almost standing on end, and their eye-balls starting from their heads. One had lost his cap, another his sword, and all their torches; they were also wet and dirty from scraping against the sides of the cavern. They declared that they had been set upon by a whole legion of demons, who had blown out their torches and attacked them with teeth and claws, so that they were glad to escape with their lives.

“For the love of heaven shut the door, or they will be up here after us!” shouted the last of the men, as he rushed into the room.

I, as may be supposed, hurried down with joyful alacrity to obey the order, and coming back without encountering any of the demons, closed the upper door after me.

“I said you were going on a fool’s errand,” said José; “your pardon for the remark, Señores. But let me fill up your glasses, the wine will soon make you forget your mishaps.” The men were easily induced to apply the proposed remedy.

“But what has become of the dog?” asked the chief.

“Carried off by the demons,” observed José.

“Let him go,” growled one who was the most bruised and dirty. “He led us into the scrape, and deserves his fate; if it had not been for him, we should not have known of that horrid vault.”

The chief, notwithstanding these remarks, ordered his men to go and look for the dog; but as he showed no readiness to set the example, none of the others would obey him, declaring that they would rather be shot at once than venture again among such horrors. I felt very much relieved at the turn events had taken. The Indian had escaped, the means of the bloodhound’s death was not suspected, and the officers would probably at early dawn continue their search after the fugitive.

“Ask them if they wish to return to the vault; for if not, I will take the keys up to my father,” I whispered to José.

“No, no,” answered the men. “We have had enough of the vault, and demons, and monsters, and spirits it contains. Tell your master all we want is plenty of this good wine to keep them away.”

Telling José to give them as much as they required and to keep a careful watch over them, I hurried back to my father to inform him that the danger was over.

“I never fear the consequence of having performed a good action, my boy,” he replied; “yet we should be grateful to Providence for having preserved us from much suffering, both of mind and body. The poor Indian is for the present safe. I can guess the way he escaped; but we will talk on the matter more to-morrow. Now, David, go to your room and rest, for you look pale and fatigued.”

I did not tell my father that the dog had bit me, though I should have been wiser had I done so, as he would have had proper remedies applied, had the wounds required them. José, however, soon after came into my room and fomented my leg with a mixture which he said was very efficacious in preventing inflammation from the bite of an animal. It at all events relieved me from the pain I was suffering; and when José left me to keep watch with the other servants on the officers, I threw myself on my bed in the hopes of obtaining some sleep. Whenever I dropped off, my mind recurred to the unfortunate descendant of the Incas, and the scenes I had just witnessed; and every instant I was jumping up, fancying I heard the shout of the officers as they discovered his place of concealment.

Chapter Three.

A journey and the adventures we met with.

I awoke to perfect consciousness (for I could scarcely be said to have been asleep all night) just as the first faint streaks of dawn were appearing in the sky; and hearing the voices of men, and the stamping of horses in the court-yard, I looked out of the window to learn what was occurring. At first my mind misgave me that the alguazil and his myrmidons had by some means seized the Indian; but as I scrutinised the dark forms which appeared in the cold grey light of the morning, I could not distinguish his among them.

The men mounted one after the other apparently in good humour, for José was there among the other servants with a huge flagon of wine to serve out to them the stirrup-cup at parting, a custom observed in most countries. It was a great relief to my mind when the gates were opened and I saw them fairly outside the walls. As the light increased, I watched them slowly winding along the steep path which led up the mountain, till they disappeared in a dark gorge which opened before them.

“You will have a long ride if you do not intend to halt till you have caught the fugitive in that direction,” said I to myself, just as José entered.

“I have sent the rogues off in good humour,” he observed. “Wine is a fine thing to raise the spirits, though to my mind last night they took enough to raise more than they expected—ha, ha, ha! They thought they were attacked by ghosts and goblins, when in reality only a number of bats flew out against them after the foul air had already damped their ardour. The place swarms with the vermin. By the by, if the Señor, my master, will give me the key of the vault, I will get up that beast of a dog, and bury him or hang him up to feed the condors.”

I thought José suspected something, and said this to learn the truth. I was inclined to confide the secret to him, but I felt that I ought not to do so without my father’s permission; so I answered that my father would give him the keys when he required them. When I met my father, he told me that I was right in not telling José, both for our sake as well as his own, though he was doubtless trustworthy.

I then asked him what had become of the Indian.

“He is safe on the roof,” he replied. “I have just seen him; he tells me that he heard the alguazils arrive, and that at first he thought he was betrayed, especially when the dog began to snuff under the door. He soon, however, learned from their conversation that his presence was not suspected; but still, to make sure, he descended the stairs in the hopes of discovering a means of escape,—finding none, he ascended the ladder, and forcing open the trap-door, he got through to the roof. He then returned, when hearing the key asked for, he knew that his bedding would betray his having been there, so he carried everything up to the roof, lifting the ladder up after him. His doing so puzzled the dog, and saved him his life probably, and us from very considerable annoyance.”

We afterwards met at breakfast, when José gave my father and mother a full account of all that occurred. My father having given the Indian notice to retire to the roof, the body of the hound was removed and buried, and the family resumed their usual routine of life. Either I or Lilly twice a day, when no one was observing us, carried food to the Indian. Upwards of a week had passed since his arrival, when he expressed a strong desire to resume his journey, saying that he thought by this time the search for him must be over. My father was very unwilling to let him go; but he assured us, that now his health and strength were completely restored, he had not the slightest fear of again falling into the hands of the Spaniards. All the provision he would accept was a little maize, and sufficient cacao to replenish his pouch. The cacao has been in use among the Peruvians from the earliest times. Its peculiar qualities enable those who take it to undergo great and continuous exertion, without any other food. It is a plant somewhat like the vine, and grows to about seven or eight feet in height. The leaves have a bitter flavour, and are aromatic. Among other qualities, they act as a sudorific, preserve the teeth, and prevent sleep. On first awaking in the morning, an Indian will put a quid of his favourite leaf into his mouth, and he performs the same operation three or four times in the day. To give it a relish he mixes a little pulverised unslacked lime, which he carries in a gourd for that purpose. He takes the lime out the gourd with a thin slip of damped wood, and conveys what adheres to it to his mouth. The operation of chewing is called chakchar. Many even of the whites indulge in it in secret, though it would be considered derogatory to chew in public, because the despised Indian does so.

The Peruvians, in their love and admiration for this plant, used to pay it a religious respect, and considered it the most grateful offering to the spirits they might wish to propitiate. It has certainly a most wonderful effect in sustaining nature; and I have known people undergoing great fatigue, exist four or five days, without tasting any other food, or suffering the slightest inconvenience. The ignorant conquerors, from observing the reverence paid by the Indians to cacao, fancied that it must possess some demoniacal properties, and not only refused to use it themselves, but endeavoured to prevent it being used by the natives; and a royal decree was actually issued, declaring that the idea entertained by the Indians that cacao gave them strength, is an “illusion of the devil.” The mine-owners, however, perceived its importance in enabling the slaves to undergo fatigue; and its use, therefore, rather increased than diminished. It, however, excites the brain, somewhat as does opium, and thus its intemperate use for any length of time would probably wear out mental vigour and activity. Having procured a supply of this valuable leaf for the Indian, he filled his pouch with it, while the maize he fastened up in a corner of his poncho.

“I am ready to depart,” he said, “though my heart yet lingers with you; and believe, O children of a Northern land, that, though fallen and despised his race, Manco Tupac Amaru is truly grateful for your generous hospitality, and more for preserving his life. The time may come, and shortly too, when he may have the opportunity of proving his gratitude—till then, farewell!”

Taking my father’s hand and mine, he pressed his lips to them, and burst into tears. His words made an impression on me, though at the time I did not comprehend their meaning. I afterwards had good reason to do so. It was again evening, the hour at which he had arrived; and when it was perfectly dark, I went out to see that none of the servants were near. He then let himself drop from the window, and crossing the court-yard, scaled the wall, and took his way up the mountain. I had reason to believe that none of the servants suspected that he had been with us. This was the first of the many adventures in which, at that period of my life, I was engaged. We often talked of the Indian Manco, and were anxious to know his fate; but for long heard no more of him.

Some time after this, my father invited me to attend him on a journey, which business required him to perform, to Cuzco, Lima, and other parts of the country; and, as may be supposed, with no little alacrity I set to work to make the necessary preparations. We are fond of boasting of the civilisation of Europeans of the present day; but, however humiliating to our pride, it must be owned that in many important respects Peru has retrograded since the time that the Christian Spaniard took possession of the country, and superseded the mild though despotic sway of the glorious Incas. Under her ancient sovereigns, magnificent roads traversed the kingdom from north to south, and from the sea-coast into the distant interior, across the mighty Andes. Inns for the accommodation of travellers were built at convenient distances on the roads, and stored abundantly with provisions, while at each relays of couriers were stationed, who with wonderful celerity could carry messages or small parcels through the country. It is said that the tables of the Incas, when at Cuzco, or still farther in the interior, were supplied regularly with fish fresh caught from the sea, and other quickly perishable luxuries, in a mode which has only been accomplished in England since the introduction of railroads, or perhaps in the latter days of quick coach travelling. I mention this to show the contrast to the means we possessed for performing our journey.

At last the day arrived for our departure. My father rode a steady mule, but I preferred a horse, though not so safe an animal for the narrow tracks, up and down steep mountains, on the summit of terrific precipices, and across rickety bridges which we were about to traverse.

They were caparisoned much in the same way. Our saddles were huge and deep, covered with red woolly rugs; our stirrups were of Moorish shape, large wooden boxes strapped with iron; the girths were broad; and belts fastened to the saddle, passed round the breast and haunches of the animals, prevented it from slipping off when going up or down the almost precipitous declivities in our way. Our luggage was carried in huge trunks, made of untanned bullocks’ hides, fastened with thongs of the same material, each mule carrying two slung on either side of his back. In some our clothes were packed, in others our mattresses and bedding, and in others our mess utensils and provisions; for as there were no inns, it was necessary to take everything which would be required. We rode ahead, our peons or muleteers following the beasts of burden. Before the introduction of horses and mules, the Indians employed the delicate llama to carry goods through the country. We had heavy spurs, and sharp bits to our bridles, and wore broad-brimmed hats and ponchos. The last named garment may be described as a large piece of cloth of wool or cotton, of a round form, with a hole in the centre. Through this hole the head is put, while the cloth falls over the shoulders, and forms a very effectual protection from the weather. It was used by the Indians before the conquest.

My mother and Lilly assisted in preparing and packing our provisions and clothes; and with prayers for our safety, at an early hour one morning they saw us mount and commence our journey. “Good-bye, mother; good-bye, Lilly,” I exclaimed, as I seated myself in my saddle. “I will bring you back, like the princes in the Arabian Nights, all the most wonderful things I can collect.” Their hearts were too full to answer, and their eyes were moist with tears; for they could not conceal from themselves that there were many very considerable dangers which we must encounter on the road. They stood watching us while we wound our way down the steep path, and crossed the bridge which spanned the river at the bottom of the ravine. I propose giving a very brief sketch of our journey, and shall dwell only on the more interesting incidents; or I might otherwise fill my book with an account of what we saw in the course of a few weeks.

We arrived one evening at a tambo, or post-house, which, from its appearance and position on a portion of the great high road of the Incas, we judged had been erected before the conquest. The walls were very thick, and composed of large blocks of stone. It was divided into two compartments; one had formerly been the storehouse and granary, the other the common hall and kitchen. The roof was thatched, as it had been originally.

At a little distance off was a village of Indian huts, mostly small; but some were of larger size, in which the cacique and some of the chief men resided. The tambo stood in a beautiful valley, through which ran a clear and rapid stream among meadows of ever verdant tints. The mountains which rose on either side were to their very summit cut into terraces. These terraces, or hanging gardens, as they are sometimes called, were of no great width, but the walls which faced them were built of large blocks of stone; and though in some places they were crumbling into decay, in general they were in a perfect state, bearing witness to the industry and intelligence of the ancient inhabitants of the soil. These terraces are called Andenes, and from thence the conquerors derived the name Andes, which they bestowed on the whole vast range of mountains.

Our peons having taken charge of our mules and horses, and led them to a shed adjoining the grey and moss-grown tambo, we entered the building. The interior was sombre in the extreme; everybody and everything wore a subdued look; and even the dogs slunk about as if their spirits were depressed. The smoke of ages was on the walls and roof, and the tables and benches at one side had a sadly dilapidated appearance. The master was an Indian of lightish hue, his long, lank hair already turning grey with age, and perhaps with care. Several Indian women were moving about round a fire at the farther end of the room, preparing a meal for a somewhat numerous company assembled there. The women about the house were all dressed in loose garments of dark coarse woollen cloth, which extended from the neck to the ankles, and were secured round the waist by a broad belt of some gay colour. They wore, folded up on the crown of the head, a small cloth mantle, a part of which drooped down to the shoulders behind. Each woman wore over her right shoulder a black scarf, which I understood was a sign of mourning, not for any relation lately dead, but for their Inca, long ago murdered by their conquerors. The dress of most of the men was a dark woollen jacket, with breeches open at the knees, a gaily embroidered woollen cap, a broad cotton belt, woollen stockings without feet, and sandals of goatskin. A broad-brimmed hat, and a small poncho thrown over the shoulders, completed their attire. Our host soon placed before us a large deep silver dish, containing some delicious mountain mutton, and a fat fowl, cooked in the ashes, and garnished with small but very good potatoes. There were neither knives nor forks in the dish, but one large wooden spoon, with which it was intended all guests should help themselves. We had chicha, the beverage of the country, offered us in silver goblets; but for a good reason neither my father nor I felt inclined to partake of it, though our servants did most willingly. To the taste of Englishmen nothing can be more disagreeable than the mode in which chicha is prepared. A quantity of Indian corn is pounded into a fine powder, round which a number of old men and women sit and masticate it into a paste. They then roll it into balls, which are dried; and afterwards water being thrown on them, they are allowed to ferment.

A number of Indians were sitting apart in a corner of the room. One of them was a tall, thin, emaciated man, of a yellowish copper hue. His only garment was a pair of dark trousers; and his long, lank, black hair hung down over his bare shoulders, giving him a very wild and haggard appearance. I saw him swallow a large cupful of a mixture which I thought was chicha; but soon afterwards he seemed to fall into a deep stupor, and I fancied he was going into a fit. His eyes were fixed on the ground, his mouth closed convulsively, and his nostrils dilated. As I watched him, his eyes began to roll most horribly, foam issued from his half-opened lips, and every limb and his whole body became distorted in the most frightful manner.

“The man will die!” I exclaimed, springing forward to assist him, and disgusted with the apathy of his companions.

“No fear, my son,” answered an old Indian, making a sign which checked me; “our brother has but drunk the tonga; his spirit has departed for a season to hold communication with the spirits of our ancestors, and when it returns he will be able to tell us things of wonder, and perchance they may show him the treasures which lie hid in their huacas—their graves.”

I afterwards found that the Indian had been drinking a powerful narcotic, prepared from the thorn-apple, and which is called huacacachu, or grave-plant, from the power it is supposed to possess of enabling those who drink it to see the inhabitants of the graves. After the Indian had been some time convulsed he fell into a profound slumber, when his friends covered him up carefully with their mantles and left him.

Our meal was scarcely over when the clattering of horses’ feet was heard on the road, and by the sound I judged that a band of horsemen had ridden up to the tambo. Our Indian host rushed out with dismay on his countenance. I followed him to learn what was the matter; and by the light of the moon, just then risen over the mountains, I saw about as ugly a set of fellows as I ever encountered. Their countenances were of every hue—black, yellow, and olive, disfigured by scars and savage passions. Their garments, I cannot call them uniforms, of many a shape and colour, were in rags and tatters. The horses were weary, ill-conditioned and ill-groomed, and as miserably accoutred as their riders, with a look in the eye full of vicious meaning. They were armed with short carbines and long swords, and some had pistols and daggers in their belts.

“Los Montoneros, los Montoneros!” exclaimed several of the people behind me, and rushed back into the tambo, the women trying to hide themselves from the new-comers.

The horsemen threw themselves from their jaded hacks, and calling to the Indians to take charge of them, with scant ceremony entered the building. They regarded, as they did so, my father and me, and our servants, with no favourable eye; but after a moment’s hesitation, they threw themselves on the benches before the table at which we were seated, crying loudly for food and liquor. It was speedily placed before them by the trembling hands of the host; and in silence they addressed themselves to the tearing the meat with their fingers, as if they had not eaten anything for a week. After imbibing quantities of chicha, they lighted their cigars; and then their tongues broke loose in a style which made us anxious to escape their neighbourhood. Some were Spaniards, or Spanish Creoles, and others were negroes; but most of them were of a variety of mixed races. The Montoneros are notoriously robbers in time of peace, and soldiers in war; but from the expressions they let fall, we judged that these fellows were employed exclusively in plundering all they met not likely to offer resistance. My father told the servant to keep a sharp look-out on our horses and mules, which the gentlemen would with little ceremony have appropriated.

To avoid them we walked over to where the group of Indians were collected round the tonga-drinker, who was now awaking from his sleep, and sitting up, though apparently very much exhausted. His companions were listening attentively to the mysterious revelations which fell from his mouth, the result of his spiritual communications with his ancestors. He spoke of a day of regeneration for the Indians; of liberty and happiness not far distant, when the yoke of the Spaniard would be thrown off their necks, and the race of their Inca should again wear the crimson borla of their monarchy. There was an air of earnestness and sincerity in his manner which convinced me that he at all events was deceiving himself as well as his hearers. In his dreams he had truly seen what he hoped would come to pass. I afterwards had good reason to know that he had strong foundation for his prophecies. He was still uttering his awful communications to his wondering and credulous hearers; the Montoneros were still drinking, smoking, and feasting; and some other travellers (Spanish, negro, and native, among whom was a Spanish priest, a landowner near Cuzco, and a shopkeeper) were either taking their suppers or seeking repose, when we retired to the deserted granary.

We were actually provided with bedsteads of a rude construction, on which we spread our bedding. The noise made by the Montoneros prevented me from sleeping for some time; till they themselves sought for rest, on and under the table and benches where they had been sitting. I was awakened in the middle of the night by a scratching and hissing and struggling noise under my bed, as if two animals were fighting. I sprung to my feet, and by the light of the full moon, which streamed in through a hole in the wall, I saw a large tabby cat engaged in a fierce combat with a glittering snake. At first I thought it would prove a hopeless one for poor pussy; but I soon saw by her manoeuvres, that she had at all events an equal chance of victory. Now the venomous monster would dart out its forked tongue and try to spring at her; when she, with equal agility, would leap aside and would sit watching her antagonist with careful eye, endeavouring to find an opportunity of catching it by the neck, while she avoided its deadly fangs. The snake seemed aware of its danger, and was not the less cautious. Indeed puss had already given it an ugly bite on the neck, which had somewhat crippled its movements—probably catching it asleep. The snake kept turning round and round its baneful head, the cat always keeping beyond the distance she knew it could spring. At last she saw her opportunity, and rushing in upon it, she seized it by the neck, so that it could not bite her. The snake wriggled violently, but all in vain; after a few convulsive struggles even the tail ceased to move, and I left the eat crunching the bones of her defeated antagonist.

I was glad to find that I had so good a guardian as puss had proved. I turned into bed again and went to sleep. In the morning I discovered that the snake was a very venomous adder, but that the cat was not a bit the worse for eating it. I afterwards learned that there are certain sorts of poison which may be swallowed without danger, yet if it should touch the slightest scratch or excoriation of the skin, would prove fatal.

At daybreak the Montoneros were on foot; and to the satisfaction of all the occupants of the tambo, they took their departure up the valley. It was the direction in which we were going, but we hoped not again to fall in with them. As we were mounting to proceed on our journey, the Indian soothsayer (for so I may call him) approached my father, and whispered earnestly in his ear for some minutes. My father looked surprised and somewhat anxious, and told him he thanked him for his advice. The Indian retired into the tambo apparently satisfied. We had begun to move on, when we were called back; and, turning our heads, we saw the padre and the other Spaniards mounting their mules.

“Stay, Señors, for the love of charity,” cried the padre; “we are going your way, and if we go alone and meet with those villains, the Montoneros, we shall all be robbed and murdered to a certainty. Now you Englishmen are known to fight bravely, so the rogues may not think it worth while to attack us.”

“We shall be happy to have your company, Señor Padre,” said my father, smiling; “but I hope our valour may not be put to the proof.”

“I am sure I hope not either,” ejaculated the padre, crossing himself. “May the holy saints protect us; for those fellows care not for the anathemas of the church, the laws of the realm, or the bullets of the soldiers.”

The other Spaniards seemed to partake of the alarm of the padre; and as we rode along, I saw them casting anxious glances around, as if they expected every moment to see the robbers start out from behind the rocks which skirted the road. After we had proceeded some distance, my father called a halt, and summoning the guides, he inquired whether they were acquainted with a road to the right, which he described. They replied that they were, but that it was longer and more difficult.

“Never mind,” he replied; “it is the road I intend to pursue. I shall be glad of the company of those who wish to journey with me.”

Though he did not give his reasons, the Spaniards saw that he had good cause for his change of route, and agreed to accompany us. They probably, however, attributed it to the Montoneros; as I observed that the expression of apprehension on their countenances gradually wore off, and they no longer cast the same furtive glances at every bush and rock as before.

We travelled along the valley for many miles, sometimes passing over a high ridge, and then again descending to follow up the course of some stream which had its birth among the snowy ranges above us. My father had formed the party into military order. Four armed men took the lead, then came the baggage mules, while the main body of those on horseback brought up the rear.

For three or four days we travelled on, each night sleeping at one of the wretched tambos kept by Indians, similar to that I have before described. Every day we mounted higher and higher, the scenery becoming more wild, barren, and desolate. We were now traversing that part of the Cordilleras called the Puna, a region of level heights, some fourteen thousand feet above the sea; nearly the only vegetation being a short, dark yellow grass, scarcely a tree or a shrub to be seen, except cacti, gentiana, and a few other flowering plants. There were animals, however, in abundance—vicuñas, huanacus, stags, and rock-rabbits; while condors and other birds of prey hovered aloft, ready to pounce down on any carcase they might scent from afar. We next entered the region of the Sierra, the name given to the extensive valleys which either intersect the Puna, or lie between the Cordilleras and the Andes. These valleys are generally some thousand feet below the Puna, and the climate is very pure and healthy. The soil is also very fertile, so that they were in the days of the Incas, and still are, more densely inhabited by Indians than any other portion of Peru. These valleys contain many towns, villages, and hamlets; but as they are surrounded on all sides by mountains, only to be crossed by dangerous and circuitous routes, their trade is but limited, and they are seldom visited by the inhabitants of other parts of Peru. Among them are a few white people, but a considerable number of mestizos live in the towns. There is very little money in circulation among them, and in some parts hens’ eggs are used instead of small coin, about fifty being counted for a dollar. The Indians are the sole cultivators of the soil, which produces wheat, maize, and barley in abundance, as well as potatoes and other tuberous plants, and most of the vegetables and fruits of Europe.

It must be understood that many of the scenes I have to describe took place in this favoured region; while others, again, were among the mountains and valleys to the east of the vast range of the Andes. People when reading of mountains are so apt to picture to themselves the molehills of Europe, which can mostly be crossed on foot in a day or so, that I must remind them that the Cordilleras and Andes which I am describing are an extensive region, the passage over which requires not only days, but in some places even weeks to accomplish. We had traversed several of these valleys, and were now about to cross over the highest ridge of the Andes. Having travelled so far without encountering the Montoneros, even the most timid of our party had lost all apprehension on that score.

One afternoon we found ourselves ascending through a narrow and wild gorge in the mountains. For three hours we had been mounting higher and higher, till our beasts began to show great signs of weariness. At last we saw before us a huge rock which, projecting from the side of the mountain, completely overhung the road, and looked as if it would overwhelm all who attempted to pass under it; while on the other side was a precipice three or four hundred feet in perpendicular height, at the bottom of which appeared a dark chasm with a wild roaring torrent running through it. The road, if so the mountain track could be called, was barely wide enough to allow a loaded mule to proceed along it; and it was next to impossible for two animals to pass one another, or for a person to dismount without great risk of falling over the precipice. We had been scrambling up for a long way over places which it appeared scarcely possible even goats would surmount, when one of the baggage mules stopped short and refused to proceed. Several others followed his example, and the whole cavalcade in the rear was brought to a stand-still. Blows could not be administered, for the muleteers could not get up to the beasts; and entreaties, coaxings, and persuasions were all in vain. I could not help laughing at the variety of expressions the men made use of to induce the animals to move. First they addressed them by every endearing epithet they could think of, then they appealed to their courage, their magnanimity, their perseverance—the deeds of their ancestors.

“Have not I always treated you well?” exclaimed our muleteer Juan to his beast. “Have not I always seen you housed and fed before I thought of caring for myself? Have not I slept by your side and watched over you as a father his son? Ungrateful as you are thus to behave at this pinch! If we meet another party, we shall be all hurled headlong over the rocks, or we shall have to fight desperately and have to hurl them over, and all for your obstinacy, sons of donkeys that you are!”—and he broke forth in a torrent of vituperation and abuse which it is not necessary for me here to repeat.

“If the Montoneros should meet us now, what will become of us?” cried the padre.

“It is the last place they would think of attacking us in,” observed my father. “Their object is to get possession of our purses and our beasts; now if they attacked us here, the greater number of us would be tumbled over into the torrent below, so they would lose their booty.”

“That’s a satisfaction truly,” observed the padre; “but I wish the beasts would move.”

The beasts, however, seemed not a bit inclined to stir, and we had no remedy for it but to wait patiently, or throw them and our luggage over the precipice. As I looked up and saw the huge boulders of rock which hung above our heads, appearing as if the touch of a vicuña’s hoof would send them rushing down to overwhelm us in their fall, I certainly did feel anxious to get out of their way. At last the leading mule, somewhat rested, began to move, the others followed him for a few minutes, and they all stopped again. The same process of entreating, coaxing, and abusing was gone over again; when the refractory cavalcade moved on once more for a few paces, but only in like manner to try our patience and our nerves by stopping at a worse spot than before. After resting a few minutes, the leading mule, which kept the others back, appeared to gain strength, and his stoppages each time being of shorter duration, he at length began to climb up the steep ascent before him, the rest readily following.

The cold, at this great height we had now attained, was excessive to our feelings, accustomed to the warmth of the lower country. Great, however, as was the elevation, the peaks which rose above us on every side appeared not to have lessened in the least in height. Snow of brilliant whiteness was around us, some of which in the more lofty spots had perhaps not melted since the days of the flood. Mists were floating about, and below our feet was collected a dense mass, which obscured the view beyond. A few flakes of snow began to fall, which every instant increased in number.

“Forward, forward, Señores!” shouted our chief peon, who acted as guide. “If a Cordillera storm catches us before we get under shelter, the days of some of us may be numbered.”

We did not neglect the warning. The animals even seemed to perceive the necessity of pushing on; and away we all went, tumbling, sliding, and leaping over the rough track which led down the mountain. The snow increased in density, so that we could scarcely see the person immediately preceding us; and the chilling wind blew stronger and stronger from off the icy peaks above. Not a moment was to be lost—the guides shouted, “On, on, on!” and we whipped and spurred, and urged on our weary beasts by word and bridle. Still the ground was far too rough to enable us to get them into a trot, far less to gallop; and besides, a tumble would in many places have proved fatal both to horse and rider. The descent was very rapid, for we were scarcely ever on a level.

“I’ll will it fare with any unfortunate fellow in the rear who falls,” said my father. “Remain close to me, David; I am afraid of your horse stumbling.”

“No fear,” I answered, “I keep a tight rein on him, and he knows well that he must not be careless.”

There was little time to contemplate the scene as we rode along, but still I could not help being struck by the solemn stillness, and the wildness of the desolation around. The voices of the men, as they shouted out, appeared strange and unnatural from their very distinctness, as did the tramp of the animals; while not another sound was heard from any direction.

“On, on, Señores!” were the only words we could hear. The snow had ceased; but dark clouds seemed gathering around us, when, without warning, a flash of forked lightning darted across our path, ploughing up the ground before us, and followed by a peal of thunder which seemed to rend the mountain tops. Flash succeeded flash in every direction, the very atmosphere quivering with the uninterrupted peals repeated a thousand-fold by the mountain echoes; while cataracts of fire appeared to be rushing down the rocks on either side. Our trembling animals refused to move; the Spaniards crossed themselves, and shrieking, as they slid off the backs of the animals they rode, they called on their saints for protection.

We dismounted and endeavoured to lead our horses under an overhanging rock. At last we succeeded in obtaining some shelter; and there we stood, every instant expecting to be struck by the electric fluid, which rushed zigzagging before us. Feelings such I had never before experienced came over me. I was at the same time inspired rather with awe than with terror. It was as if the heavens were pouring out their full wrath on man—as if the foundations of the world were about to be uprooted, and the mighty mountains hurled over on the plains below.

Rocks and earth came hurtling down from the lofty peaks above us; crash succeeded crash, and flashes of the most intensely vivid lightning dashed before us without intermission, till the air itself seemed on fire, and the faculties of sight and hearing both failed from over-exhaustion of their energies. It appeared as if the dreadful strife of the elements would never end; but as we were despairing of reaching a resting-place before night should set in, the thunder rolled away, the lightning ceased, and our party emerging from the caves and crevices where they had taken shelter, we found that providentially all had escaped injury. We mounted once more. As we proceeded, the rays of the setting sun came streaming along a beautiful valley which opened on our right. Descending rapidly, in little more than an hour we found ourselves before a tambo. It was wretched enough in appearance, and neither food nor beds did it afford. As, however, we had with us a supply of provisions, and our cloaks and saddle-cloths spread on the floor, with our saddles for pillows, served us for couches, we were not worse off than we frequently had been; and I know that I slept soundly till morning.

Chapter Four.

Attacked by robbers—A merciful deed returned with interest.

The scenery we passed the next day was very similar to what I have already described; but the valley, which, on being contrasted with the snowy region we had just left, appeared so attractive, was, I found, when seen by the morning light, owing to its high elevation, a very barren and desolate place.

We rode on for some hours through scenery such as I have before described, when in the afternoon, as we were beginning to fancy that we were near the termination of our day’s journey, we entered a deep gorge, with the dark rocks towering up, wild and rugged, on either side of us. It was just such a place as one might have expected an ambush to have been placed in; as a few resolute men might have held the road, aided by others sheltered by the rocks, against a whole army attempting to pass. An oppressive gloom invaded the spot, and the air seemed damp and heavy, as if the warming rays of the sun had never penetrated below the tops of the cliffs.

I was riding on in advance of the main body, when, on reaching the spot where the gorge opened somewhat, I saw at a considerable distance before me what I took to be a mark on the cliff in the shape of a horse with a rider. As I advanced, however, I perceived that it was a lonely man on horseback. He was too far off, standing as he was in shade, for me to distinguish his dress or appearance. He seemed to be stationary, as if watching our approach. A sharp turn in the road shut out the view beyond him. Had I been an old soldier, I should have fallen back on my companions and reported what I had seen; but I fancied that the horseman was a traveller like ourselves, and so I continued to ride carelessly on. I was very nearly falling a victim to my neglect. I had advanced some two hundred yards farther, when my friends reached the spot from which I had first caught sight of the horseman. He was still there, but no sooner did he see them than he wheeled round his horse and disappeared behind the cliffs. This I thought suspicious. My first impulse was to gallop on to overtake the man; but fortunately the chief guide had just then come up with me, and urged me not to go on. I therefore shouted out to my friends to let them know what I had seen, and reined in my steed till they came up. The information did not hasten the advance of any of the party; indeed some of them were evidently anxious to cede the post of honour in the van to their friends. The cry of “The Montoneros, the Montoneros!” arose from every mouth. Some tumbled off their horses, as if to shelter themselves behind them from the expected volleys of the dreaded banditti; others sat still and began to count their beads; and not a few turned their horses’ heads preparatory to running away. I must do the padre the justice to say that he looked as brave as any of them, except a few who advanced to the front.

“Where are the enemy, David?” asked my father, who led them on.

“I only saw one man, whom our friends here have multiplied into a band of Montoneros,” I replied.

“Come on, my friends, then!” exclaimed my father. “If the man my boy saw is a robber, he and his companions are more likely to run away than to attack us, if we show a bold front.”

His words and tone of confidence restored the fast evaporating courage of the party; and having halted to get them into something like order, with the armed men in front and the baggage mules and their drivers in the rear, we again moved forward. We had not, however, advanced far, when the man I had before seen again appeared; and directly afterwards a troop of horsemen wheeled round the sharp angle of the rock, and with loud cries galloped rapidly towards us.

“Steady, steady, for your lives!” shouted my father, as he saw in many of our companions strong evidence of a disposition to turn round and fly. “If we break our ranks, we are lost.”

That the horsemen now approaching were banditti, I had no doubt, from their varied and fantastic dresses, the different hues of their faces, and their wild appearance. We could not escape them, even had we been better mounted than they were, as the baggage mules in the rear would have prevented us. This they probably calculated on, or perhaps they would rather we had escaped and left them our baggage, which was what they most wanted, with the exception, perhaps, of our horses. They invariably appropriate the best horses they can find, as it is important for them to be well mounted. My father and I, two Spaniards, a mestizo, and our chief Indian guide, formed the first rank. When we saw the Montoneros, and could no longer doubt their intentions, we halted and presented our firearms. These were of various lengths and calibres, and some were better fitted to frighten an enemy than to do harm. When the Montoneros saw the determined front we presented, they checked their speed, but it was only for an instant.

“Do not fire until they get close to us,” cried my father.

On came the banditti, their horses’ hoofs clattering over the hard road, while uttering loud and discordant yells, they waved their swords above their heads. They made their intentions very manifest of cutting us to pieces if they could; so we felt perfectly justified in trying to knock them out of their saddles.

Many of our party gave themselves up for lost; and certainly the appearance of the banditti was enough to make a stout heart uncomfortable, to say the least of it. Their untrimmed moustaches and long hair escaping from under their broad-brimmed hats, their fierce countenances and dark flashing eyes, the many hues of their skins, and their motley costume, gave them altogether a very savage look, which was increased by the fiery bloodshot eyes of their horses, whose shaggy manes and the fringe of their housing streamed in the wind, while their riders shook their weapons, and shrieked out threats of destruction on our heads.

“Steady, my men, and fire when I do,” cried my father, levelling his rifle; in which I, José, and the rest, followed his example. The Montoneros had got within a dozen paces of us, when we gave the word. We fired together, our friends behind handing us their still loaded weapons. Two of the robbers rolled in the dust, and the horse of a third was shot dead, and fell across the road, so as somewhat to impede the progress of those behind. On they came, however, and were up to us as we fired our second round, and received a discharge of their carbines in return. Some of the shot took effect on our companions in the rear, who, instead of reloading the firearms, threw them down and endeavoured to escape. In an instant the banditti were upon us. My father’s horse was shot under him. I saw José knocked over; and then I recollect nothing that happened for some minutes, except a confusion of sounds, shouts, and shrieks and groans. When I returned to consciousness, my first thought was for my father. He was not near me, but I saw José at no great distance, leaning on his arm, as if unable to move, and looking along the road the way we had come. I turned my eyes in the same direction, towards which the tide of the fight had gone. A few of our companions were still contending against a greatly superior number of the banditti, most of whom, however, were engaged in a work more congenial to their taste, that of plundering our baggage. I could not doubt that my father was among the combatants; for without his example I did not think the others would have fought, and I trembled for his fate. I tried to rise, to rush to his assistance, or to die with him; but I found I was too weak to stand, much less to use a weapon. I gave up all for lost, for I perceived that the resistance of the gallant little band of my friends was every instant growing weaker; while the robbers were quitting their plunder to join their assailants. Meantime some of the baggage mules were trotting off in the direction where José and I lay; seeing which, some of the banditti came in pursuit of them. On seeing that I was alive, a savage-looking fellow lifted his carbine, and was about to give me a quietus on my head with the butt of it, while another threatened to perform the same office for José, when a shout, different from any I had before heard, reached my ears.

“Los Indios, los Indios!—the Indians, the Indians!” cried the brigands; “fly, fly, or we are lost!”

I looked up; for when I thought my brains were about to be dashed out, I had instinctively shut my eyes. What was my surprise to see the cliffs on either side of the road, and which I had thought inaccessible, swarming with Indians, mostly dressed in their ancient costume, and armed with bows and slings, with which they sent a shower of arrows and stones among our enemies! Several of them were wounded; and the suddenness of the attack threw them into confusion. Before they could recover from it, the Indians came leaping down the cliffs, and threw themselves between the three parties of the robbers, while others advanced along either end of the road, so as completely to hem them in. With the wildest fury, animated apparently by the most deadly hatred, the Indians rushed on our assailants, who, though they fought for their lives, could not withstand the onset.

I mentioned that at some distance from me I had observed a few of my friends, among whom I had no doubt was my father, hard pressed by a number of the robbers, who seemed intent on their destruction. The latter had now to defend themselves from the Indians; and my father and his party attacking them in return, they were either cut down at once, or attempted to escape by flight. A few of the more determined had fought their way back to where I lay, and I fully expected to receive my death-wound from some of them, as the fight passed over me, when I felt myself lifted in the arms of an Indian who I saw was dressed in the costume of a Peruvian chief; and just as the combatants reached me, he carried me out of the mêlée, and bore me up the cliff to a spot which none were likely to reach. As he placed me on the ground, I caught a sight of his countenance, and recognised the fugitive whom we had protected, the Indian, Manco Tupac Amaru. Before I had time to utter a word of thanks, he had again leaped down the cliff and joined in the combat. Some ten or a dozen of the robbers, who were still on horseback, and had kept together, were attempting to cut their way along the road among the mass of Indians who opposed them. Being well mounted, and with superior weapons, they had a great advantage; but the Indians were inspired with a courage I little expected to witness. They rushed in upon them, cut their bridles, and dashed their spears in their faces; and seizing them by their clothes, hung on them, in spite of the cuts and thrusts of their swords, till they dragged them from their saddles. No quarter was given; the instant a robber was unhorsed he was speared; and before the tide of the fight had rolled on many yards, not one was left alive. Many of our party had fallen. Indeed I was surprised to observe, nor could I account for it, that the Indians took no pains to preserve the lives of the Spanish travellers, though they did their utmost to protect the Indian guides. The padre and two or three others alone escaped. The road below me indeed presented a sad spectacle; for, as far as I could see, it appeared strewed with the corpses of my late companions—of robbers and Indians, many of whom had fallen in the last desperate struggle. I looked anxiously for my father, and my heart beat with joy as I saw him coming along the road, and evidently looking for me. My preserver, Manco, had observed him; the recognition was mutual, and they soon approached the spot where I lay. I need not describe my father’s feelings at finding that I was alive. I endeavoured at first to conceal the pain I suffered, and which made me fancy that my thigh must have been broken. At length, however, I could not help giving expression to the anguish I experienced.

“Wait a few minutes,” said the Indian chief, “and when I have performed some duties which are urgently required, I will cause my people to form a litter to transport you to a place of safety. What has occurred must remain secret for a time. I can trust you; but some of the people in your company who have escaped, might betray our proceedings to the authorities. Their lives are safe, but we must keep them prisoners till they can no longer injure us by being at liberty.”

Neither my father nor I could understand what he meant, and before we could ask an explanation, he had left us. We watched his movements, and saw him place each of the survivors of our party between a guard of four armed Indians. Some of his followers took charge of the baggage mules; others lifted up the dead bodies of their friends; while the rest were busily employed in collecting the arrows and the other Indian missiles and weapons; and they then again formed in marching order. A few had constructed a litter, and brought it to the foot of the cliff, down which Manco, with my father’s aid, now conveyed me.

“I wish to have no sign of our having taken share in the fray,” observed the Indian. “The lions and condors will take good care that none shall discover how those men died.”

As he spoke, I looked up, and observed several of those mighty monsters of the air hovering above our heads, ready to pounce down on their prey as soon as we should have left them to enjoy their banquet undisturbed.

At a sign from Manco, whom the Indians seemed to obey with the greatest zeal and respect, they lifted up my litter, and bore it along at a rapid rate. My father mounted a horse which was brought him, Manco rode another, and the priest was accommodated with a mule; but the rest of the Spaniards were compelled to walk, except poor José, who was carried, as was I, on the shoulders of some Indians; but they did not seem at all to like the office, nor to regard the rest of their prisoners with any feeling of good-will. Every arrangement was made with great promptitude; and as I watched from my litter the Indian warriors filing before me, I could scarcely help thinking that I saw a portion of the very army which the great Incas were accustomed to lead to victory.

We proceeded along what might be called the high road for some miles, when we struck off across the mountains to the left, the latter part of the time being guided by torches, for it had become too dark otherwise to see our way. At last we arrived at a small hut, built on the side of a rugged mountain. It afforded shelter from the cold night-wind; and as many as it could hold took up their quarters within it, while the remainder bivouacked without.

Fortunately for me, the padre was something of a surgeon, and on examining my leg, he assured me that my leg was not broken, but only severely bruised, and that perfect rest with fomentations would recover it. It was impossible, however, to obtain that rest, as we journeyed on without stopping, except for our meals and a few hours’ rest at night, for several days; and though I was carried all the time, the jolting of my litter, as we ascended or descended the steep hills, was very inconvenient. But the Indians collected a variety of herbs, and making a decoction of them, fomented my leg whenever we stopped, so that the swelling gradually subsided, and the pain diminished.

At length we reached a collection of deserted huts, among rugged and inaccessible crags, with the snowy peaks of the Andes towering high above us. The lower parts of the mountains were clothed with pine trees; and long grass grew on the borders of several streams which run through the neighbouring valley. With the pine trees the Indians formed rafters to the cottages, and thatches with the long grass and reeds. In a short time they thus rendered them in some degree habitable. I observed that though my father was allowed to go where he liked, the rest of the party were narrowly watched, so that they could not attempt to make their escape. When he spoke to Manco on the subject, and expostulated with him on detaining the rest of the travellers, the Indian chiefs reply was short but firm.

“It is necessary for the sake of Peru that they should be kept prisoners,” he observed; “had it not been for you and the padre, they would probably have lost their lives. I can trust you if you will give me your oath not to betray what has occurred or what you suspect, but I cannot trust them. When your son is able to move, you shall proceed on your journey; but they must remain here till it is safe to set them at liberty.”

“I do not seek to pry into your secrets, and should be guilty of the greatest ingratitude by saying a word even to injure you or your people,” said my father. “I am doubly anxious to reach Cuzco, lest my family not hearing of me from thence, should become alarmed.”

“Write a few lines to assure your family of your safety, and it shall reach them long before they could hear from you were you to write from our ancient capital. Trust that to me,” answered Manco, and he was afterwards found as good as his word.

The observations which the Indian chief let fall made me suspect that some plan was forming among the Indians to emancipate themselves from the Spanish yoke; and when I mentioned my surmises to my father, I found that he was of the same opinion, but he warned me not to mention my thoughts to any one.

“The less we know on the subject the better for us,” he observed. “Living under the protection of the Spanish government, it might be our duty to warn them of danger, while it is equally our duty not to betray those who have trusted us.”

“A curious sort of protection they afford us, when they allow bands of robbers, who were near cutting our throats, to scour the country unmolested,” I answered. “For my part, I think the Indians would be perfectly right to emancipate themselves from the galling chains which enthral them.”

“But were they to make the attempt, they could not do so,” said my father. “The discipline and gold of a civilised people will always in the end prevail over a half savage one, in spite of their bravery and resolution.”

Our conversation was interrupted by the entrance of Manco. No longer a hunted fugitive, he now walked with the air of a chieftain, his costume also being that of an Inca noble of old. Although the dress had long been disused, except on festive occasions, he had now assumed it to give him greater authority among his countrymen.

We found at the huts a considerable number of women and children, some of them belonging to the Indians who were with us, and some, I concluded, related to others who were absent. They were evidently collected here to be beyond the reach of the Spaniards, and to avoid the flagitious Repartimiento and Meta, the more rigid imposition of which was about that time, I knew, causing great discontent among the people. The Spaniards, long accustomed to treat the Peruvians as inferior beings, destitute alike of feeling and courage, forgot that even a worm will at times turn and attempt to bite the foot that presses it.

I had observed at times a larger number of persons than had accompanied us to the village; and I remarked several strangers, dressed in skins and feathers, who came and went, and again speedily returned, as if they had gone only to a short distance. I told our host that I had observed this, and inquired where the people came from.

“From a place where the foot of a white man has never trod,” he replied. “If you were strong and well. I might take you to it, and might show you wonders you little expect to behold, so fully do I trust; but the time may come when, free of danger, I may gratify your curiosity.”

I expected that he alluded to one of those ancient villages which I had heard of as existing in the heart of the mountains, and never discovered by the Spaniards; where the inhabitants had continued in the enjoyment of liberty, and the laws and customs of their ancestors. I had often wished to visit one of those remnants of antiquity, and I became doubly eager to do so, on finding myself in the proximity of one of them; but Manco assured me that it would be utterly impossible to conduct me there for a long time to come.

We had now spent a week at the huts, and I was so far recovered as to be able to mount a horse and move about on foot with the aid of a stick; and as my father was very anxious to proceed on his journey, we agreed to start the following day. On hearing that we were about to depart, the other travellers wished to accompany us; but the Indians would not hear of it, and, I observed, kept a stricter watch than usual over them. Manco showed great unwillingness to part with us.

“Go as you desire it, my friends,” he said. “You are at liberty to do as you judge best; but for your own sake, as well as mine, I would have had you remain. However, as go you must, I will send some of my people to escort you on your way; and one of them shall follow you as your servant till you return home. He will obey you in all things, but you must not blame him if he is absent during a few hours at times from you. You must pay him no wages, but you must not send him from you; and if you are asked where you found him, say in a mountain village, and that he wished to come with you to see the world.”

The next morning our new attendant made his appearance. He was a small, active-looking man, of a lightish rusty-red colour. His dress was much as is usually worn at the present day, consisting of loose trousers of coarse brown cloth, fastened round the waist by a girdle, and a woollen shirt of a dark blue colour. His poncho, which served as his outer garment, was of alpaca wool of the same hue as his shirt; and on his head he wore a broad-brimmed hat, while his sandals were of untanned leather, just covering his toes, and secured by a thong round the ankle. He took charge of a mule laden with our clothes and a supply of provisions.

Manco took an affectionate farewell of us as we were mounting our horses at the door of the hut. He pressed our hands as he said—

“We may meet again, dear friends, at some future time, when the children of the sun may dare to lift up their heads in the land where their fathers ruled. Till then, farewell.”

We found, a little farther on, a band of a hundred men, well armed with muskets and rifles, ready to escort us; and a young man of the Inca family, their leader, told us that they were to accompany us to help us to cross the difficult barriers which surrounded the spot we were in, and to watch us till we reached the neighbourhood of Cuzco.

Accustomed as I was to mountain scenery, I should not before have thought it possible for any four-footed animals to climb up the rugged precipices, over which the Indians led and pushed our horses and mules. In some places they were literally hauled up with ropes, and let down again on the other side. My kind guides assisted me up and down also, though I had nearly recovered my usual strength. A number of streams crossed our path, adding not a little to its difficulties.

Our animals were generally driven into the water and compelled to swim across, being then hauled up on the other side. We passed by means of a curious kind of bridge called a Huano. It was formed of a thick rope, which is carried by means of a lighter line across the chasm. The lighter line was carried across by some powerful swimmer, or by a man holding on to the mane of one of the horses or mules. On the rope ran a roller, to which was fastened a piece of wood, and to the wood the passenger was secured; the transit was made more easy by two light lines, by which the piece of wood was drawn from side to side. Several of the Indians went first across. I watched them in their dizzy transit, and I thought, if the rope breaks, what will become of them? When it came to my turn to cross, I held my head as high as I could, and crossed my legs over the thick rope, which I grasped with my hands. I did not dare to turn to look into the deep gulf below; for strong as my nerves were, I felt that if I did, I should have let go my hold. I was not sorry to find my head knocking against the shrubs and rocks on the opposite side. My father followed me; and then the whole body, one by one, passed over. Having got into rather less intricate country, the captain of our escort told us that from this place forward we must no longer remain in company, though he had orders from his chief to watch us till all probability of danger was past.

Accordingly, my father and I, and our new Indian servant, prepared to proceed alone. We were still several days’ journey from Cuzco. We slept as before at those most wretched of all inns the Indian tambos, though wherever we stopped we could not help remarking that we were treated with more than usual kindness and respect, which we suspected was owing to our being under the special protection of their chief. That also we were not deserted by our guardians, we had reason to know. On more than one occasion I had observed one or two figures hovering on the brow of some hill, or appearing from behind trees, bushes, or rocks. I perceived once one of them started up close to us. I pointed him out to our attendant, who had likewise seen him. With a significant look he answered, “Fear not them—they will not injure us.”

We encountered but few travellers, and I do not recollect any other occurrence worthy of being narrated daring our journey.

Chapter Five.

Cuzco described—We are made prisoners—Anxiety for those at home.

“Behold Cuzco!” exclaimed our Indian guide, as, throwing himself from his horse, he knelt in adoration of the glorious luminary, whose rays were just then throwing a mantle of gold over the crumbling walls of a mighty fortress, which protected the holy city of his ancestors, the capital of the Incas.

We had just reached the brow of an elevated ridge which forms one side of the fertile and extensive valley in which Cuzco stands, built, like ancient Rome, on a number of hills or slight rises. To the north of the city, on the summit of a lofty eminence, appeared the still dark and frowning fortress of Cyclopean architecture, composed of stones of vast magnitude. When I afterwards visited it, I was surprised to find the extraordinary nicety with which, without any cement, they were joined together; and I cannot tell with what machinery the Peruvians could have raised blocks so enormous to such heights, or how they could have fitted them, shaped as they are in so many various forms, with exactness so remarkable. Had I believed in the existence of giants, I should have supposed that they alone could have lifted such vast masses into the positions they hold. Many of the modern residences of the conquerors stand on the foundations of the ancient buildings of the Peruvians, and from among them we saw towering upwards the spires and towers of the magnificent cathedral, of the convents of Saint Augustine and La Merced, and of a number of other fine churches. We had not long to contemplate this scene of the ruins of the past and of modern splendour, as it was necessary to reach the city before dark; and the setting sun warned us that we had not much time to lose. We were questioned, when we entered, whence we had come; but before we could speak, our Indian attendant stepped forward and gave an answer that satisfied the guard, and we passed on.

The inn we went to was the best in the city, but it could boast of affording us little comfort, though, as we were accustomed to rough fare, that mattered little. At daybreak I was on foot, as I was anxious to see the city; and with our Indian attendant as my guide, I wandered through the larger portion of it before breakfast. We reached a collection of ruined walls, composed of huge masses of rock.

“On this spot,” said the Indian, bending reverentially towards the sun, just then rising over the walls of the city, “stood the great temple where our fathers worshipped the God in whom they trusted; away to the right, where now those convent walls appear, were the residences of the beautiful virgins of the sun; and in these fields of corn and lucerne which surround us were once laid out the magnificent gardens of the temple, filled with menageries of all the animals of our country, with aviaries of birds of many-coloured plumage, with fountains, and trees, and flowers, and ornaments of vast size, of gold and silver and precious stones, many in the form of the shrubs and plants among which they stood, and of workmanship so admirable that they seemed to vie with them in elegance and beauty. But the greedy spoiler came, and behold, stranger, what he made it! Alas! this garden is but an example of the condition to which our unhappy country has been reduced.”

The Indian was silent, and seemed lost in gloomy reflection. I, too, thought of the past; and as I did so, the magnificent Temple of the Sun appeared before me, with its walls resplendent with the golden ornaments which surrounded them, and its wide courts crowded with votaries in their many-coloured costumes and head-dresses and robes of feathers, eagerly watching for the rising of the luminary they worshipped. I fancied I could hear their voices, and could see the mighty mass below me, their plumes waving in the breeze as they joined the joyous shout raised by their friends above them.

“Yes, a day of bitter retribution will ere long arrive,” exclaimed my companion. The deep, low, and concentrated tone of his voice roused me from my reveries, he appeared unconscious that he had spoken. “Come, sir,” he said, “we will proceed.”

As I walked through the streets of Cuzco. I was struck with the air of antiquity which many of the buildings wore; and I could not help regretting the worse than Gothic cruelty and ignorance of the Spaniards, which had destroyed the numberless magnificent edifices of its former inhabitants. We spent three days in the city, and on the fourth took our departure, accompanied by Ithulpo. I learned that twenty leagues only from the city commence the territories of the unsubdued Indians, who will allow no stranger to enter their country. As I looked towards the distant mountains which form their bulwarks, I fancied that it must be a land full of romance and interest, and I longed to penetrate into it. I was before long to have my wish gratified, through means I little contemplated.

Our course was, however, now in a contrary direction, north and west, towards the sea. We had proceeded two days’ journey, when, at the urgent request of Ithulpo, we turned aside to rest at a town among the mountains.

“It is inhabited chiefly by my people,” he observed. “To-morrow they perform a ceremony, at which I wish to assist, and which you will like to behold.”

We ascended by a narrow and winding path among the mountains to the town, where we were lodged in the best house it possessed, and where the inhabitants vied with each other in paying us attention. The next morning, when I went out, I was surprised to see the place crowded with Indians dressed in the ancient costume of the country, of which certainly the pictures I have since seen in England and France do not give at all a correct idea. They wore feather head-dresses, and their cloaks and trains were likewise trimmed with feathers; and if not quite so picturesque, were more suited to their convenience than the scanty feather kilts in which they are made to appear. Having breakfasted, my father and I followed the crowd at a little distance to see what was going to occur. Among them we observed, raised above their heads, a gaily ornamented litter or covered palanquin, in which sat a person richly dressed with the regal border or red fringe of the Incas on his head. We learnt that he was intended to represent Atahualpa. On pressed the crowd with shouts and songs towards a large square before us; there they halted, when from some buildings in which they had been concealed, appeared another party dressed in armour with guns in their hands, and one or two small pieces of cannon following them. They all wore masks, and were intended to represent Spaniards. One more hideous than the rest was evidently Pizarro, and by his side stood the priest Vicente de Yalverde. They approached the litter, and the monk addressed the Inca in a long harangue. Atahualpa replied, when a terrific shriek was heard; the litter was overthrown, and the Inca was dragged among the Spaniards. A mock combat took place, but the Indians were driven back; and then arose the most melancholy cries and groans ever heard. It was no imitated grief, for to such a pitch had they worked up their imaginations, that they really fancied that their Inca was again torn from them. At last they retired, and a new scene in the drama commenced.

A number of Spaniards came forth from the building to which they had carried off the Inca, and seated themselves as if holding a council. Atahualpa was next brought out. He stood, with downcast looks and hands bound, before his judges, waiting his doom. One man only pleaded his cause, the others brought forth numberless arguments for his condemnation—a good satire on those by which the real Inca was judged to be worthy of death. At length one standing up, pronounced the representative Atahualpa guilty, ordering him to immediate execution. No sooner were the words uttered, than there arose from the crowd such shrieks and cries, that I could scarcely believe them to be feigned. Amid them the Inca was led to the place of execution, already prepared, where stood a man with ferocious aspect with an axe uplifted in his hands. The axe fell, and while the cries and groans increased, as I saw a bloody head lifted up before me, I thought for an instant that the man had really been killed. I soon, however, saw that the bloody head was merely a block of wood, while a piece of cloth was thrown over the person who had represented the Inca to conceal him from view. The Indians, however, appeared to be as deeply affected with grief as if they had really just seen their beloved monarch slaughtered before their eyes, to such a pitch were their imaginations worked up by the scene which had been acted. Had I not witnessed what I describe, I could scarcely have believed it possible; and as the Cholas sang their songs of mourning, the tears streamed down their cheeks, the groans seemed to come from the hearts of the men, and every countenance wore an expression of the most profound sorrow. Just at that moment I saw a man hurrying up the path which led into the village from the valley below. Almost breathless with exertion, he uttered a few words to the first he met. His communication flew like lightning among the crowd. They scattered in every direction, as if a thunderbolt had fallen among them. Masks were torn off and hastily concealed, dresses were changed, and the block and axe, and all the things connected with the representation, were carried away, while the people ran along the streets, and shut themselves up in their houses in evident fright.

We were not long in ascertaining the cause of the commotion. As I watched the approach to the town, I caught sight of the bayonet and shako of a soldier rising above the brow of a hill. Another and another followed, till about twenty men and two Spanish officers formed in the square of the town. That they had come for no good purpose, was soon made manifest by their charging a small party of the Indians who had neglected to escape from the square. So unexpected was the attack, that some were captured, while others were cruelly wounded before they could conceal themselves. The soldiers having thus whetted their thirst for blood, hurried from cottage to cottage, breaking open the doors and dragging out the terrified inmates. Those who were found with a mask, or any portion of the ancient Indian costume about them, proving that they had taken part in the forbidden representation, were without mercy shot, in spite of the entreaties and cries of their wives and children. A considerable number were also dragged from their huts and bound together with ropes, preparatory to being carried off as prisoners.

We had hitherto remained concealed in the house where we had rested for the night, and which had been unvisited by the soldiers. Had we been able to leave the village unobserved, we would gladly have done so to avoid contact with the troops, though we had no reason to apprehend ill-treatment from them. My father had desired Ithulpo to have our horses and baggage ready to start at a moment’s notice. While we remained shut up in the house, we could only judge of what was going on by the sounds we heard. The shots and cries had grown fainter, and thinking that the soldiers must have got to a distance, we considered this a good opportunity to set out. Ithulpo had been watching them through a hole in the wall of an enclosure, at a little distance from the cottage within which our animals were to be kept ready. I looked cautiously out of the door of the cottage, and seeing no one near, I ran round to where Ithulpo was posted. I told him that we were ready to start.

“I was coming to tell you that now is our time to start,” he replied. “I wish that I was certain that all the soldiers are together, for I am afraid that some may be left to guard the outlet to the village; but we must run the risk.”

We accordingly brought the horses round. Our baggage was soon strapped on, and mounting immediately, we set off at a brisk pace, followed by the well-wishes of our host, towards the only outlet to the village. Several houses were in flames, and more than one apparently dead Indian met our view. A short hour had made a sad change in the peaceful village, which now looked as if it had been stormed and sacked by a cruel enemy. We had no time to stop to examine whether any of the prostrate forms we saw were still alive, so we pushed on. Just, however, as we reached the top of the pathway down the mountain, a party of soldiers, with an officer at their head, appeared suddenly before us. It was impossible to escape notice, so we attempted to pass them.

“Stop!” cried the officer, presenting a pistol. “Who are you?”

“English travellers, on the road to Lima,” answered my father.

“Say rather English abettors of rebels,” exclaimed the officer fiercely. “We find you in a village encouraging the ignorant people by your presence to break the law. You are our prisoners.”

My father pleaded in vain that we had no intention of breaking the law, or encouraging others to do so.

“You may make your excuse to the government of Lima,” answered the officer; and he ordered us to remain where we were on pain of being shot.

A number of prisoners were collected together, and we had no doubt that he had heard from one of them of our being present at the forbidden ceremony we had witnessed. The bugle now sounded the recall, and soon afterwards the rest of the soldiers returned, dragging after them a number more of wretched prisoners. They appeared to be the principal people in the village; and whether guilty or not of the crimes charged against them, they were dragged away from their homes, to undergo more suffering on their road to their place of trial than they would deserve even if proved guilty.

The unhappy men were lashed together by the wrists two and two, all being likewise joined by a single stout rope; while blows and curses urged them on if they did not move fast enough to please their tyrants. Had the inhabitants of the village united bravely, they might have overpowered the soldiers and rescued their friends; but terror-stricken, they were afraid to show themselves.

Neither my father nor I were in any way molested, but a soldier was placed on each side of us and our Indian attendant, with orders to shoot us if we attempted to escape, a command they seemed very ready to obey. The word was then given to move on, and we commenced our descent of the mountain, a body of eight soldiers bringing up the rear. We addressed the officers several times to learn why we were thus treated, but the only answer the one in command deigned to make was—

“You are found in communication with rebel Indians, and there are suspicions against you.”

I thought of our having aided the escape of the Indian chief Manco, and feared that by some means the circumstance might have become known. If such were the case, I trembled for the safety of my dear mother and brothers and sisters. I thought of all the insults and annoyance to which they must have been subjected while our house was being searched, and my father’s papers and books being examined, which I knew they would be, by the officers of justice. I did not, however, communicate my thoughts to my father, as I felt that if it suggested the same idea to him, it would cause him much pain and anxiety.

I endeavoured therefore, as we rode on, to amuse him by conversation; but I am afraid I succeeded very ill. Ithulpo was very gloomy and silent, evidently brooding over the wrongs his countrymen had so long endured, and were still receiving, from their oppressors. At the foot of the mountain we found another party of soldiers concealed in a wood, and guarding the horses of our escort. The whole then mounted; and as we proceeded at a more rapid rate, the captive Indians were goaded on more cruelly to keep up with us. Ithulpo still said not a word; but as his eyes were now and then turned towards his countrymen, I observed that looks of intelligence were exchanged between them. Some shrieked with pain; others returned glances of rage at their tormentors; a few almost fainted, till stirred up again to proceed; and two, who had been wounded, actually dropped down, and as they were left in the rear, the report of musketry told what had been their fate. The fear of a similar catastrophe deterred others from giving in while they had any strength remaining to drag onwards their weary limbs.

My father’s kind heart was bursting with indignation and grief; but from the surly answers he received, he saw that it would be hopeless to plead for the unhappy beings.

“A day of bitter retribution will come, ere long, for this tyranny,” he observed. “Such conduct must arouse even the most long-enduring from their apathy. Even as it is, how entirely has Spain failed to reap any benefit from her apparently glorious conquest of this new world! or rather, I may say, from the mode in which that conquest was conducted, it has brought on her a heavy curse instead of a blessing. Since she gained America, she has gradually declined in wealth, intelligence, and power; and if I mistake not the signs of the times, these beautiful provinces will soon be wrested from her, though, alas, the seeds of misgovernment and bigotry which she planted, will take ages more to eradicate.”

Subsequent events, as my readers know, proved the correctness of my father’s observations. Spain no longer holds sway over any part of the American continent; and the colonies she has planted, ever since constantly plunged in civil war and anarchy, have been far outstripped in civilisation by those peopled by the Anglo-Saxon race.

Chapter Six.

Attempt to cross a desert—The disasters we encountered.

Our journey was irksome and disagreeable in the extreme. We marched on each day as long as the horses and men could move; and we rested at night, sometimes in farm-houses, or in the public tambos; but frequently we took shelter within the ruins of forts or other buildings, and often we were obliged to sleep on the hard ground, with our saddles for our pillows and the starlit sky above our heads. As it was the height of summer, this mattered little. We suffered, however, much from the heat in the day-time, and we were compelled frequently to dismount to lead our horses over the rugged places we had to pass. Day after day the poor captives dropped through fatigue, till their numbers were much thinned; but still we pushed on. We passed through a number of Indian villages, the inhabitants of which looked out from their mat doors with sad eyes on their unhappy countrymen; and we now discovered that the object of the Spaniards in carrying them on was to strike terror into the hearts of the people. When governors cannot manage a people so as to gain their love, they attempt to rule them through their fears; but such a government is never of long duration, and must ultimately bring destruction on itself. We had marched for three days without finding any habitations, when I saw the officers holding consultation together, and evidently much perplexed. A halt was ordered, and inquiries made if anybody knew the road. We had lost our way. The Indians had no knowledge of that part of the country, nor had any of the soldiers. I detected a gleam of intelligence in the countenance of Ithulpo, which made me suspect that he could give the desired information if he chose; but when asked, he denied all knowledge of the way. We took shelter that night within the walls of a ruined village, which, from its appearance, I judged had not been inhabited since the time of the conquest, except as a temporary abode in the same manner as we used it. It must have been a place of some extent, but the greater part was concealed by trees and shrubs, and creeping plants, which had grown up among the walls. Most of the buildings were of sun-dried bricks; but others, within one of which we were placed, were of masses of stone, like the fortress of Cuzco. It had probably been the residence of a chief or noble. It seemed strange that the Spaniards should not have known so remarkable a spot; but though they did not, I was certain that the Indians were well acquainted with it.

The prisoners were all driven together like a flock of sheep within one of the enclosures, and a sentry was placed over them, with orders to shoot any who might attempt to escape. After the horses had been picketed in a grassy spot close to the ruins, the soldiers lighted their fires to dress their evening meal, while the two officers sat themselves down on a fragment of stone and smoked their cigars, taking no notice of us. Our horses and luggage mule had been placed with the others under a guard; so they thought, I suppose, that we should not attempt to escape. Meantime my father and I sat at a little distance, watching the proceedings of our very unwelcome companions, while Ithulpo stood near, casting every now and then towards them glances expressive of the most intense hatred, and a desire of vengeance. The sun was still low, but his rays yet tinged the topmost branches of the trees and the lofty ranges of mountains in the distance. The soldiers had brought skins of wine and plenty of good cheer with them; and when they had eaten, they passed the wine-skins round right merrily, the officers joining in the carouse. Instead of pouring the wine into cups, they lifted the skins high above their heads, and without touching the vessel to their lips, allowed the wine to run down their throat in a gentle stream. As we were close enough to them to be easily watched, the officers, I suppose, thought that we should not attempt to move away. Ithulpo had stowed a sort of knapsack he carried with some dried meat and bread, which he now produced, and it served to satisfy our appetites; but we had no wine, and our surly guards did not deign to offer us any.

“Do not repine, sirs, at the want,” he observed. “I will show you a pure stream, the water of which, ere to-morrow’s sun has set, those soldiers will value more than the finest wine their country can produce.”

The sun went down, and the shades of night came rapidly on, but still the Spaniards continued their debauch. They had apparently forgotten us and their other prisoners; for though by the light of their fires we could clearly see them, sitting as we were under the shadow of a wall, we were no longer visible to them. Ithulpo came and sat himself down beside me.

“Could we not manage to get away from these people?” I asked in a whisper.

“Not now,” he answered. “The sentries would give the alarm if we attempted to take the horses, and without them we cannot move. To-morrow we shall have a better opportunity, and we may help some of my poor countrymen to escape at the same time.”

“Why do you expect that a good opportunity to escape will occur?” I inquired.

“I cannot at present reply to your question,” he said. “Those who now guard us will no longer be able to do so. Trust to me. You will enter Lima as free men, and no one will appear as a witness against you, to support the false accusation these people have made.”

I forbore to question him further, but there was something very mysterious in his look and manner; and at first the horrid idea occurred to me that he had by some means contrived to poison the Spaniards, for otherwise I could not account for the confidence with which he pronounced his prediction. However, I endeavoured to banish the suspicion as too dreadful to be entertained. At length the commanding officer seemed to recollect that he had duties to attend to. Fresh guards were set over the prisoners and the horses, wood was collected and the fires were made up, and a sentinel was posted near the spot, under shelter of a wall, which we had selected for our place of rest. Ithulpo got leave to bring us our saddles and horse-trappings to serve us for beds, and he likewise brought us our portmanteaus and saddle-bags, which he placed near us. The soldiers threw themselves on the ground, and were very soon fast asleep. Our sentry also, from the manner his head every now and then gave a sharp nod, was evidently very drowsy. The heat of the weather, the exertion he had undergone, and the wine he had drunk, were quite enough to account for this. I also at last fell asleep. My eyes had been closed for about a couple of hours, when I was awakened by Ithulpo touching my shoulder. I sat up, and observed that he had the wine-skins emptied by the soldiers hanging on his arm.

“Follow me,” he whispered. “We are not going to escape; but you are thirsty, and I will show you a pure spring, where you may drink your fill, and you will be better able to endure the heat of to-morrow’s sun.”

Silently following him, as he led the way among the ruins, I found that we had reached a thick and apparently impenetrable wood. Without stopping, however, he went direct to a spot where the branches yielded easily to his hand. A winding path appeared before us, proceeding along which, we arrived in an open forest glade. On one side rose a high rock, which seemed part of a range of cliffs forming the side of a mountain. The murmuring sound of water met my ear, and by the faint starlight I discovered a stream gushing forth from the rock, and finding its way in a narrow rivulet through the glade.

“The white man thinks that the discovery of a gold mine will bring him all the wealth he can desire; but the time has come when he would gladly exchange all the gold and silver hidden within yon mountains for one draught of that pure stream,” muttered Ithulpo, as I stooped my head to drink at the fountain. “Drink—drink while you can,” he continued in the same low tone. “It is more than wealth, it is life itself; it fertilises, it invigorates, it cleanses, it blesses. Without it the world would be but a sterile desert, unfit for the habitation of man; while gold, which the white men value so much, has ever proved the curse of our country. They value it because they think it scarce, while we, who know the deep mines where in vast heaps it lies hid from their sight, place it at its true worth, below iron and copper, or even silver or tin.”

While Ithulpo was thus speaking, he was employed in washing out and filling the skins he had brought with water. I also filled a couple of flasks with the pure fluid. We then retraced our steps by the way we had come, I assisting him in carrying the somewhat heavy burden. We reached the camp unobserved by the drowsy sentries. I was wondering what the Indian intended doing with the skins, when, begging me to lie down and rest, he took up two of the skins, and crept cautiously away towards the enclosure where his countrymen were confined. After a little time he returned, and again took the path to the fountain to replenish the skins. I was afraid he would have been discovered, but he went about the work so cautiously and silently, that he altogether escaped the observation of the sentries. After he had given the prisoners all the water they required, he came back to where we were lying, and threw himself on the ground near us. The rest of the night passed quietly away; and notwithstanding the painful position in which we were placed, I slept soundly. I was aroused by the sound of a bugle, and found the soldiers getting under arms and preparing to march. Our baggage was replaced by Ithulpo, who I saw watched it carefully. The men mounted, the prisoners were dragged out from their resting-place, and we commenced our day’s journey.

An extensive plain was before us, with a few rugged and barren heights scattered over it. As we proceeded vegetation grew more and more scanty, till after we had marched scarcely half a mile, it ceased altogether. We had slept, we found, on the borders of a desert. The ground was at first composed of a mixture of rock and clay, over which the sea had evidently rolled in former ages; but as we proceeded it became more loose and broken, till it changed into a soft shifting sand, into which our horses’ feet sank deep at every step they made.

The poor prisoners, already worn out with their long journey, appeared scarcely able to drag on their weary limbs through it. Of its extent we were unable to judge, but the commander seemed to fancy that in a short time we should reach firmer and more fertile ground, where we should find water and halt to breakfast. The sun, which rose in a cloudless sky on our right, showed that we were proceeding in the direction we wished to follow—towards the north.

“Forward, my men,” shouted the officer. “In an hour or two we shall be out of this ill-conditioned spot, and find rest and refreshment.”

The soldiers lighted their cigars and urged on their horses, while they dealt their blows freely on the backs of the Indians to quicken their speed.

I observed a peculiar smile on the countenance of Ithulpo, as the officer spoke of soon reaching a place of rest. Our attendant had, I found, managed to distribute a supply of the highly prized cacao among his countrymen; and while their features wore a look of sullen indifference as they received the ill-merited blows, I remarked that they seemed to bear up against the fatigue better than they had before done. As the sun rose higher the heat increased, till it became almost insupportable. The officers spoke earnestly together for some time, and were evidently growing anxious as to the road we were taking. At length their voices grew louder and louder, as if disputing on the point, for there was very little semblance of discipline among them. Then they called up several of their men one after the other, but could not gain the information they required. Some of the prisoners were next brought up, but they either could not or would not say whether we were pursuing the proper course, their countenances assuming an expression of the most perfect ignorance and apathy. Still we pushed on, the Spaniards trying to urge their horses still faster through the heavy sand. Before us rose a bright glittering haze, through which objects every now and then appeared seemingly in the far distance—hills, and trees, and rocks, and lakes, and streams of pure water; but as we advanced they vanished, and a few barren mounds and loose stones alone were found, while the supposed water was altogether a mocking deception. To the right hand and to the left, the same inhospitable desert seemed to stretch out far away; and we had already advanced so deeply into it, that the officers probably supposed that there would be as much risk in returning as in going on. On therefore we went, the soldiers having no mercy on the prisoners, whom they urged forward, whenever they attempted to slacken their pace, with the points of their swords, till the blood trickled in streams down the backs of these miserable beings. We were riding just behind the main body of the soldiers, followed by Ithulpo and the baggage mules. The generous, kind heart of my father was almost bursting with indignation, as he saw this piece of cruelty.

At last, as an Indian more weary than the rest sunk to the ground, and a soldier was about to plunge his sword into his body, he could restrain himself no longer.

“Hold, wretch!” he exclaimed. “Add not murder to your cruelty.”

The soldier, taken by surprise, did not strike the fatal blow till his horse had carried him past the fainting Indian; but, balked of his prey, his anger was kindled against my father, and turning round, he made a cut at him with his sword. Fortunately I carried a heavy riding-whip, with which I was able to parry the blow. The man did not attempt to repeat it, for the junior officer turning round, observed the act, and called him to order; but it showed us what we were to expect if we excited the anger of our captors. I could not withstand the despairing look the poor wretch cast on us as he thought we were about to pass him and to leave him to his fate; so throwing myself from my horse, I lifted his head from the ground. My father stopped also, and so did Ithulpo.

“On, on!” shouted the rear-guard of the Spaniards. “On, or we will fire at you.”

“We will follow immediately,” replied my father. “On my word of honour—on the word of an Englishman.”

The Spaniards had never known that word broken, so they allowed us to stop to help the Indian. One of our baggage mules was lightly laden, and in spite of the threats of the soldiers we lifted him upon it. I had, as I mentioned, filled a small spirit-flask with water, and unseen I poured a few drops down his parched throat. This much revived him, and by urging on our animals, we were soon able to overtake the already weary horses of the Spaniards.

The time for breakfast had long since passed, but still no signs of a resting-place appeared. On the contrary, the sand became finer and deeper, and the dreary expanse before us seemed to lengthen out to the horizon. As the sun also rose higher in the sky, his unobstructed rays darted down with greater force upon our heads. There had been a slight breeze in the morning, blowing fresh from over the snowy summits of the Cordilleras; but that had now died entirely away, and not a breath of air stirred the stagnant atmosphere. The heat at length became almost insupportable, while our eyes could scarcely bear the glare of the sun on the white glittering sand.

To do the Spaniards credit, they bore up bravely for a long time against the heat and thirst and fatigue which assailed them. The horses, however, which had only been scantily supplied with water the night before, began to knock up—their ears dropped, their heads hung down, and their respiration became thick and fast. Ithulpo had supplied my father and me with cacao, by chewing a piece of which occasionally, we avoided any feeling of hunger; and as we also wetted our lips, when they became parched, with the water from our flasks, we did not suffer much from thirst. Still the sensation of oppression and fatigue was very painful. We received too, ere long, a warning of what might be our fate, in the spectacle which met our sight. The sun had reached his meridian height, and was descending towards the waters of the Pacific, and still it appeared that we had made no more progress than in the morning, when we came upon the bleached bones of several mules and horses, and by their side appeared, just rising above the sand, the skeletons of three human beings. It appeared as if they had all been struck down together by the same fiery blast. The soldiers, as we passed, turned their looks aside, without uttering a word, each one feeling that he might shortly become like those ghastly remnants of mortality. I observed that the heads of the animals were all turned towards the south, by which I judged that thus they had probably travelled over a greater distance of the burning desert than we had yet passed, so that we were yet not half over our difficulties.

“Those skeletons show that we are on the high road across the desert,” I remarked to my father.

“I am afraid not, David,” he answered. “They may have lost their way, and we have stumbled on them by chance.”

Such, I at once saw, was too likely to be the case.

The gauze-like mist of which I had before spoken, now appeared to grow more dense, and to lose its transparent appearance; at the same time that the rays of the sun struck down with fiercer heat, and the atmosphere grew more stagnant and oppressive. Some of the soldiers had lighted their cigars, in the hope that the fumes of tobacco would alleviate their thirst; and as the tiny jets of smoke left their mouths, they went straight up towards the sky, not a breath existing to blow them aside. Suddenly, as I turned my head to the left, I saw what appeared to be a dark cloud rising from the earth. I pointed it out to my father. Ithulpo had at the same time observed it.

“Muffle up your heads in your ponchos, and push on for the love of life,” he exclaimed. “It is the sand-drift swept before a whirlwind. On! on! or it will overwhelm us!”

It was indeed an object to appal the stoutest heart. On it came, like a black wall, rising higher and higher, and curling over our heads, till the sky and the sun himself were obscured. The soldiers saw it and trembled, for they knew its deadly power; whole regiments had before been buried beneath that heavy canopy. Their only chance of safety, they fancied, was to gallop through it. With frantic energy they dug their spurs into the sides of their panting steeds. They no longer thought of their miserable prisoners. Without a sensation of commiseration, they left them to the dreadful fate they themselves strove to escape. Neither could we do anything for them: if we stopped, we also should lose our lives. As we followed the soldiers, we found the Indians all huddled together, with looks of despair on their countenances, watching the approach of the sand-drift. They had no prospect of extricating themselves either; for the Spaniards had not even cut the cords which bound them all together. I glanced at the black wall of sand; it was still some way off. Could I leave my fellow-creatures thus to perish horribly, without an attempt to save them? No burning thirst, thanks to Ithulpo’s precautions, had yet dried up the sympathies of my heart.

“What are you going to do, David?” asked my father, as he saw me throw myself from my horse.

“To give these poor fellows a chance of life,” I answered, drawing out my knife, and cutting away at their cords.

“Your mother and sisters, my lad, must not be forgotten,” he muttered; “but stay, I will help you.”

As he said this he set to work to release the Indians, in which we were directly joined by Ithulpo; the rear-guard, as they passed by, bestowing many curses and threats of vengeance on our heads for our interference; but they were too anxious to save their own lives to prevent us. Scarcely a minute was lost.

“Mount! mount! and ride on!” cried Ithulpo.

Throwing our knives to the Indians, we leaped on our horses, and again followed the direction we supposed the soldiers had taken. We had not proceeded many yards when the wall of sand seemed to wheel round like an extended line of infantry, and then to advance at double speed. To escape it by galloping from it was now hopeless; so we turned our horses’ heads to face it. As we did so, a clear break appeared in one part.

“Let us make for yonder lighter spot,” shouted my father.

We did so. On came the dark wall; the sand swept by us, whirling round and round our heads, blinding our eyes, and filling our ears and nostrils. It was with difficulty even that we could breathe, as with each respiration our mouths became choked with the sand. I endeavoured, as well as I was able, to keep close to my father, though for a time it was only by our voices, as we shouted to each other, that we were aware of each other’s position. We did our utmost to keep our horses’ heads in the direction the sand-storm came from, that we might the more speedily pass through it. They breasted it bravely, though their thick-drawn breath showed the pain they suffered; but they seemed to be as well aware as ourselves of the necessity of exertion. It was with difficulty, however, that we could even keep our seats, as, with our hats pressed over our eyes, our ponchos drawn tight around us, and our bodies bent down over their necks, we encouraged them to proceed with bit and rein. We were making all the time, in reality, but little real progress, as I soon discovered; their utmost exertion being required to lift their legs out of the sand, which was rapidly collecting round us.

On a sudden, a dark mass swept towards us. I know not how it was,—I believe I must have turned to my right,—I kept calling to my father as before; but oh, what horror—what agony seized my soul when he did not answer! and as I endeavoured to pierce the thick mass of sand which surrounded me, I could nowhere see him. I could not tell which way to turn. I felt lost and bewildered, and I believed that my last moment had arrived—a dreadful death was to be my lot. I did not regard myself; it was for my noble father I felt. “O that I could have died with him!” I thought. My brave horse, however, still exerted himself to save his own life and mine, when I had ceased to care what became of me, by continuing to lift his feet above the overwhelming sand-drifts. My only wish was to find my father; but so completely was I bewildered that I knew not whether to turn to the right hand or to the left. His horse might have sunk down, I thought, and then in a few moments he would for ever have been covered up from mortal sight; or, overcome with fatigue and the suffocating atmosphere, he might have fallen, and been unable to regain his steed. Or happily he might have passed through the sand-drift in safety, and have been all the time suffering with anxiety for my sake. But this hope was very transient; the predominant feeling was that my father was lost, and that I was about to share his fate. I was thus giving way to despair, when I was aware of a considerable decrease in the density of the sand-laden atmosphere; the last breath of the fierce whirlwind passed by; the sun shone forth bright and clear, and I stood alone amid a sea of glittering sand. Oh, with what an aching anxious heart I looked around, to see if the one object I sought was visible on that dreary white expanse! Before me, there was nothing; a few mounds and rocks alone were to be seen between me and the horizon; but as I turned round just as the column of sand swept on, not thirty paces behind me, with joy such as I cannot describe, I saw my father stooping down and endeavouring to extricate his horse from the sand, which had partially covered him. I hurried towards him, and leaping to the ground, threw myself into his arms. For the moment all sensations of fatigue or thirst were forgotten in the joy of recovering him.

Knowing that my horse was strong, he had felt less anxiety on my account than I had on his. With some exertion we cleared away the sand, and once more got his horse upon his feet, though the poor animal appeared scarcely able to move, much less to bear a man of my father’s weight. We had still one flask of water untouched. We drank a little, and with a portion of the remainder washed the mouths and nostrils of our horses, and poured a few drops down their throats, still keeping a little for any further emergency. This very much revived them; and once more mounting, we endeavoured to find our way across the desert.

Since the sand-drift first overtook us, scarcely as much time had elapsed as it has occupied to read the account I have given; but so dreadful were the sensations I experienced, and so intense my anxiety, that to me it appeared an age. The heat soon became almost as great as before the storm, and the atmosphere as oppressive, warning us that, though thus far preserved, we were still placed in a position of great peril. It was now that I felt the benefit of the firm reliance in the goodness of Providence, which my father had ever inculcated, and which at this juncture supported him.

“Courage, my dear boy,” he exclaimed. “God has thus far preserved us. He will still find the means of rescuing us.”

As he spoke, the dark wall of sand, which had been receding from us, after whirling in various directions, seemed to settle down in a line of undulating mounds in the distance; and on every side the horizon once more became entirely clear.

We naturally first tried to discover any traces of the Spanish cavalry; and after straining my eyes for some time, I perceived a few dark objects which seemed to be moving on towards the point which, from the position of the sun, we judged to be the north. Some other objects beyond them afforded us a fair hope of being able to find our way out of this dreadful desert. I could not doubt that what I saw were the tops of some tall trees, though at such a distance that their base was not visible; indeed my father, who agreed with me that they were trees, was of opinion that they grew on ground somewhat elevated above the sandy plain.

Towards them, therefore, we steered our course, as the Spaniards were also probably doing. Our horses, we fancied, must have seen them likewise, or their instinct told them that water was to be found in the neighbourhood. We looked round in vain for Ithulpo and the Indians. Not a sign of them could we perceive, and it would have been madness to have attempted to search for them. Indeed, had we found them, we could have rendered them no assistance. I was in hopes, indeed, that Ithulpo, whose horse was strong, and who I suspected knew the country better than he pretended to the Spaniards, would have found some means of escaping, and of aiding his countrymen. We had, in truth, still too much to do in attempting to preserve our own lives, to allow us to think much of others. It would be assuming to be above humanity, did I not confess this.

The sun was already sinking low; and should we be unable to reach the trees before dark, and be compelled to rest on the plain or wander about it all night, we could scarcely hope to survive. The ground we passed over was as smooth as if the receding tide had just left it. Not the sign of a footstep of man or beast was to be seen, though here and there a slight rise showed that some harder substance had offered an impediment to the drifting sand. After toiling onwards for half an hour at a very slow pace, we came upon a horse’s head just rising from the sand. He had died probably in attempting to extricate himself. Several heaps showed that others—human beings, too probably—also lay beneath.

They, at all events, were beyond all help. The horse I recognised, from the head-trappings, as belonging to the officer commanding the party. We were passing on, when we observed, a little on the right, a man extended on his back. A movement of his arm showed me that he was not dead, and that probably he was endeavouring to call our attention to himself.

“Though he is one of those who showed no pity to the poor Indians, we must try what we can do for him,” said my father; and we turned our horses towards him.

As he saw us approach, he mustered all his strength and tried to rise.

“Water, water!” he muttered. “In mercy give me a drop of water!”

It was the cruel officer himself. Still he was a fellow-creature. We had a small portion of water in the flask. We might want it ourselves, but still we could not leave him thus to die. So I dismounted, and approached him with the flask, while my father held my horse, who showed signs of an eagerness to rush on to the oasis we had discovered. The officer, when he saw the flask, would have seized it, and drained off the whole of its contents; but I held it back, and pouring out a few drops in the cover, let them trickle down his throat. I thought of what Ithulpo had said of water being of more value often than gold. Truly those drops were more precious to the dying man; they had the effect of instantly reviving him. Brightness came back to his glazed eyes, his voice returned, and he was able to sit up, and even to make an attempt to rise on his feet; but to do so was more than his strength would allow.

“Give me more water or I shall die,” he said as he saw me replacing the flask in my pocket. “My rascally troopers have deserted me, to try and save their own worthless lives, and I have only you foreigners to depend on.”

“I cannot give you more water,” I answered. “I have but a few drops left to moisten my father’s and my own lips.”

“O leave them for me. I will give you your liberty, I will give you all I possess in the world, for that small flask of water,” he exclaimed. “You will not require it, for beneath yonder trees, in the distance, you will find a fountain where you may drink your fill. Have mercy, stranger, have mercy!”

It was difficult to withstand the poor wretch’s earnest appeal. I poured out a little more water, which he drank off at once. I then gave him a small lump of cocoa; and scraping up a heap of sand, I placed him leaning against it, so that he might feel any breath of air which might blow; promising faithfully to return to bring him to the oasis, if we were fortunate enough to reach it in safety.

“But the voracious condors and the lions will come and destroy me, if I remain here during the night alone,” he shrieked out. “O take me with you, generous Englishman, take me with you!”

To do this was utterly impossible. My horse could scarcely carry me, much less another person in addition.

“Come, David,” said my father; “you have done your utmost for this miserable man. We risk our own lives by further delay.”

In spite, therefore, of the entreaties of the Spaniard, I again mounted my horse. It just then occurred to me that if he had his pistols, he might defend himself against any wild beasts. On my offering to load them for him, he told me that he had thrown them away. So I gave him one of my own, with a little ammunition, that he might reload it, if required. He seized the weapon eagerly as I presented it.

“Then you will not stay to help me, or carry me with you!” he exclaimed fiercely as I rode off. “You will not!—then take that;” and levelling at me the pistol which I had just given, he fired. The ball just grazed my side, but did no further mischief.

“The poor wretch is delirious with fear,” observed my father, when he found that I was uninjured. “Let us ride on.”

On we rode, but though we made some progress, the oasis was still in appearance as far off as when first seen. The sun was sinking rapidly—it reached the horizon—it disappeared; the short twilight changed into the obscurity of night; and the beacon by which we had hitherto directed our course was no longer to be seen. The stars, however, shone brightly forth; and I had marked one which appeared just above the clump of trees. By that we now steered, though, I had too soon strong proof, the instinct of our horses would have led them towards the oasis without our guidance. Although it was night, the heat was intense; our throats were dry, our lips were parched, and we were experiencing all the terrible sensations of intolerable thirst. We had kept the remnant of the water for a last resource, in case we should not reach the fountain.

I think that for nearly another hour we had ridden on, my father not having spoken a word all that time, when to my horror, without any warning, he fell heavily from his horse. His hands had let go the reins, and the animal, relieved of his burden, set off towards the oasis. I threw myself from my horse. To lift him up and to pour some water down his throat was the work of a moment. It instantly restored him to consciousness. He appeared to have suffered no injury from his fall. While I was thus engaged, my horse escaped from me and set off after his companion. So engrossed, however, was I in tending my father, that I scarcely noticed the occurrence. It was, of course, utterly hopeless to attempt to recover the animals, and thus were we two left in the middle of the desert without a prospect of escaping.

O the horrors of that night! They can never be obliterated from my memory. At first I thought of attempting to reach the oasis by walking; but my father, though having sufficient strength to sit up, and, had he not lost his horse, to ride, felt himself utterly unable to accomplish the distance on foot. I had bitterly, indeed, to regret my momentary carelessness in allowing my horse to escape from me. It might have been the cause of my father’s and my destruction. I have often since thought, from being for one instant only off our guard, how much misery and ruin may occur—how much wickedness and suffering may be the result!

The air was still very sultry, and even the sand, on which we rested, was very hot. Our last drop of water was consumed. My father did not know it, but I had given it to him. I had begun to suffer dreadfully from thirst. My throat seemed lined with a coating like the face of a file, and my lips were hard and cracked; while the skin, from the drying effects of the sun, the wind, and the sand, was peeling off my face. My father did not feel so much pain as I did; but my strength, I fancied, had in no way failed me, and I thought that, if I had kept my horse, I could easily have walked by his side till we reached the fountain we expected to find. We sat for some time without speaking. The stars were shining in undimmed brilliancy above our heads from the dark blue sky; not a breath of air was stirring, not a sound was heard. I never endured a silence so profound, so solemn, and so painful. For a time I almost fancied that I had become deaf. At length my father’s voice, which sounded deep and hollow, convinced me of the contrary.

“David,” he said, “I must not let you, my boy, remain here to die. You may still be able during the night to reach the oasis, and the cool of the morning will bring you renewed strength. If you reach it in safety, you are certain to find our horses there, and you can return with them and the flasks full of water to me. I feel quite certain that I can hold out till then.”

I scarcely knew what to answer my father. Though I thought that I might possibly reach the oasis, I saw the great difficulty there would be in again finding him, without any means in that vast plain of marking his position; and I felt far from confident that his strength would endure till my return.

“No, father,” I answered; “I cannot leave you now. I should not find you again, so that my going would not preserve you; and I will therefore stay and share your fate.”

I need not mention all the arguments my father used to persuade me to leave him, and how I entreated him to allow me to remain. At last he consented that I should stay with him till just before daybreak, which is in that, as in most climates, the coolest time generally of the twenty-four hours. He then proposed that I should plant my whip, with a piece of handkerchief tied to the end of it, on the top of the highest rock or piece of ground I should find near, to serve as a mark for his position, should he not by that time have sufficiently recovered his strength to set out with me.

“Perhaps I may be able to accompany you part of the way, and then you will have a less distance to return to look for me,” he observed.

As he spoke, however, I could not help remarking, with grief, that there was a hollow tone in his voice which betokened failing strength, while his words were uttered with pain and difficulty. I could too well judge of his sensations by my own; and gladly would I have given the room full of gold which the unfortunate Inca, Atahualpa, promised to the greedy Spaniards, for a flask of water to quench the burning thirst which was consuming us.

Hour after hour passed away, as we sat side by side on the sand. We spoke but little; indeed I soon fell into a state of dreamy unconsciousness, which was not sleep, though at the same time I could not be said to be awake. All sorts of strange sights passed before me, and strange noises sounded in my ears, though I was sensible that they were not realities. I saw horses galloping before me, some with riders, and others wild steeds with flowing manes. Troops of Indians came by in their feathers and gay dresses, and soldiers marched past with colours flying and bands playing; and hunters, and dogs, and animals of every description. Indeed there appeared no end to the phantom shapes which met my sight.

In vain I endeavoured to arouse myself. A weight I could not throw off pressed me to the ground. I cannot more particularly describe my sensations; I only know that they were very dreadful. I was aware that my father was near me, and that I wished to preserve him from some danger; but I thought sometimes that we were at sea on a raft; at others, that we were sliding down a snowy mountain, and that, though I tried to catch some of the snow in my hand to cool my tongue, it vanished before it reached my mouth; and then I felt that we were sinking into the earth, which, as we sunk, grew hotter and hotter, till it scorched my skin, and I shrieked out with the pain. I started and lifted up my head; a pair of fierce glowing eyes met my view—a huge jaguar or tiger stood before me! We eyed each other for a moment with a fixed gaze. I was more astonished than alarmed; for owing to the state of stupor from which I had been aroused, I had not time to be aware of the peril in which we were placed. Fortunately, when I lay down, I had taken my pistol from my belt, and placed it by my side, ready to grasp it at a moment’s warning. My first impulse was to seize it; and while the jaguar still stood apparently considering whether he should spring upon me and carry me off to the mountains to serve him as a banquet, I lifted the weapon and fired it directly in his face. Startled by so unexpected a reception, instead of springing forward, he turned round with a roar of rage and pain, and galloped off across the desert.

The report of the pistol aroused my father, who could scarcely believe what had occurred. I regretted not having been able to kill the brute; for, driven to extremity as we were, we should eagerly have drunk his blood to attempt to quench our thirst. I reloaded my pistol in the expectation of his return; and grown desperate as I was, I almost hoped that he would do so, that I might have another chance of shooting him. The possibility of this served effectually to prevent me from again falling into a drowsy state, and I believe it was of essential service to me.

Another risk now occurred to me. Though at present perfectly calm, the wind might suddenly arise, and should we fall asleep, the sand might be drifted over us, and we should certainly be suffocated. No mariner, whose ship is drifting on an unknown lee-shore, ever more earnestly wished-for daylight than I did for the appearance of dawn, though I was afraid it could but little avail my poor father.

At length a faint streak appeared in the sky. It was a sign that we must attempt to proceed on our way or abandon all hope of escape. I called to my father, whose eyes were closed.

“Yes, my boy,” he answered, “I will come;” but when he attempted to rise, I saw that his strength was not equal to the exertion.

I felt also, when I tried, but little able to walk even by myself, much less to help him onward. Still the effort must be made. I got myself on my feet, and raised him also. We staggered onward in the direction, I supposed, of the oasis. With a melancholy foreboding, however, I felt that at the pace we were going we should never be able to reach it. Still I resolved not to give in. Onward we went like two drunken men. Every instant I thought we should fall to rise no more. I was certain that if I quitted my father, it would only be to die apart from him, when death would be doubly bitter. I could no longer see the star which had before guided us. Either clouds had obscured it, or a mist had arisen, or my eyes were growing dim. My father was pressing more heavily on my arm. I tried to support him, but my strength was insufficient. In the attempt we both fell together. All hope abandoned me.

“O God, protect my wife and children!” murmured my father.

I also tried to pray, but with difficulty I could collect my thoughts for a few moments together. I lifted myself on my knees by my father’s side, and raised his head from the sand. Daylight was now coming on, and with anguish I saw by the expression of his features that if aid was not speedily afforded, it would be too late to preserve his life.

Chapter Seven.

Hope revives—Lima and its scenes and characters.

As a shipwrecked seaman, on the wild rock in the middle of the ocean, anxiously scans the horizon to search for a sail in sight, so did I cast my eager gaze over the barren sandy waste, to discover if providentially any succour was at hand. The shades of night melting away before the rays of the sun, the wished-for oasis appeared in the distance; and by the marks on the sand, I could not doubt that we had been wandering away instead of approaching it. How eagerly I looked towards the spot where I believed the means of reviving our fast-failing strength could be found! As I gazed at it, it seemed to approach nearer, and tantalised me the more that I knew that I could not reach it.

The sun rose slowly and majestically in the sky, and his burning rays began again to strike down upon our heads. Still I kept my senses; but I felt that death must soon terminate my dear father’s sufferings, and mine as well. Once more I cast my glance round the horizon. I gazed steadily—I saw a dark object moving in the distance. O how earnestly I watched it! I could not be mistaken—it was approaching us. As it came on, I discerned the figure of a man on horseback. He was leading another animal with a load on his back. Now he seemed to be verging off to the right hand. He might pass and not observe us. I shouted; but it was folly to fancy that my feeble voice could reach him. Again he turned. I saw him dismount and stoop down on the sand. He stopped, however, but a minute, perhaps not so much, though to me it seemed an age, and he again mounted and came on. He was directing his course, I judged, for the oasis. As he came still nearer, I recognised Ithulpo, and he was leading our baggage mule. I could not doubt, also, but that he was searching for us. Again I tried to shout, but my voice failed me. I lifted up my hand and waved it above my head; but I could no longer stand upright, or I should have attracted his attention. He rode on. He had already passed, when he turned his head and caught sight of the handkerchief I was waving in my hand. He spurred on towards us. To spring from his horse, and to take one of the saddle-bags from the back of the mule, was the work of a moment. From the saddlebag he produced a skin of water. Without speaking, he poured out a cup, from which he allowed a few drops to fall into my father’s mouth. When once I felt it to my lips, I could not withdraw it till I had drained it to the bottom. The pure draught so much revived me that I could sit up and help Ithulpo to tend my father. This he did with the greatest care; but human care, alas! seemed to be of little avail. He loosened his dress to admit of perfectly free circulation; he then washed his mouth, and after bathing his temples, he allowed a few more drops to trickle down his throat. This judicious treatment had, after a time, the most beneficial effect. My father languidly opened his eyes, and attempted to sit up; and I saw that his first act of consciousness was to turn them towards me with an inquiring glance. Finding that I was alive, his countenance brightened; and after slowly drinking some more water, in the course of three or four minutes he revived sufficiently to propose proceeding on our way.

“Wait a little longer, Señor,” said Ithulpo. “Water has restored you to life, but you require food to give you strength; see, I have brought some.”

As he spoke, he opened a basket full of bread and dried meat, and several sorts of the most delicious and cooling fruit. There were figs and grapes and pomegranates, fragrant chirimoyas, yellow bananas, and several pine-apples; indeed many others too numerous to name.

Never shall I forget the exquisite delight with which I ate the first fig Ithulpo handed to me. It cooled my burning thirst more than all the water I had swallowed, and served both for meat and drink. It was a large soft fig with a white pulp. I instantly put out my hand for another, and he gave me a black fig with a red pulp, which vied with the first in excellence. Then he handed me a bunch of juicy grapes, but I still asked for more figs; and when I had finished as many as he thought were good for me, he tore open a chirimoya, and let me eat its snow-white juicy fruit. Outside it did not look tempting, for the skin, though green, was tough and hard, and covered with black spots. The platanos or bananas were cooked; and though I could not have swallowed a piece of dry bread, I was enabled to eat some of them with much relish. Altogether, never was a repast eaten with greater appetite, or, I may add, with more gratitude; for it certainly was the means of preserving my father’s life as well as mine. Ithulpo had taken the precaution to tether the animals, so that they could not escape; and as he sat by us, distributing the food, he informed us of what he had done after we had lost sight of him in the sand-storm.

“You must know, Señores,” he began, “I was so busy in liberating my poor countrymen from the ropes which bound them, that I did not observe which way you were taking. I shouted after you to turn back, but you did not hear me; and then the dreadful sand-cloud came on, and it was too late. I am well acquainted with this dreadful desert, and I was aware that we were out of the right path; but I also knew where that path was; so, as soon as all the poor fellows were free, we set off towards it. They were all well able to run without the ropes, and out of sight of our tyrants. Fortunately the sand-cloud wheeled round before it reached us, and we were safe.

“You must know that on the previous night I had stowed away the wine-skins full of water in your portmanteaus, and I thus had enough to give a good draught to each of the men, and to my beasts also. Our first care was then to get out of the desert. I knew where the ground was hard, so I led them to it, and we then could travel at a fast rate. About a league beyond where we were, there is a fountain of pure water gushing up out of a hard black rock. Here we were all able to refresh ourselves; and still a little farther on, marks are to be seen, by which I could direct my companions how to escape from the desert. They quickly availed themselves of my advice, and are now on their way to hide themselves among the mountains, where there is no fear of the Spaniards searching for them.”

“But what did you do, my friend?” I asked, stretching out my hand for another bunch of tempting grapes.

“Just as I was parting from them I saw a party of fruit-sellers crossing the desert, with several mules laden with fruit. I purchased some, as also some bread and baked platanos, and then set off to search for you. I knew, by the feel of the atmosphere, that there would be no more sand-storms; and hoped, it you had escaped that of yesterday, to find you. I know my way across any part of the desert blindfold, for I can tell by the smell of the sand alone where animals have before passed. As soon as it was daylight I returned to where I last had seen you. I saw where the sand-cloud had settled down, forming huge mounds, beneath which many of the Spaniards, I found, lay overwhelmed. At last I fell in with the tracks of your two horses. I guessed they were yours, for I thought the Spaniards would have kept together. I followed them up steadily. I came to where you had found the Spanish officer, and given him a pistol with which to defend himself.”

“What, did he tell you so?” I asked, interrupting Ithulpo.

“Oh no; his voice has ceased for ever,” he replied, with a dark smile. “He had been dead some time, and the fowls of the air were feeding on him; but I knew him by his dress, and I recognised your pistol, which he had fired. Here it is. I next reached the spot where you dismounted, and your horses had run away. I began to fear that I was too late to save you; and when following up the track of your footsteps, I saw that a number of the Spanish cavalry had escaped, and had gone towards yonder clump of trees. Several have fallen in the way, as the wings of the condors I could see flapping above the ground, one beyond the other, told me plainly. And now, Señores, it is time to mount and proceed. Two hours’ riding beyond those trees will carry us free of the desert; and may you never again enter it without a proper guide.”

My father rode Ithulpo’s horse; and while I clambered upon the back of the baggage mule, he walked. It was almost as hot as on the previous day; but I kept my mouth cool by occasionally eating a grape, and sometimes one of my favourite figs; and with little suffering we drew near the oasis.

“Are you not afraid of falling into the hands of the Spaniards, and of being accused of liberating their prisoners?” I asked.

He looked up, and, smiling significantly, answered. “I tell you, Señor, not one of our enemies live to bear false witness against us. I have marked among yonder trees signs not to be mistaken of their fate.”

I asked no further questions. We passed, as we rode along, several bodies of horses and men; and as we approached the trees, Ithulpo shouting with all his might, several condors rose slowly on the wing, and a huge tiger stalked slowly away, looking round every now and then at us with an angry glance, for having disturbed him at his repast. I thought I recognised him as the monster who had paid us a visit during the night; and I have no doubt that he was the same.

I can scarcely describe the dreadful scene which met our sight as we at length reached the longed-for oasis. In the centre existed a small shallow pool, filled by a stream which bubbled up through the earth. It would allow scarcely more than a dozen horses to drink therein at a time. We at once perceived what had occurred. The survivors of the cavalry had reached it in a body. Some of the front ranks, both horses and men, overcome by weakness, had, in their attempt to drink, fallen in, and prevented the others from getting their mouths to it. The first lay trampled on and drowned, making the once clear pool a mass of mud and filth. The rear ranks, rushing over them, had died of raging thirst, in sight of the water which might have saved them. Both men and horses were mingled in a dreadful heap, torn and mangled by the birds and beasts of prey. We crossed as rapidly as we could to the other side of the oasis, where Ithulpo produced a skin full of clear water from one of the saddle-bags.

“We must not disappoint our poor beasts,” he observed, as he gave them to drink.

Just then the horse my father rode gave a neigh. It was answered from a distance; and to our no little satisfaction and astonishment, our two horses were seen trotting up towards the oasis. They had evidently been prevented taking shelter in the oasis by the presence of the tiger, but had kept in the neighbourhood, in the hopes of his taking his departure. Ithulpo at once enticed them to him by the offer of water, which they drank eagerly; and having secured them, after allowing them to crop a little of the grass which grew beneath the shade of the trees, we mounted, and prepared to recommence our journey. As we left the now polluted oasis, Ithulpo looked carefully round to examine the traces on the sand, and declared that of all those who had reached the spot, not one had left it.

“A just vengeance has overtaken the tyrants who yesterday so cruelly ill-treated us, Señores,” he remarked. “I knew it would be so. We may now, without fear, proceed to Lima.”

In two hours we reached the confines of the desert, and once more got among streams, and trees, and cultivated fields. We slept that night at an Indian village, where Ithulpo’s influence procured us a warm reception; and after a rest of two days, we proceeded on our journey to Lima. As we rode along a fine straight road, shaded by an avenue of lofty willows, peculiarly grateful in a hot climate, we at length came in sight of the steeples and domes of the far-famed city of Lima, with the blue ocean on one side of us, and the interminable ranges of the snowy Cordilleras reaching to the sky on the other.

“What a magnificent city!” I exclaimed. “Well worthy, indeed, does it appear of its great founder, the conqueror Pizarro.”

“Wait till we get within the walls before you pronounce an opinion,” remarked my father. “Like the deeds of the founder, it gains more admiration when observed at a distance than when examined closely. We admire Pizarro when we regard alone the wonderful conquest he achieved; but when we learn the wrongs, the injustice, the misery he inflicted, the blood he spilled, and the ruin he caused, he and his companions appear monsters of iniquity, worthy of detestation rather than admiration.”

We entered the city by a handsome gateway, and immediately found ourselves in a long street, with low, mean, ruinous houses on either side. The houses had porches in front, and patios or court-yards. The shops were small, with their goods placed on tables at the doors; there was no glass to the windows, and no display of articles of commerce. The street was badly paved, though there was a rough footway on each side. The walls of many of the houses were composed of double rows of bamboo, but some were of brick; the roofs were flat, and very few of the houses had two stories. As we rode on, however, the appearance of the place improved; and in and near the principal square I observed some fine buildings, with handsomely ornamented façades, and many fine churches and convents; but altogether I had to own that the outside beauty was sadly deceptive.

The streets were crowded with persons of every variety of costume, and every hue of skin; from the people of Northern Europe, and the bright-complexioned native of Biscay, to the red Indian and the jet-black African. Some were on horseback, and others in carriages of very clumsy and antique construction; and of the lower order, some were riding on mules and donkeys, and others were driving animals laden with ice from the mountains, skins of brandy, and fruits and provisions of every description. Among this motley crowd we forced our way, till we reached the house of my father’s agent, a Spanish merchant, Don José Torres de Santillan by name, a very honest and good man.

As the plan of his house was similar to that of most of the larger dwellings in Lima, I will describe it. In what may be called the front of the house were two doors; one, the azaguan, was the chief entrance, and the other led to the coach-house. By the side of the azaguan was a small room with a grated window, where the ladies of the family were fond of sitting to observe the passers-by. This building formed the street side of a spacious court-yard or patio, on either side of which were a number of small rooms, and on the farther side was the dwelling-house, round which ran a balcony. In it were numerous doors; the largest opened into the sala or hall, which was furnished with several net hammocks, a row of chairs, and two sofas; while straw-matting covered the floor. Inside of it was a smaller well-furnished room, called the quadro, which was the usual reception-room; and beyond it were the dining and sleeping rooms, and the nursery. They all opened into an inner court-yard, the walls of which were ornamented with fresco paintings; and part of it was laid out as a flower-garden, with a fountain in the centre. From it one door led to the kitchen, and another to the stable. The windows were mostly in the roof, as were those in Pompeii and many ancient cities; indeed it was very similar to the plan of building followed in the south of Spain.

On hearing of our arrival, Don José hurried out and received us with the greatest attention. Our animals were led off to the stables by a number of servants, and we were conducted to the quadro, where he instantly ordered refreshments to be brought. We begged leave in the mean time to be allowed to change our dusty dresses. On our return we found hammocks slung, in which our host invited us to rest ourselves. In a hot climate there cannot be a more luxurious couch than a net hammock, as it allows the air to circulate freely round the body in the coolest part of the room. The softly-stuffed sofa of an English or French drawing-room would be insufferable. A young negress slave then brought in a tray with cups, into which she poured out some chocolate, making it froth up till they overflowed, and then handed them round to us. Cigars were next offered to us, and we smoked them till suppertime.

For this meal we adjourned to the dining-room, where our host insisted on waiting on us. It was a repetition of dinner, which the family had taken according to custom at two o’clock. The wife of Don José, and her maiden sister and three daughters, pretty, palefaced, black-eyed girls, with hair like the raven’s wing, were present, as were the family priest and two gentlemen, cousins of our host. We first had an insipid kind of soup, and then their principal dish, called puchero. It contained all sorts of meats and vegetables mixed up together—beef, pork, ham, bacon, sausage, poultry, cabbage, yuccas camotes (a sort of potato), potatoes, rice, peas, chochitas (grains of maize), quince, and banana. The meat was brought in on one dish and the vegetables on another, and they were afterwards mixed to suit our individual tastes.

At the same time a dish of picante was served. It was composed of dried meat and some pounded roots, highly seasoned with cayenne pepper, and coloured with grains of the achote, which gave it a brilliant vermilion tint. After the meat, a sort of pudding was brought in, consisting of a great variety of fruits stewed in water,—a dish I cannot praise; and then followed a dessert of delicious fresh fruits and sweet cakes, which were washed down by a tumbler of fresh water. Such is the usual dinner of a gentleman’s family in Lima. A little light sweet wine was the only liquor drunk, though in compliment to the supposed taste of our countrymen, strong wine, brandy, and other spirits were placed before us. After dinner the servant brought in a piece of lighted charcoal and a tray of cigars, which the men and the elder ladies smoked with much apparent relish; but my three fair friends declined using them.

I soon became perfectly intimate with these young ladies. They were troubled with no tiresome bashfulness to keep them silent, and they were full of life and spirits; so we rattled away in conversation in the most agreeable manner, till it was announced that some guests had arrived, and were waiting in the sala to commence dancing. Musicians appeared, and, with much spirit, boleros, fandangos, and cachuchas, and other dances, well-known in Old Spain, were commenced and kept up for some hours. As we were in the height of the amusement, the cathedral bell struck three slow measured sounds, the signal of the Oration. It was repeated by the belfries of all the churches in the city. Instantly, as if by magic, every movement was suspended. Each one said the evening prayer in a low whisper, and then made the sign of the cross; those of most consequence turning to the persons near them, uttering the words buenas noches (good night), which was repeated by all present. It is a simple but beautiful custom, and is intended to remind people of their duty to God in whatever occupation they may be engaged. It may often do good; but unless people are possessed of the true spirit of piety, custom will make them callous, and it will fail to have any beneficial effect.

I have observed this custom in many other Roman Catholic countries. In a public place full of people of different ranks, the effect is still more curious. The lively conversation of the smart lady and the gallant cavalier is cut short, the donkey-driver with uplifted arm ceases to belabour his beast, the oath dies on the lips of the rough seaman or uncouth black, the workman drops his tool, the shopman lays down his measure, children refrain from their play, men quarrelling suspend their dispute, lazy monks engaged in their constant game of draughts neglect to make the intended move, vendors of fruit no longer utter their cries, and one and all engage in silent prayer till the bell has ceased to toll, and then in a moment the noise and bustle of active life once more goes on.

When I retired to my room for the night, not a little tired with my exertion, Ithulpo made his appearance.

“How long, Señor, may I ask, does your father purpose remaining here?”

“Some short time; a week or two perhaps,” I replied, rather surprised at his question.

He went to the door and looked cautiously out, and then, speaking almost in a whisper, as if he were afraid the walls might convey the intelligence, he said—

“You have a mother and sisters and young brothers at your home in the mountains. As you love them, press your father not to remain here longer than you can help. Two or three days at furthest is all you should take, and then by travelling fast we may arrive in time. My orders are to accompany you to your home; but I tell you that it shortly will no longer be a place of safety for you or those you love. More I may not say.”

“You have already been of infinite service to us, Ithulpo; and I know that you would not, without good reason, alarm us; but cannot you tell me more particularly what sort of danger we have to apprehend?” I asked.

He shook his head as he answered—

“Indeed, Señor, I cannot; and you must caution your father not to give a hint to any one of what I have said, or the worst consequences may follow. I rely on your discretion.”

I promised to be cautious, and Ithulpo, saying that he would call me at an early hour as I desired, left me. Tired as I was, I could not for a long time go to sleep, but continued thinking of what Ithulpo had told me, and trying to discover to what he alluded. I heard my father enter his room, which was next to mine, but I would not run the risk of depriving him of his night’s rest by telling him of what I had heard.

As my object is not only to describe my own personal adventures, but to present my readers with a picture of Peru as it was at the time I speak of, I will now give a short description of Lima, the capital. Lima stands on the river Rimac, from a corruption of which word its name is derived. The valley through which the river runs is called by the Indians Rimac Malca, or the place of witches; from the custom they had formerly of banishing there persons accused of witchcraft. The city was founded by Pizarro soon after the conquest. He there built a palace for himself, in which he was assassinated by Almagro. He called his beloved Lima, La Ciudad de los Reyes, from its being founded on the day of the Epiphany. I always think of Pizarro with much more satisfaction when I contemplate him engaged in the peaceful occupation of laying out the city, and superintending the labours of the workmen, than when I regard him as the blood-stained conqueror of a race who had given him no cause of offence. He laid the foundation of the city on the 8th of January 1534, and was murdered on the 26th of June 1541.

Besides the river Rimac, which runs through the city, there are a number of small streams, which add much to the cleanliness of the streets, and serve to irrigate the gardens, and to feed the fountains and canals which adorn them. The ground on which it stands slopes towards the sea; the great square, or plaza mayor, near the centre, being about four hundred and eighty feet above its level.

The climate is agreeable, as the heat is seldom very excessive; but as there are several marshes and swampy places in the vicinity, fevers and agues are common. In summer a canopy of clouds hangs over it, which mitigates the heat of the sun; but rain very seldom falls throughout the year. Earthquakes occur nearly every year, and some have caused most devastating effects.

Lima is about two miles long from east to west, and a mile and a quarter broad. The streets are all straight, and about twenty-five feet wide, and there are no less than one hundred and fifty-seven quadras or open spaces. It is enclosed by walls built of adobes, sun-dried bricks made of clay and chopped straw. These bricks are considered better calculated than stone to resist the shocks of earthquakes. The walls are about twelve feet high and ten thick at the bottom, narrowing to eight at the top, with a parapet of three feet on the outer edge. It is flanked by thirty-four bastions, and has seven gates and three posterns. On the south-east is the citadel of Santa Catalina, with small guns mounted on it. Across the Rimac is a bridge of stone with fine arches, leading to the suburb of San Lazaro. This bridge is the favourite evening resort of the citizens. There are a number of churches, with handsome fronts of stone, and lofty steeples, which must be strongly built not to be overthrown by the earthquakes.

Lima contained about 80,000 inhabitants, of whom 20,000 were whites, and the rest negroes, Indians, and various half-castes. There were sixty-three noblemen who enjoyed the title of count or marquis, and about forty who were noble without titles. The Spaniards considered themselves belonging to a race of beings far above the native Indians, or even the Creoles; and would much more readily give their daughters in marriage to a poor countryman of their own than to a rich American-born person. The people of Lima are much addicted to gambling, especially the higher orders; but public gambling-houses are not allowed. The white inhabitants have sallow complexions, with little or no colour on their cheeks. The ladies have generally interesting countenances, with good eyes and teeth, and a profusion of black hair. The walking-dress of females of all ranks is the saya y manto. The saya consists of a petticoat of velvet, satin, or stuff, generally black or of a cinnamon tint, plaited in very small folds. It sits close to the body, and shows the shape to advantage. At the bottom it is so narrow that the wearer can only make very short steps. The skirt is ornamented with lace, fringe, spangles, or artificial flowers. The ladies of higher rank wear it of various colours, purple, pale blue, lead colour, or striped. The manto is a hood of thin black silk, drawn round the waist and then carried over the head. By closing it before, they can hide the face, one eye alone being visible, or sometimes they show only half the face. A gay shawl thrown over the shoulders and appearing in front, a rosary in the hand, silk stockings, and satin shoes, complete the costume. It seems intended to serve the purpose of a domino, as the wearer can thus completely conceal her features. At the present day, however, the European costume has been generally adopted. They delight in possessing a quantity of jewellery; but they appear to be still fonder of perfumes and sweet-scented flowers, and spare no expense in procuring them.

The Indians who reside in Lima endeavour to imitate the Spanish Creoles in dress and manners. They are chiefly engaged in making gold and silver lace, and other delicate gold work; while some are tailors and vendors of fruit, flowers, and vegetables.

The African Negroes are numerous, and, though slaves, are well treated by their masters. Those of the same tribe or nation find each other out, and form a sort of club or association, called a Confradia. They generally hold their meetings in the suburbs on a Sunday afternoon. At the time I speak of, there was an old slave-woman who had lived in a family for nearly fifty years, and who was the acknowledged queen of the Mandingoes. She was called Mama Rosa; and I remember seeing her seated at the porch of her master’s house, when a number of her black subjects who were passing knelt before her, and kissing her hand in a true loyal fashion, asked her blessing. Her mistress had given her a silver sceptre, and the young ladies of the family would lend her jewels, artificial flowers, and other ornaments; bedecked in which, on certain days, she would be carried off by her subjects in great state, her sceptre borne before her, to the house of the Confradia, where a throne was prepared to receive her. Here she held a regular court, when as much respect was shown her as to any sovereign in Europe. I shall have to speak of her again.

The next morning at an early hour Ithulpo called me, and accompanied me through the city. On my return I took an opportunity of telling my father what I had heard. He treated the subject lightly, observing that the Indians were very fanciful; at the same time, that he was anxious to return home as soon as he could arrange the affairs for which he had visited Lima. However I observed the following day, either from some information he had received, or from something Ithulpo had said to him, that he had begun to think more seriously of the matter, and he desired me to make preparations for our departure.

While strolling out in the afternoon, I happened to pass the abode of Mama Rosa, the black queen of the Mandingoes. A large crowd of negroes were assembled before the door, decked in all the finery they could command. They wore garments of all fashions and of every gay-coloured hue imaginable—the women with wreaths of flowers round their heads, and necklaces of coral and beads on their necks and arms. There were silk coats a century old, and round jackets, and shirts, blue, red, yellow, and white; and naval and military uniforms curiously altered to suit the taste of the wearer—not an uncommon mode of wearing trousers being round the neck instead of on the legs, with the upper part hanging down the back, and the lower on either side in front like a shawl. Some acted the part of guards of honour, and others appeared as ministers of state. A select body bore a sort of palanquin or litter, which they placed before the door till Mama Rosa descended into the street, when she was conducted with great ceremony to her seat in it. She was very old and ugly; but her subjects did not love her the less for that. Her dress was resplendent with flowers and jewels, and all the ornaments she could hang about herself.

A band was in attendance, the instruments of which were somewhat curious. The most important was a drum, made of a section of the trunk of a tree, with the skin of a kid drawn over one end. Another was a bow, the string being of catgut, which was struck with a small cane. A third was the jaw-bone of an ass with the teeth loose in the socket, and which, when struck by the hand, made a capital rattle. If there was not much harmony in the music, there was plenty of noise, which was not a little increased by the voices of a party of singers, who frisked about before the sovereign’s state carriage as she advanced. The sceptre-bearer stepped out with her majesty’s insignia of office in his arms, looking back as he did so to ascertain that the queen was following. Her people shouted, the palanquin-bearers moved on, the band struck up a negro sort of “God save the Queen,” and away they all went towards the quarters of the Confradia. I followed to see the end of the ceremony. After passing through a number of narrow and somewhat dirty streets, with the houses built of bamboo and mud, we reached the palace, for so I may call it. The hall was of good size, and the walls were ornamented with what I suppose were intended for likenesses of other sable monarchs. If they were correct, I am compelled to own that the royal Rosa’s predecessors, both ladies and gentlemen, were a very ugly set of personages. The band played louder, and the people shouted more vehemently, as her majesty ascended the throne at the end of the hall. She seemed perfectly at home, and sat down with right royal dignity. The sceptre-bearer presented the sceptre. She seized—it in her right hand and waved it around to command silence. Her ministers of state formed on either side of the throne, and doffed their cocked hats, or straw hats, or hats with three corners, or their red caps, or whatever covering adorned their heads. She then made them a speech, which I have no doubt was much more original than the Queen’s speech in England, but as I did not know a word of the Mandingo language, I was not much the wiser for it. When it was concluded, her Chancellor of the Exchequer made a report of the financial condition of her kingdom, while her Home Secretary described the good behaviour of her subjects, and her Minister for Foreign Affairs assured her that she was on good terms with all her neighbours. This part of the business being concluded, they squatted down about the throne, and filling their pipes with tobacco, began to smoke; while her other subjects, one by one, stepped forward, and dropping on both knees, each one gave her hand a kiss, not bashfully as if they were afraid of it, but with a hearty smack, which sounded through the hall. Her ancient majesty in return bestowed a blessing on them, and told them all to behave well; and especially to be contented with their lot, if their masters and mistresses treated them kindly. After the speech, all the people shouted, and the musicians struck up a magnificent flourish with the drums, and the bows, and the jaw-bones of the asses; and if there was not much harmony, there was a great deal of enthusiasm. Several slaves then stepped forward, and preferred complaints against their masters for ill-treatment.

The Queen listened to them attentively, and I thought seemed to judge their cases very judiciously. To some she replied, that it was through their own neglect of their duty that they had been punished. Others she advised to bear their ill-treatment patiently, and to endeavour, by zeal and attention to the wishes of their masters, to soften their tempers, and to gain their good-will; but there were two or three who had been treated so barbarously and unjustly, that she promised them that the Confradia should make every effort to purchase their freedom.

“You shall be freed,” she observed; “but remember you will have to work as hard as you have ever before done, to repay the Confradia the money they have advanced for your emancipation.”

These were not exactly her words, but what she said was to this effect.

The serious business of the day being over, the negroes and negresses set to work to dance; and though I cannot speak much of the grace they exhibited, I never saw any human beings frisk and jump about with so much agility. Who would have thought they were for the most part slaves, groaning under their chains? Never did dancers enter more thoroughly into the spirit of dancing. The black beaus did not waste their time in talking or doing the amiable to their sable partners; nor did the latter seem to expect any such attention—they came to dance, and their great aim seemed to be to get through as much of it as the time would allow. As I looked on I could scarcely refrain from rushing into the sable throng, and joining them in their frisks and jumps; though I dare say, had I done so they would have considered me a very contemptible performer. At length the Queen’s chamberlain clapped his hands, and gave notice that the court must break up, as her majesty was desirous of retiring to attend to her duties in putting to bed the children of her mistress to whom she was nurse. The bearers of her palanquin came forward, the Queen stepped into it, the sceptre-bearer marched before it, the band struck up their loudest tune, the people shouted till they were hoarse, and the procession returned in due state to old Mama Rosa’s abode; where, like Cinderella when the clock had struck twelve, she was again converted into the old negro nurse.

I give but a very brief account of our return journey, which commenced the next day, just in time to avoid the ill effects of an earthquake which gave Lima a fearful shaking, we being, when it took place, in the open country. For the latter part of our journey we rode on in perfect silence. Ithulpo seemed as well acquainted with the road as I was. By degrees the valley opened out, and the white walls of our house became visible. With beating hearts we ascended the mountain. We reached the court-yard and leaped from our horses. Well-known voices greeted us. My mother rushed out, my brothers and sisters followed. All, though becoming very anxious for our return, were well and in safety. José had returned just before, but nothing would induce him to say what had occurred to him. He asserted that he had been left behind by us from his own wish, through illness, and that he was only just sufficiently recovered to perform the journey home. Ithulpo declared his intention of remaining three or four days, till he could hear from his chief what he was to do; and of course, after the service he had rendered us, my father allowed him to act as he thought fit. I have now to describe some of the more eventful portions of my narrative.

Chapter Eight.

Our house attacked and defended.

My readers must endeavour to remember the description I gave of the situation of our house, at the commencement of my work. We were all seated in the same room in which the fugitive Manco first appeared to us. Our early dinner was just over; and though we did not indulge in the Spanish custom of the siesta, it was a time that we generally refrained from active exertion, and employed it in reading or some sedentary occupation. I had just laid down my book, and was looking out of the window down the valley, when on the lower country beyond, an unusual glitter of something which seemed to be moving along the road attracted my eye. I watched it attentively. Now the glittering object, which appeared in a long thin line, rose, and now it fell, as it wound its way over the uneven ground. At length I called my father’s attention to it. As soon as he saw it, his more practised eye knew what it was.

“A body of troops!” he exclaimed. “They are marching in this direction, and are probably bound across the mountain.”

We all now engaged in watching the advance of the soldiers, on whose bayonets the sun shining had first drawn my attention; and many were the surmises as to the reason of their coming to our remote locality. On they came, growing more and more distinct. First a dark mass appeared below the shining steel; then we perceived that it was composed of human beings, though still mingled together in a dense body. Next their banners and several officers on horseback were seen; and soon we could distinguish the hats and cross belts, and the colour of the uniform of the advanced guard. They were marching as rapidly as the nature of the ground would allow.

My father’s military ardour was aroused at the sight. He seized his hat and rushed out to a spot beyond the walls, whence he could command a clear view both up and down the valley. I followed him, and we stood together on the knoll watching the advancing troops. What was our surprise, however, to find, that instead of proceeding along the road over the mountains, the advanced guard began to mount the path leading to the height on which our house stood! At the same instant, happening to turn my head towards the mountain, I saw descending it, at a rapid pace, a person whom I recognised as Ithulpo. He rushed on, leaping from rock to rock at the risk of instant destruction. Nothing served to impede his course. Life and death depended on him. He had discovered the soldiers. For an instant he stopped, as if to consider whether he could reach us before they did. Then on again he came as fast as before. He was almost breathless when he arrived.

“Call in all the people, and shut the gates and doors!” he exclaimed, panting as he spoke. “The soldiers will destroy you all without mercy if they once gain an entrance. Hold out but a short hour or less, and a force will be here which will drive back our enemies to the sea.”

My father, astounded at what he heard, considered what was best to be done. The advanced guard was already nearly half way up the hill. If we attempted to block out the Spaniards, it would at once be acknowledging ourselves guilty of some crime; but if we let them in, unless Ithulpo deceived us, we might be subjected to ill-treatment. At the utmost, with the few servants and some Indians who happened to be in the house, we could not hope to hold out many minutes against the formidable force now approaching.

“Do you hesitate?” exclaimed Ithulpo vehemently. “I tell you, Señor, I speak the truth. Ah, there comes the army of the Inca! Death to the tyrants of Peru.”

As he spoke, he pointed up the mountain, when I saw, winding among the rocks, a large body of Indians. Every instant others appeared, till the surrounding heights and the whole gorge, through which the road wound, was covered with them. They rushed impetuously down the mountain side, a strong body making evidently for our house. The Spaniards, who had also discovered them, redoubled their efforts to climb the mountain, for the purpose, it was also very clear, of occupying the house before the Indians could reach it.

The Indians were armed with firelocks of every sort and size, and of curious antique forms, hoarded up with jealous care by father and son for many a long year, to be ready for the days of retribution, which they hoped had now arrived. A large proportion, however, had only clubs and spears, and bows and arrows, and slings of the same description as those used by their ancestors when they first encountered the Spaniards. To counterbalance in a degree their deficiency, they had a few light mountain guns, carried on the backs of mules, engines of warfare which their enemies did not suspect them of possessing.

Their costume also was equally a mixture of the ancient and modern. Some were dressed in skins, with their hair long, and the upper part of their bodies painted in many colours. These were some of the wild tribes from a distance, who had never been subdued. Others wore a sort of armour of leather or cotton, thickly padded, with shields of hides, and a profusion of feather ornaments; while most of those who carried firearms, and were from the more civilised districts, were clothed in garments of various coloured cottons, or had retained the ordinary dress of the present day. It must be understood that I learned most of these particulars afterwards, for they were still too far off for me to observe either their arms or dress.

On they came with the most terrific shouts, such as I did not think them capable of uttering. It appeared as if they were giving vent to their feelings of hatred and revenge, pent up for centuries. My father stood for an instant watching the two advancing forces, and considering what course to pursue to preserve his family from the dangers of the conflict which it was evident would soon be raging around us.

“Into the house, David,” he exclaimed; “Ithulpo’s advice must be followed. We will keep both parties out as long as we can.”

We were quickly inside the gates, and lost not a moment in calling the servants together, and in bolting and barring all the doors, and in putting up shutters to the windows. We found Ithulpo in the house. He said he had been ordered by his chief to remain with as till we were in safety. My mother, whom he had warned of what was about to occur, though alarmed for the safety of her children, did not lose her presence of mind, but went round encouraging the servants to remain firm and obey their orders. Ithulpo hurried here and there, directing and aiding the other men in preparing for a defence should the house be attacked.

In a few minutes all the arrangements which with the means at our disposal we could hope to make, were concluded; and I had time to look out from a loophole in the side of the roof, to see how near the two parties had approached. I first turned my eyes to the eastward towards the mountains, where, to my surprise, I found that the Indians, instead of rushing on at once to meet their enemies, had drawn up in battle array, quietly watching their advance. Had they come on at once, their numbers alone, it appeared to me, would have overwhelmed the Spaniards. They held a position, however, from which it would, I saw, be impossible to dislodge them, and effectually blocked up the passage across the mountain. Their appearance was very picturesque, from the variety of their costumes, and the numberless banners under which each cacique had mustered his followers. Conspicuous among them was one which I recognised as that of the Incas, once more raised to meet the hereditary foes of their race. I next looked down the valley. The advanced guard of the Spaniards had just reached the brow of the hill, and would, I calculated, in three or four minutes be close to our gates. Under these circumstances, an attempt to prevent them from entering the house would, of course, be considered an act of open defiance of the authority of the Spanish Government, which it would, I felt, be next to madness to make; and I therefore hurried down from my post to tell my father how matters stood.

“We have but one course to pursue,” he replied, when I told him what I had observed. “I will trust to your courage and judgment, David; I will stay to open our gates to the Spaniards, while you take charge of your mother and the children, and conduct them down by the secret passage which leads out at the side of the mountain. She has already packed up her jewels and the most portable valuables we possess. Go and prepare her to set out the moment the soldiers reach the gate. Collect some torches. Tell Ithulpo. He will accompany you, and protect you should you fall in with any straggling parties of Indians. I will endeavour to join you as soon as I can escape without being observed, which I very soon, I doubt not, shall have an opportunity of doing.”

“No, no, father, I will obey you in everything but that,” I replied. “Let me remain to receive the soldiers, while you escort my mother and brothers and sisters to a place of safety.”

I so earnestly argued the point, that at length my father saw that I was right; besides, as I observed, if the Spaniards accused us of siding with the rebels, I was much less likely, on account of my youth, to be ill-treated by them than he would be.

Scarcely had he agreed to my wishes, than a loud knocking was heard at the gates.

“Heaven protect you, my boy!” he exclaimed, as he hurried off to conduct my mother with the children and the females of the family down the secret passage.

So unexpectedly had the events I have described occurred, and so occupied had we been, that there was no time for leave-taking, scarcely even to comprehend the full extent of the danger to which we were exposed. There had been no weeping or lamentation, or any other sign of alarm; for the women, all looking up to my mother, and seeing her so fearless, seemed only anxious to follow her directions. I watched them crowding after her to the door of the passage. Some carried the children, and others baskets of provisions, and light articles of value which she wished to preserve. My father led the way, and Ithulpo and José brought up the rear with a bundle of torches.

As soon as they had disappeared, I ran towards the gates, calling on some of the remaining servants to assist me in opening them. Before, however, I had reached the gateway, the most terrific shouts and shrieks I had ever heard assailed my ears. I at once divined the cause. The Indians had at length understood the purpose of the Spaniards, and had made an advance to intercept them. The soldiers were now thundering at the gates, in an attempt to force them open, with the butt-ends of their muskets. On finding this, I naturally became alarmed, lest, as I withdrew the bars while they rushed in, they would trample me down, and perhaps kill me; yet I felt that it would be cowardly to expose others to a danger I was ready to avoid if I could. I therefore called on the servants to aid me in removing some of the stout bars and withdrawing the bolts, knowing that the people outside would quickly force open the rest.

“We are opening the gates, my friends,” I shouted. “Quick, quick!”

Scarcely had the bars been removed than the gates began to give way. We leaped aside into a recess of the hall, and the soldiers rushed in, uttering loud imprecations on us for having so long delayed them. Had they seen us, I believe they would have knocked us on the head; but fortunately they were in too great a hurry to take possession of the house to look for us. There were in all not more than a hundred men; a small garrison for so extensive a range of buildings. The rest of the troops had, I found, advanced up the mountain, in an attempt to force the passage across it. From the strong array of Indians I had seen posted there, I considered that in this they would be disappointed. The first thing the soldiers did on entering the house, was to find their way to that side facing the mountains. Some stationed themselves at the windows, through the shutters of which they forced holes to admit the muzzles of their muskets; while others took up a strong position in the court-yard, whence they could annoy the advancing enemy. Their hurried arrangements had scarcely been concluded, when the Indians in strong force rushed to the walls, uttering the most dreadful shouts of defiance and hatred. The Spaniards reserved their fire till they came close upon them. The word was given by the officer in command, and a volley was poured in upon them which proved fatal to many; yet the rest came on undauntedly to the attack. I had intended to have followed my family into the vaults, and I should have been wiser had I done so; but a strong desire to see the fight, not unnatural to one of my age and temper, kept me back; and having escaped the observation of the soldiers, I had clambered up to the roof, where, through a small window, I could see all that was going forward. It was a post I very soon found of considerable danger, for, when the Indians began to fire, the bullets came rattling about my head very thick. What had become of the Indian servants I could not tell; but I concluded that they had wisely betaken themselves to the vaults, or to some other place of safety.

I must observe that on either side the walls of the outbuildings and gardens extended across the hill to the summit of precipitous cliffs, so that the Indians could not get round to attack the house in the rear without clambering over these impediments. As, however, the line was very extended, it required great activity and vigilance on the part of the Spaniards to defend it. Several parties, of ten or fifteen men each, were employed in continually moving about from place to place whenever any of the enemy showed a disposition to scale the walls. The main attack of the Indians was, however, directed against the house itself; indeed it was only subsequently that any attempts were made at other points. The Indian chiefs showed the most undaunted bravery; and, though singled out by the Spaniards for destruction, they were always in the thickest of the fight, and exposed to the hottest fire. I looked in vain for my friend Manco; and at first I was afraid that he might have been killed, till it occurred to me that he was probably with the main body of the army defending the mountain pass.

I must now more particularly describe the scene as I beheld it from my lofty post. I could tolerably well tell what was going on inside, from the sounds which reached my ears. There was a gate in the east wall about the centre of the house, to force which the Indians in the first place directed their efforts, undaunted by the fire of the Spaniards, they brought up a sort of battering-ram, composed of the roughly-shaped trunk of a newly-felled tree, slung by ropes to men’s shoulders. They were led by a chief in the full war costume of the time of the Incas. Notwithstanding the showers of bullets flying round him, he remained unharmed, encouraging his followers by word and action to the assault. If one fell, his place was instantly supplied by another, till the battering-ram reached the gate. Several thundering blows were heard above the rattle of musketry, the shouts of the assailants, and the cries of the wounded, as the engine was set to work. The gate yielded to the blows, for it was old and decayed; and the Indians rushed in. Several fell pierced by the pikes of the Spaniards who guarded it, but many others pressed on, and the soldiers were driven back. The court-yard was soon filled, and at length the Peruvians met the hereditary enemies of their race, face to face, in a struggle for life and death. The Spaniards who had been left to guard the walls of the garden rallied, and attempted in a compact body to enter the house by one of the side doors; but the Indians threw themselves in their way, and attacked them with a courage I scarcely expected to see exercised. They rushed in upon them, some seizing the muzzles of their muskets, while others cut at them with their axes, or pierced them with their spears. The Spaniards endeavoured to preserve their discipline; but they were at length broken and separated into parties of twos and threes, surrounded by Indians, who filled the entire court-yard, so that the combatants were now engaged in hand-to-hand fights, when it was evident that numbers would gain the day. I had a strange longing, as I witnessed the dreadful scene, to rush down and join the fight. My sympathies were, I own, with the Indians; but still I felt if I had thrown myself among them, I might have sided with the weaker party. I did not, however, attempt to move. The very action would have called me to my senses, and reminded me of the folly of interference. A number of the Spaniards had fallen, and were instantly despatched and trampled on by the infuriated Indians. At last a few, by desperate efforts, again united, and fought their way up to the house; when some of the garrison, who had been anxiously watching them, made a sortie by a side door, and succeeded in keeping the enemy at bay, while the greater number, desperately wounded, retired inside. For a minute, from the rush the Indians made towards the door, I thought that they had succeeded in entering at the same time, and I expected to hear the sounds of strife below me; but the soldiers drove them back, and once more shut themselves in.

Meantime the assault on the front of the house was going on vigorously. An attempt was made to bring the battering-ram into play; but so many of the people working it were shot, that it was allowed to drop close to the wall. It served, however, as a sort of platform, from whence some of the Indians could throw their spears into the crevices of the windows, while others attempted to force them open with their clubs, and those armed with muskets continued a hot fire from the walls, and from every spot where they could find shelter. From the groans I heard from below, it was evident that many of the shots had pierced the shutters and wounded the defenders of the house.

While the scenes I have described were going on in my immediate vicinity, I observed that in the distance the main body of the Indians were engaged in a hot engagement with the troops who had marched towards the pass. The light artillery of the former, though of no use for distant firing, had been judiciously placed in commanding positions, and masked with breastworks of stone and earth hastily thrown up. Their fire was reserved till the Spaniards got close to them; then from each battery the iron shower went forth, sweeping through the ranks of the Spanish troops. I could see them waver and attempt to turn back; but urged on by their officers, they again advanced. A portion attempted to storm the heights on which the cannon were posted; but thousands of Indians were behind the batteries, and they were driven back with great slaughter. Still the rest marched on. Sometimes they were concealed from my sight, and I could only judge by the movements of the Indians on the higher ground that the fight was continuing; then again a turn of the path brought them once more in view. Their numbers were fast diminishing; but pride, and contempt for a race they had for so long been taught to despise, urged them forward. They fancied probably that they must prove victorious as soon as they could come into actual contact with their foes. They were now also fighting for life as well as honour; for if driven back, few would expect to escape after the reception they had already met with. Every instant, however, fresh bodies of Indians sprung up above and around them. On every height warriors were posted, every rock concealed an enemy.

My attention was now drawn off from the more distant scene by what was going on below me. The Indians having penetrated through the gardens, now entirely surrounded the house; and it required all the vigilance of those within to repel them. I could hear those below rushing about to each assailable point as their presence was most required; the officers shouted their orders, bullets rattled through the house, and the heavy blows of clubs and axes sounded on every side, while the whole house was filled with the smoke of the firearms. When, however, after some time, the Indian? found that they could not gain an entrance in this manner without great loss, they retired behind the outer walls of the garden, and a comparative silence succeeded to the previous din of warfare. It was but preparatory to another more desperate attempt. From the mountain side I saw a fresh body of men advancing, who bore among them ladders roughly formed out of young fir-trees. It was evident that they intended to climb to the roof for the purpose of making an entrance through it, and dropping down upon the garrison. I foresaw that if they did so, the sacrifice of life must be very great, though they would ultimately succeed; for the Spaniards could scarcely defend themselves if attacked from above as well as on every side.

I now began to repent of my folly in having remained behind; but as I had hitherto been unhurt by the bullets, which were striking the roof and walls on every side of me, I fancied that I should yet escape. I tried to consider what I had best do, and came to the conclusion that it would be wiser to remain where I was. If I should be recognised by any of the Indians, I had no fear of their injuring me; but in the confusion and heat of the fight I could scarcely expect to be so, and I felt that I must run all the risks of the assault if they should succeed in their object. I almost hoped that they would give up the attempt, and allow the Spaniards to escape. The success, however, of the main body of their army encouraged them to persevere.

As far as I could judge at that distance, the troops were completely hemmed in, and were fighting for their lives, not to advance, but to return down the mountain. Should the house be taken, all hopes of their so doing would be lost, as it would leave the besiegers at liberty to descend by the path leading to it, and to cut off all those who might escape.

I was not left long in doubt. By making a circuit to the left, the ladders were brought to a gable end of the house where there were no windows. The Spaniards must have seen the ladders, but they had no means of attacking those destined to mount them unless by making a sortie; and this, with their diminished numbers, they were probably afraid of attempting. The tramp of some men on the steps leading to the roof, showed me that they were aware of what was about to take place, but they were too late. The Indians had already begun to tear off the tiles, and the soldiers who appeared were received with the discharge of a dozen muskets close to their faces. Many fell; the rest attempted to retreat, and were precipitated to the floor below. The Indians swarmed up in numbers, and filled the whole upper story. I stood concealed in a small closet which had not been entered. Just then I perceived, besides the smoke of gunpowder, a cloud of greater density ascending through the floor, and a strong smell of burning wood.

“Merciful heaven!” I exclaimed, “the house is on fire!”

The Indians discovered what was the case at the same time, and rushed down the steps. I followed the last of them. I thought if I attempted to escape by the ladders, I might be mistaken for a Spaniard, and shot. The scene of fighting, bloodshed, and confusion, which met my sight below, passes all description. The combat was carried on by both sides with desperation, the chief aim of the Indians being to open the gates to their friends without, and that of the Spaniards to prevent them. In the confined space of the passages, the Indians had somewhat the advantage with their daggers or short swords, and their axes; and they continued fighting for a minute or more, but had, notwithstanding, made little progress, when, from the secret passage I have so often described, a band of half-naked warriors burst into the house, and uttering loud yells, set upon the Spaniards with the utmost fury. Several of the officers had been killed or severely wounded. Terror-stricken at these new opponents, the men gave way; some attempted to gain the roof, others to burst their way through the doors, though they must then have fallen into the hands of their enemies; but they had a new foe to contend with, as relentless as the former.

The fire, which had been smouldering in one of the rooms, burst forth as the doors were thrown open, and, fanned by the breeze, the fierce flames crept across the walls and along the rafters and ceiling. As the impending danger was perceived, many of the combatants ceased their strife, and victors and vanquished endeavoured to preserve their lives by flight; but some, worked up to fury, fought desperately on till the flames actually caught them in their toils, and claimed them for their victims. Others, with their clothes on fire, Spaniards and Indians mingled together, were seen rushing forth and calling on their friends for aid—on their foes for mercy. Mercy the Indians had never received, nor were they in a temper to grant it. As each Spaniard appeared he was cut down, or was else driven back into the flames, till, as I afterwards heard, not one remained alive of all those who had lately garrisoned the house.

In the meantime I had been watching an opportunity to escape. The fighting was still continuing with the greatest fury, the combatants passing before me, as alternately the Spaniards forced their way forward, or were again driven back by the Indians who poured into the building, while the raging flames gained possession of it; when, as the heat became so intense that I could no longer hold my post, and a space for an instant appearing clear before me, I darted forward amid the fire, the whistling bullets and the weapons of the combatants. I ran on in the hopes of reaching one of the doors at the west side of the house; but I was so blinded and stifled by the smoke, that I could scarcely see my way, or know what I was about. I fancied that I perceived before me a number of Indians. They were driving at the point of their spears several soldiers back into the fire that had reached that part of the house. With fierce gestures some of them advanced towards me. I tried to cry out and explain who I was, when, before the words were spoken, I was sensible of a sharp blow, it seemed on my side. The next instant I saw axes and swords glittering above my head. I sunk to the ground, and all consciousness passed from me.

Chapter Nine.

The Indian’s hut—alarming news.

When consciousness at length returned, a very different scene met my sight. I had an idea that something dreadful had occurred, but what it was I could not tell. My belief was, that I had been dreaming that I had witnessed a battle, that I had fallen from my horse and hurt myself, and that I had been lifted up and carried along on men’s shoulders to some distant place. I had an indistinct recollection of a face full of tenderness often bending over me; but whether it were white or red I could not tell, the expression only had made any impression on me. There was, however, so great a want of clearness and reality in what I have described, that when I once more began to collect my thoughts, I was unable to determine whether or not I had been dreaming all the time, and was still half asleep.

At length I opened my eyes, and discovered that I was lying under the shade of a small hut or wigwam, composed of the boughs of trees, and thatched carefully over with straw. My couch was on the ground; but it was a very soft one, for the bed was stuffed with a quantity of the fine wool of the vicuñas, and covered with a delicately woven woollen stuff.

The hut stood in an open space amid a forest of gigantic trees, such as a tropical clime can alone produce. Beyond were dark and frowning rocks, above which rose ridges of lofty mountains, one overtopping the other, till the more distant, covered with a mantle of everlasting snow, seemed lost in the clouds. The sky overhead was of intense blue; and through it sailed, with outstretched wings, a mighty condor, carrying in his talons a kid he had snatched from the valley below to his eyrie on the summit of the rugged cliffs in the distance. I watched the majestic bird as it sailed along, forgetful of my own condition, and wondering whether any one would be able to rescue the poor animal from its impending fate. On it went, growing smaller and smaller, till it became a mere speck in the sky, and then disappeared altogether.

This trifling circumstance served to arouse me, and I began to look about me with some attention. I discovered, at length, that the forest glade was not tenantless, for the part farthest removed from me was crowded with dense masses of Indians, who were collected round one who, by his height, his rich dress, and noble bearing, I conjectured to be a chief, though I never recollected to have seen him before. Other Indians kept arriving from all sides through the forest. He stood elevated above the rest on a mound of earth under a canopy of cloth of many colours; and I observed that the borla, the red fringe worn only in ancient days by the proud Incas, bound his brow. From this sign I could have no doubt that he was the well-known chieftain, Tupac Amaru, the lineal descendant of the Incas, and the elder uncle of my friend Manco. By the Indians he had been known usually by the name of Condorcanqui, and by the Spanish as Don José Gabriel, Marquis de Alcalises, a title which had been given to one of his ancestors by the King of Spain.

He was addressing the multitude in a harangue which, from the distance he was from me, I could not hear. The people listened with deep earnestness and silence, till some expression aroused their passions, when brandishing their weapons, their bows, their clubs and spears, they uttered shouts of approval, or wild cries of defiance and hatred to their foe.

I had no doubt that I was in one of the strongholds of the Indians, among the mountains on the eastern side of the Andes. The Inca, for so I may call him, continued speaking for an hour or more, when I again fell off into a sleep or stupor. I had discovered that I was wounded both in the head and side; and I felt dreadfully weak and ill. The sun was just gliding behind the mountains when I again opened my eyes. By my side sat a young and very beautiful woman, her large black eyes and the tinge of copper in her complexion showing that she was of Indian birth.

In front of the hut stood a man whose figure I thought I knew. An exclamation of surprise escaped my lips. He turned his head at the sound of my voice, and I recognised, to my joy, the chief Manco. He knelt down by my side.

“Ah! my young friend, I rejoice to hear you speak once again,” he said. “My wife and I have watched over you anxiously, for we thought with sorrow that you would never recover.”

I did not before know that Manco had a wife. “You have been very good to me; and had it not been for her care, I must have died,” I replied. “I dare say I shall now soon get well; but can you tell me anything of my parents and my brothers and sisters? Is Ithulpo with you?”

“I can give you no tidings of them,” he replied, turning away his head. “Ithulpo has not come back to us, and I know not where he is.”

“My poor father and mother! they will think I have been killed,” I ejaculated. “It will make them grieve very much.”

“They will trust in God and hope for the best, as you must, my friend,” he observed. “But I must not let you talk, or it will bring back the fever which has been on you. Nita will watch over you, for I have matters which call me away.” As he spoke, his young wife handed me a cup filled with a cooling draught distilled from herbs, which I drank eagerly off. “That will do you good,” he remarked. “To-morrow, if you are stronger, I will answer the questions I see you are eager to put. Now, farewell!” He shook his head when he saw that I was about again to speak, and went off across the glade.

I next tried to interrogate Nita, speaking in the Quichua language, supposing she did not understand Spanish; but with a smile she signed to me not to talk.

“Sleep, stranger, sleep,” she said in a sweet musical voice in her native tongue; “it will strengthen you to undergo the toils which are in store for you. My husband has promised to tell you more to-morrow. I must quit you if you persist in talking.”

Seeing that she was determined not to answer any of the questions I longed to ask, I felt that it would be ungrateful not to do as she desired me, and I once more resigned myself to sleep.

The next day I felt better and stronger, and my wounds were healing rapidly; but Manco did not return, and Nita told me that he was engaged in mustering and arming his followers. She would, however, give me no other information. I felt very sad and solitary, notwithstanding her kindness; for, whenever I could collect my thoughts, I could not help fearing that some misfortune had befallen those I best loved on earth. Fortunately I slept or dozed away the greater part of the day, and this, I suspect, contributed to the rapidity of my recovery, aided by my good constitution and the pure air I breathed. At night Nita sent an old woman to sit by me, who was relieved by a young lad of my own age. I expected to gain some information from the latter, for he looked very intelligent; but when I spoke to him he shook his head, and I afterwards discovered that the poor fellow was deaf and dumb. There were several huts near mine, one of which I found was occupied by Nita and her husband.

Three days passed away, and at last, to my great joy, Manco came back. He seemed in high spirits when he spoke of the prospects of his people. He told me that the Indians throughout the whole of the mountain districts of Peru were up in arms, and that whenever they had encountered the Spaniards the latter had been defeated; though he confessed, with regret, that many atrocities had been committed by the enraged natives, and that the white inhabitants of whole villages and districts, including women and children, had been cruelly massacred, as had also the negroes and those with any white blood in their veins.

I may as well here pause in my personal narrative to give a short account of the cause of the disastrous revolt of the Indians of Peru, from which so many thousand lives were sacrificed. I have already spoken of the systematic cruelty practised by the Spaniards from their first occupation of the country, and of the dreadful effects of the mita (as the parcelling out of the people among the conquerors as slaves was called, under the pretence of enabling them to learn trades and to become domestic servants, as also to make them work in the mines); but another injustice was the immediate cause of the outbreak. This was the repartimiento. It was a law originally made by the Spanish Government, authorising the corregidores to distribute among the natives goods imported from Europe at fixed prices, and which they were compelled to purchase whether they required them or not. Consequently, all sorts of things damaged and useless were sent out from Spain to Peru, where they were certain of realising a profit to be obtained nowhere else. Among them might be found silk stockings, satins, and velvets—razors for men who never shaved, and spectacles for those whose eyesight was excellent. I remember especially a consignment of spectacles arriving to a merchant at Lima. He could nowhere dispose of them, till he bethought himself of applying to a corregidor of a neighbouring district, who was his friend, to help him. The latter threw no difficulty in the way.

“Your goods shall be sold immediately, my friend,” he replied; and forthwith he issued an order that no Indian should appear at church or at festivals unless adorned with a pair of spectacles, intimating the place where they were to be sold. The poor people had to come and buy the spectacles, and to pay a very high price for them into the bargain.

The Spanish Government, when they framed the law, had doubtless no idea that it would be thus abused; their intention being to civilise the people by the introduction of European clothing and luxuries, and in that manner to create a good market for the product of the industry of the mother country. It is one of the many examples of the folly of attempting to force the interests of commerce by unjust laws. For a time a few merchants sold their goods; but the ultimate result, independent of the bloodshed which it caused, was that the Indians took a dislike to Spanish manufactures, and the Peruvian market was ultimately lost for ever to Spain.

The repartimiento had lately been put in force by the corregidores with even more than the usual injustice. The corregidores were, I must explain, Spanish municipal officers, who had very great authority in the districts they governed; and as they were the receivers of all taxes, tributes, and customs, they were able to ensure it with unsparing rapacity, which they did not fail to do in most instances.

At length, after years of suffering, the Indian population were thoroughly aroused, and determined to throw off the hated yoke of the tyrants. Condorcanqui placed himself at their head; and before the Spaniards were aware of the storm which was gathering, he had collected a large but undisciplined army. He had two sons, called Andres and Mariano, and a brother named Diogo, all of whom assumed the title of Tupac Amaru, which means in the Quichua language, the highly endowed. Several others of his relations also assumed the same title, and took command of the patriots’ forces in other parts of the country. The Spaniards, despising the Indians, and regardless of any warnings they might have received, were completely taken by surprise, and defeated in all directions. The villages in whole districts were totally destroyed, and several large towns were besieged, many of which were captured and the inhabitants put to the sword.

Of their first victory I had been a witness. Condorcanqui had been cacique of the province of Tungasuca, the corregidor of which was among the most exacting and rapacious of his class. For a long time the Indian chief had brooded over the sufferings of his countrymen, till he resolved to avenge them. He confided his plans to a few other caciques only, and to his own relatives. They prepared the people by means of faithful emissaries throughout the country; and arms and munitions of war were collected with the greatest secrecy and expedition. At an appointed day the signal of revolt was given; and the corregidores in many of the provinces, whom they looked upon as their principal oppressors, were seized and executed.

The corregidor of Tungasuca had been entertaining a party of friends and some travellers at his house. The feast was over; they had taken their siesta; and other guests had assembled to pass the evening with music and dancing. His wife and daughters were there, and several ladies young and lovely. The gay guitar was sounding in the hall, and happy hearts and light feet were keeping time to the music. The corregidor was standing apart from the rest in earnest conversation with a stranger.

“This is my farewell assembly,” he observed. “I have now, thank Providence, amassed a fortune sufficient for my wants; and in a few weeks’ time I shall sail for my beloved Spain. This country is a good one for making money, but for nothing else.”

“It is a fine country, though; and history tells us was once a perfect paradise,” remarked the stranger.

“A paradise it might have been when the fields were better cultivated and more mines were worked; but the people have chosen to die off, and those who remain are idle and lazy, and will not work,” answered the corregidor, with a scornful laugh.

“They have lately taken to care very little for religion either,” observed Padre Diogo, the family chaplain, who now joined the speakers. “When we go among them with the saints to collect offerings, our boxes come back not a quarter full.”

Just then a servant, pale with terror, rushed up to his master.

“What is the matter?” asked the corregidor. “Speak, fool, speak!” for the man could only utter some unintelligible sounds.

“The Indians! the Indians!” cried the man, at length finding his voice. “The house is surrounded by thousands of them!”

“Impossible!” exclaimed the corregidor. “The slaves would not dare—”

Just then an unearthly cry rent the air. The music ceased, and the strangers hurried to go—the ladies clasping their partners’ arms, and the children clinging to their mothers. Some of the men went to the windows. What the servant had reported was too true. On each side were seen, by the beams of the pale moon, dense masses of armed savages, forming an impenetrable barrier round the house; while others kept arriving from every direction.

“What means all this?” exclaimed the corregidor. “I will go out and order the slaves to disperse.”

“O stay, stay!” cried his wife, clinging to him with an air of despair, which showed her too true forebodings of evil. “They are exasperated against you, and may do you harm. Let Padre Diogo go; he has influence with the people, and may persuade them to depart.”

The corregidor was easily persuaded to follow his wife’s counsel, for his conscience told him that the Indians had just cause to hate him. One of the strangers suggested that efforts should instantly be made to barricade the house, and prepare for defending it, should the Indians be assembled with any hostile intention. The corregidor was about to give orders to that effect, when another loud unearthly shriek paralysed the nerves of all the inmates.

“Oh, go, Señor Padre, go! save my husband and children!” cried the terrified wife.

“Save us! save us!” cried the guests, now fully aware of the horrible danger that threatened them.

Thus urged, Padre Diogo prepared, with many misgivings, to go forth and appeal to the people. He looked round with a sad countenance on those he had lately seen so full of life and gaiety.

“May Heaven and the saints protect you, my children,” he said solemnly.

Then taking in his hand a crucifix which hung in a little oratory near the hall, he opened the front door of the house and stepped out among the crowd. He held the sacred symbol of his faith aloft in his hand. It served as his safeguard. No one attempted to injure him; but before he could utter a word, he was surrounded and hurried away from the house. No one would listen to his prayers and entreaties.

“Mercy, mercy, for the unfortunates in yonder mansion!” he cried.

“Mercy, mercy, Señor Padre! did they ever show mercy to us?” exclaimed a voice from the crowd.

He looked back; the Indians were pouring into the house. Loud agonised shrieks of women and children reached his ears. A few shots were heard, followed by the triumphant shouts of the Indians. Flames were seen bursting forth from the house. They burned up bright and clear in the night air. By their light he observed a man dragged along among a crowd of Indians. They stopped and appeared to be busily at work. In a short time a gibbet was erected near the burning building.

“You are required to shrive a dying man, Señor Padre,” said an Indian who approached him.

He was led towards the engine of death. There, beneath it, he found, pale with terror, and trembling in every limb, the corregidor, his patron.

“They tell me, my son, that I am to perform the last offices of religion for the dying,” said Padre Diogo.

“For me, Padre, for me!” exclaimed the corregidor in a voice of agony. “Alas! it is cruel mockery. They have murdered my wife and children, my guests and servants—all, all are dead! and now they will murder me.”

“I will plead for you; I will try to save your life,” said the padre. “But they cannot have been so cruel—they cannot have murdered those innocents!”

“Alas! I speak true. Before my eyes they slew all I love on earth, and they only preserved me to make me endure longer suffering,” said the wretched man.

“You are delaying to perform your duty,” cried a voice from among the crowd of Indians.

“Mercy, mercy, for him, my children!” ejaculated the padre.

“He showed us none,” answered a hundred voices in return. “Proceed, proceed, or he must die without shrift.”

The padre felt there was no hope; but he attempted to make another appeal. He was answered in the same strain.

“My son, you must prepare your soul for another world,” he whispered into the ear of the corregidor.

The unhappy man saw that indeed there was no hope for him, but still he clung to life. He dared not die. At that moment all his deeds of cruelty, all his tyranny, came crowding to his memory in a light they had never before worn. Of what use now was to him the wealth he had thus unjustly acquired? Oh! if men would at all times and seasons remember that they must one day die, and give an account of their deeds on earth, would it not restrain them from committing acts of injustice and wrong? The corregidor attempted to enumerate his misdeeds. They were too many for him to recollect.

“I have offended—I have miserably offended!” he exclaimed in his agony.

“God is full of mercy. He rejoices in pardoning the repentant sinner,” answered the padre.

But his words brought no hope to a doubting mind. He felt that his crimes were too great for pardon; though till that moment he had not considered them as crimes.

The priest then proceeded to administer to him the last sacrament of the Roman Catholic Church. He had scarcely concluded, when the Indians, who had stood around in reverential silence, raised a loud clamour for the instant execution of the culprit; but Padre Diogo was a brave man.

“My children,” he cried, “you have already committed a great sin in murdering the innocents who this night have fallen by your hands. Their blood will cry to Heaven for vengeance. Preserve this man’s life, repent, and pray for mercy.”

A cacique now stepped forward from among the crowd.

“Señor Padre,” he said, “we listen to your words with reverence, for you are a priest, and have ever proved our friend; but this man was placed in authority over us, and most cruelly did he abuse that authority. He has been tried and found guilty. As his ancestors murdered our last Inca, the great Atahualpa, so he must die. He has but one minute more to live. We have already shown him more mercy than he deserves.”

The tone, as much as the words of the speaker, convinced the padre that his penitent must die. To the last he stood by his side, whispering such words of consolation as he could offer. Several Indians, appointed as executioners, advanced; and in an instant the miserable man was hurried into eternity.

“For this man’s death, the vengeance of his countrymen will fall terribly on your heads, my children,” exclaimed the padre; for the proud spirit of the Spaniard was aroused within his bosom, and he did not fear what they might do to him. Too truly were his words afterwards verified. No one seemed to heed what he said; and he was led away from the spot by a party of Indians, in whose charge he was given by the chief Tupac Amaru. To his horror, he found that every man, woman, and child among the white inhabitants of the village had fallen victims to the exasperated fury of the Indians.

This account was given me some time afterwards by Padre Diogo himself; though I thought the present a proper opportunity of introducing it.

I will now return to my own narrative. I rapidly recovered my strength, and in a few more days was able to leave the hut and walk about without assistance; but my anxiety for the fate of my family was in no way relieved; and though Manco made all the inquiries in his power, he could afford me no consolation. I was sitting one evening in front of the hut, meditating what course to pursue, when Manco came and threw himself on the ground by my side. He took my hand and looked kindly in my face; but I saw that his countenance wore an expression of deep melancholy. With a trembling voice I asked him what news he had to communicate.

“Bad news, bad news, my young friend,” he said; and then stopped, as if afraid of proceeding.

“Of my parents?” I inquired, for I could not bear the agony of suspense. “Speak, Manco; has Ithulpo not arrived?”

“Alas! no,” he answered, sorrowfully shaking his head. “I have too certain evidence of Ithulpo’s death; and, faithful as he was, he would never have deserted your parents. His body has been discovered near a village which has been attacked and burned by my countrymen. There can be no doubt that they had taken refuge within it. Alas that I should say it, who have received such benefits from them! The Indians put to the sword every inhabitant they found there, and among them your parents must have perished.”

At first I was stunned with what he said, though I could not bring myself to believe the horrid tale.

“I will go in search of them,” I at length exclaimed. “I will find them if they are alive; or I must see their bodies, if, as you say, they have been murdered, before I can believe you. The Indians, whom they always loved and pitied, could not have been guilty of such barbarity. If your countrymen have murdered their benefactors, I tell you that they are miserable worthless wretches; and the Spaniards will be justified in sweeping them from the face of the earth.”

As I gave utterance to these exclamations, I felt my spirit maddening within me. I cared not what I said; I felt no fear for the consequences. At first, after I had spoken, a cloud came over Manco’s brow; but it quickly cleared away, and he regarded me with looks of deep commiseration.

“Should I not feel as he does, if all those I loved best on earth had been slaughtered?” he muttered to himself. “I feel for you, my friend, and most deeply grieve,” he said aloud, taking my hand, which I had withdrawn, and watering it with his tears. “Yet you are unjust in thus speaking of my people. They did not kill your parents knowingly. The sin rests with the Spaniards, whom they desired to punish; and the innocent have perished with the guilty. Sure I am that not an Indian would have injured them; and had they been able to come into our camp, they would have been received with honour and reverence.”

I hung down my head, and my bursting heart at length found relief in tears. I was still very weak, or I believe that my feelings would have assumed a fiercer character.

“I have been unjust to you, Manco,” I said, when I could once more give utterance to my thoughts. “I will try not to blame your countrymen for your sake; but I must leave you, to discover whether your dreadful report is true or false.”

He took my hand again, and pressed it within his own. It was night before I was tolerably composed; and as I threw myself on my couch within the hut, I wept bitterly as a child, till sleep came to relieve my misery. I must not dwell on the anguish I felt on waking—the utter wretchedness of the next day. I was too ill to move, though I prayed for strength to enable me to prosecute my search. Strength and health came again at last; and in four days after I had heard the account given by Manco, I insisted that I was able to undergo the fatigue to which I must be exposed. Nothing that Manco or his wife could say had power to deter me.

“You will be taken by the cruel Spaniards, and executed as a spy,” said Nita, the tears dropping from her eyes as she spoke.

“No Indian on whom you can rely will be able to accompany you, and you cannot find your way alone,” observed Manco. “Besides, in these unhappy times robbers and desperadoes of every sort are ranging through the country; and if you escape other dangers, they will murder you.”

“My kind friends,” I answered, taking both their hands, “I feel your regard for me; but I fear neither Spaniards nor Indians, nor robbers nor wild beasts, nor deserts nor storms, nor heat nor cold, nor hunger nor thirst. I have a holy duty to perform, and I should be unworthy of the name I bear if I shrunk from encountering the danger which may be before me.”

“If go you must, and I see that there is no use in attempting to dissuade you, I will give you every assistance in my power,” said Manco.

And thus it was arranged that I was to set out on my perilous undertaking the next day but one, by which time he would be able to accompany me to the foot of the mountains, though he would not be absent long from his important duty in the patriots’ army.

Chapter Ten.

My wanderings with Manco—How a Padre told his beads, but his beads told him nothing.

The morning I was to set out arrived at last, and I bid farewell to Nita and her little infant, which I kissed over and over again for its mother’s sake; for my heart was full of gratitude for her kindness and compassion. Manco had procured a mule for me—a small but strong animal, with great sagacity. It was very sure-footed, and could climb up the most rugged rocks, and slip down mountain precipices like a goat. It was of the greatest value to me; for, weak as I was, I could not possibly have walked a mile of my journey. We had to descend some way, and then to travel along the side of the mountain range, in order to gain the road which led across the Cordilleras. I speak of the path as a road; but in many spots it was so narrow and difficult that I thought it would be impossible for any mule to get along. Here and there large blocks of stone had been placed, with the intention of facilitating the ascent. My mule sprung up them with such violent jerks that I was at first almost thrown over his head; but when we had to descend, he picked his way with great caution. Manco went before me with a long pole in his hand, ready to assist me if I required it.

After proceeding some way, I observed a large valley spread out at our feet. It was full of people and numerous tents and huts. Manco pointed to it with an expression of pride in his countenance.

“There,” said he, “you see the headquarters of the army which is to liberate our country from the power of the conqueror. The Inca Tupac Amaru himself, and his two young and noble sons, are there. In a few days the whole army will be assembled, when we march upon Cuzco, once more to reinstate our sovereign in the capital of his ancestors.”

Manco’s dark eyes flashed proudly as he spoke; for after the recent success of the Indian arms he had no doubt of victory. I thought differently. Hitherto the Indians had fought among mountains, where discipline was of little avail, and their bows and slings could send their missiles with effect; or they had attacked unfortified and unprepared villages; but in the neighbourhood of Cuzco they would be in an open valley, where the cavalry and artillery of the Spaniards could be brought into play, and I trembled for the consequences. I was unwilling to damp Manco’s ardour; but I endeavoured to point out the dangers I foresaw, and urged him to persuade the chiefs not to be over-confident.

We kept along the ridge of the height forming the side of the valley without descending, and I was thus able to obtain a full view of the Indian army. I was surprised not only at the vast number of people collected, but at the apparent order which prevailed, and at the great state which the Inca and his chief officers maintained. In the centre of the camp, amid a number of banners fluttering in the breeze, was erected a large canopy of gay-coloured cloth, beneath which was a throne, richly ornamented with gold and silver. A flight of steps led to it, along which were ranged a body of guards armed with battle-axes and spears. The Inca sat on his throne, dressed in the ancient costume of his ancestors, which I have before described; and officers of various ranks kept continually coming up to receive orders. As they approached, they bowed reverentially before him, and knelt at his feet while he addressed them. I could scarcely believe that what I saw was a reality, and that I was not dreaming of the accounts I had read of the early history of the country. It did not then occur to me that much valuable time was thus lost to the Indian cause in idle ceremony; and that Tupac Amaru would have had a better chance of success had he at once swept the country from north to south with his forces, before the Spaniards had recovered from their terror and dismay at their first defeat.

After stopping for a few minutes to gaze at the novel and interesting scene, we turned up a path through a ravine, and were quickly again in the solitude of the mountains. We travelled upwards for three days, sleeping at nights at the huts of Indians, where we received a warm welcome from their wives, but the men were in all cases absent. We were now crossing the Puna heights, as the table-lands on the upper part of the Cordilleras are called. We were some fourteen thousand feet above the level of the sea. On either side arose the lofty summits of the Cordilleras, covered with the ice of centuries. Before us stretched out to a great extent the level heights, covered with the dull yellow Puna grass, blending its tint with the greenish hue of the glaciers. It was truly a wild and desolate scene. Herds of vicuñas approached to gaze with wonder at us, and then turning affrighted, fled away with the swiftness of the wind. The Puna stag, with stately step, advanced from his lair in the recesses of the mountains, and gazed on us with his large wondering eyes. Farther off were groups of huancas, looking cautiously at us as we passed, while the rock-rabbits disported nimbly around us. I begged Manco not to shoot them, for we did not require food, and I never liked killing an animal for sport.

The mountain air and exercise had completely restored my strength, when on a sudden an indescribable oppression overcame me. My heart throbbed audibly, and my breathing became short and interrupted, while a weight as if of lead lay on my chest. My lips swelled and burst, blood flowed from my eyelids, and I began to lose my senses. I should have fallen from my mule had not Manco lifted me off. A grey mist floated before my eyes, and I could neither see, hear, nor feel distinctly. Manco sat down, and took my head in his lap; when after a time I began to recover, and I saw that he was anxiously looking at a dense mass of clouds gathering above us.

“Up, up, my friend, and mount if you value your life!” he said. “You are better now. A storm is about to burst, and we must face it boldly.”

Scarcely had he spoken, when, loud peals of thunder were heard, and lightning darted from the skies. Down, too, came the snow in flakes, so heavy that it was impossible to see many yards before us.

“We must push on,” observed Manco. “We have lost much time already, and night will overtake us before we can reach the nearest village.” The snow, however, fell faster, and completely concealed all signs of the path. “When the snow-storm has ceased, I shall easily find the way by the flight of the birds we are certain to see,” he continued. “So, fear not. You are suffering from the keen air of the mountains, and you will quickly recover when we begin to descend to lower ground.”

Even his sagacity was at fault, and we soon found that we had wandered from the right path. As I did not grow worse, I kept up my spirits. Two or three hours passed away, and the snow ceased. It had scarcely done so, when the clouds opened, and the bright glance of the burning sun burst forth dazzlingly on the white expanse of snow before me. In a moment I felt my eyes stricken with almost total blindness. A cry of horror escaped me. I fancied that I should not recover. Manco tried to console me, assuring me that I was merely suffering from the surumpe, a common complaint in those regions.

“I ought to have guarded you against it,” he said. “Strangers unaccustomed to the sight of the glittering snow constantly suffer from it; but it will soon pass away.”

I, however, thought differently, though I was unwilling to complain to him. We went on as fast as we could; but the sun set when we were still a long way from the edge of the plain. We had with difficulty avoided several swamps, in which he had told me animals and men were sometimes lost. They are the chief dangers of that region. Fortunately, he recognised a range of lofty rocks near us.

“There is a cavern within them not far off, where we must rest for the night,” he said. “We might have a worse lodging, for we shall there, at all events, be sheltered from the snow and wind.”

It was now perfectly dark; but after searching for some time, we succeeded in discovering the cavern. While he tethered my male outside, I staggered in, and, overcome with fatigue and the pain I was suffering, sunk upon the ground, a stone which lay near me serving for a pillow. I begged him to let me remain where I was, while he refreshed himself with some of the provisions we had brought with us. We had no means of striking a light: and as he could afford me no assistance beyond throwing a poncho over me, he did not interfere; but soon afterwards, stretching himself out near me, he fell asleep. Having been on foot all day, he required rest as much as I did. As soon as I fell into a slumber, the smarting pain of the surumpe awoke me, and I was obliged to give up all hope of sleep. How long the night seemed! My thoughts all the time were active, and I need scarcely say that they were fixed on my expedition, and means of accomplishing my object.

It was towards the morning, when a dreadful turn was given to them. Happening to stretch out my hand, it came in contact with a cold clammy substance. I drew it back, and an indescribable horror crept over me; but influenced by an impulse I could not control, I again put it out towards the object. It rested on the face of a human being. I was certain that I could not be mistaken. I felt the mouth, and nose, and hair; but the features were rigid and immoveable. It was that of a corpse. Constitutionally fearless, under other circumstances I should have got up and removed myself from the disagreeable neighbourhood, supposing that some unfortunate traveller had like us taken shelter there, and died from cold or hunger; but weak with mental and bodily suffering, I had now no power over myself, and lay trembling with horror, not even venturing to call out to Manco to break the dreadful spell which was upon me. It is impossible to describe my feelings, or the ideas which took possession of my mind. Whose corpse could it be? Might there not be others in the cave? I thought, if I could be said to be thinking. At last, I believe I swooned away, for most certainly I did not sleep. An exclamation from Manco aroused me. Daylight was streaming into the cavern, and he was sitting up and gazing towards me. In another instant he was by my side, and, with careful forethought, was endeavouring to keep my attention fixed on himself, so as to prevent me from seeing the dreadful objects in the inner part of the cavern.

“Manco,” I said, “I have had a horrid dream. I fancied that the cavern was full of corpses.” As I spoke I really thought I had been dreaming.

Without answering me, he lifted me up, and led me towards the open air. An impulse I could not restrain made me turn my head; and on the ground, close to where I had rested, I saw the corpse of a man. Trembling in every limb, I stopped to look at it. It was that of a white man. Several ghastly wounds were seen on the broad chest, and another on the head. The dress and the full black beard and moustache showed me that he was a Spaniard. There were no other corpses to be seen; and as I looked at the object in the broad daylight, with the fresh breeze blowing in my face, the undefined horror I had before felt completely vanished. I felt ashamed of my previous fears, and releasing myself from his support, assured him that I had recovered my strength. The effort itself assisted to restore my nerves to their usual tension; and I was able to turn back and examine the corpse.

“Who can have murdered the man and placed him here?” I asked.

Manco shook his head. “It is a bad thing—a very bad thing!” he replied, as he examined the wounds of the man. “I fear my countrymen have done it. He must have been taken prisoner, for I find the marks of cords round his wrists, and he attempted to escape, and thus was killed; but ask no further questions. Come, it is time to proceed.”

The little mule was safe outside, so I mounted and hastened from the spot.

As I rode on, my spirits returned with the air and exercise, and my mind no longer dwelt on the events of the previous night; and the effects of the surumpe also began to wear off. Several rock-rabbits crossed our path, two of which Manco shot; and when we came to a height which sheltered us from the wind, we halted for breakfast. Having tethered the mule, we set to work to collect the dry grass and the stems of creepers growing from the clefts of the rocks for fuel. Manco had with him the means of striking a light, and a fire was soon kindled, over which we cooked the rabbits and boiled some cocoa in a tin pannikin, by the aid of which, with some Indian corn bread, we made a very fair meal. In an hour more we reached the edge of the Alto, or high plain, over which we had been travelling. Before us lay, deep and deeper, the dark valleys of the lower mountain regions, among which, scarcely discernible, were scattered numerous Indian villages. Far beyond a more level country stretched out, till it was lost in the distant line of the horizon. For several hours we descended, till we began to experience a very great change of temperature. We rested that night at a village inhabited entirely by Indians. It was situated among such inaccessible rocks that they had no fear of being surprised by the Spaniards. To my great grief, Manco told me that he must quit me by dawn on the morrow. I of course could not be so selfish as to wish to detain him.

“I have been, fortunately, able to find a trustworthy guide for you,” he said. “He is a lad a year or so younger than you are, but very quick and intelligent. He is of a white complexion, though he has an Indian heart, for he has been among us from his childhood. When an infant he was discovered by some of our people in a wood near a Spanish village, and was brought hither by them. Their idea is, that either he had been deserted by his mother, or that his parents had been murdered by robbers, who, for some reason or other, saved his life. He is called Pedro. He speaks Spanish well; and should you fall among the Spaniards, he will be supposed to belong to their people. Should you discover your parents, of which I have no hopes, give him his liberty, and he will return to us; and if you abandon the attempt, he will lead you back to us. But I will bring him to you, and he will speak for himself.”

On this Manco left the hut where we were lodging, and soon returned, accompanied by a youth, whose clear complexion and full black eyes showed that he was descended from the race who had conquered Peru.

“Are you willing to accompany me, Pedro?” I asked in Spanish. “You will probably have many dangers to encounter.”

He looked at me attentively for some time, as if examining my countenance to judge if he could trust me, before he answered.

“Yes,” he at length said. “I will aid you gladly in the work you are about. I care not for dangers. God will protect me, as He has before done.”

I was much struck with his words and manner, and gladly accepted his services.

“But I have no means of rewarding you, Pedro,” I remarked. “Some day I may have, but the time is probably far distant.”

“A good action is its own reward,” he answered, in an unaffected tone. “I require no reward. My chief and benefactor wishes me to go; and I desire to obey him.”

Pedro was an unusual character. He possessed all the genius and fire of his Spanish fathers, with the simple education of an Indian uncontaminated by mixing with the world. The next morning he appeared habited in the dress of a Spanish farmer’s son, which was the character he was to assume should he be interrogated. He rode a mule similar to mine. He and I set forward together towards the west at the same time that Manco started to return to the Indian camp. I found that Manco had supplied him amply with money to pay our expenses, when we should reach the territory inhabited by Spaniards; but he told me that we should require none while we wandered among the Indian villages.

“I thought that all the Indians were poor, and that even a chief like Manco would have little or no money,” I remarked.

He smiled as he answered, “When men are slaves, if they are wise they conceal their wealth, lest their masters should take it from them. These mountains are full of rich mines of gold and silver, with which none but the Indians are acquainted. Many such exist, known only to particular families, to whom the knowledge has been handed down from father to son. Perhaps Manco has such a mine; but he is too wise to speak of it.”

I did not think it right to inquire further about the source of Manco’s wealth; but I was satisfied that he could spare what he had provided for me. My young guide, however, was inclined to be communicative, and he beguiled the way by a number of interesting anecdotes.

“O yes,” he continued; “the Indians are wise to conceal their riches; for if the Spaniards discovered them, they would no longer be theirs. Not far from this, there lives a good padre, the curate of the parish. He is very much liked by all the Indians, though he has his faults like other men. He is very kind-hearted and generous, and is ready to administer to the sick in body as well as in mind; but he is sadly addicted to gambling. He will play all day and night with anybody who will play with him, till he has lost his last real, and has often, I know, to go supperless to bed. When the Indians know by his looks and his staying at home that he is in poverty, they will send him fowls and eggs, and bread and provisions of all sorts. One day he had just received his yearly stipend, when the evil spirit came upon him, and he went away to the nearest town and lost it all. He came home very miserable, and could scarcely attend to his duties. Fortunately for him, an Indian, whose sick child he had attended, had compassion on his grief, and told him to be comforted. The next day, as soon as it was dark, the Indian came to his house, bringing a bag full of rich silver ore. The padre was very grateful; but instead of spending it wisely to supply his wants, he took it into the town, and it went the way of his stipend—into the pockets of his gambling companions. Again he returned home as full of grief as before. The Indian soon heard of what had happened, for he loved the padre very much; so he brought him another bag of silver. The padre’s propensity was incurable, and he lost that as he had done the first. The Indian’s generosity was not yet worn out, and he brought him a third bag full of ore. When the padre saw it, he could scarcely believe his own senses.

“‘I fear that I am robbing you, my kind friend,’ he said. ‘I shall bring you into the poverty to which I have foolishly reduced myself.’

“‘O no, Señor Padre; there is plenty more where this comes from,’ returned the Indian. ‘What I have given you is but like a drop of water in the ocean to the abundance of rich ore which there lies concealed.’

“‘If that be the case, my kind friend, why not show it to me?’ exclaimed the padre. ‘I shall soon become a rich man, and will no longer think of gambling.’

“After much persuasion, the Indian agreed to lead the padre to the mine, on condition that he would consent to be blindfolded both going and returning. The next night they accordingly set out, the Indian leading the padre by the hand. After walking for some hours, the bandage was taken from the padre’s eyes, and he found himself in a spot he had never before visited. The Indian set to work, and clearing away a quantity of earth and bushes, exposed to the delighted eyes of the padre a cave full of glittering masses of pure silver.

“‘There, Señor Padre, is the mine I spoke of. Take as much as you can carry, and we will return speedily home,’ said the Indian.

“The padre filled a number of bags he had brought with him under his cloak, till he could scarcely stagger onwards with the weight. While also he was collecting the treasure, avarice seized his soul, and he forgot the dictates of honour. He was then again blindfolded; and he set forward on his return in the same manner as he had come. But though he had got as much silver as would have supplied him with food and clothing for many years, he wanted more. He contrived, therefore, as he thought unperceived, to break the string of his rosary, and as he returned he dropped one bead, then another, hoping thus to trace his way by means of them back to the mine. At last he reached home, congratulating himself on his cleverness. Of what use, he thought, is all that silver to the Indians? They are not the better for it, but I shall know how to spend it. He was eager to set out the next morning, when just as he was leaving his house, the Indian stepped in at his door.

“‘Ah, Señor Padre, I am come to see how you are after your long walk,’ said the Indian, smiling.

“‘Very well, my son—very well, thank the saints,’ answered the padre. ‘I am just going out to take another.’

“‘I hope it may be a pleasant one, Señor Padre,’ observed the Indian. ‘But I forgot—I came to return you your rosary, which you dropped last night.’

“And to the dismay of the padre, the Indian gave him all the beads which he had carefully collected. The padre had nothing to say for himself; but the Indian did not utter any other rebuke, though he never again offered to bring him any more silver ore.”

“I think the Indian behaved very well; but I can find no excuse for the padre,” I remarked.

With similar stories, which he told with far more spirit than I have at this distance of time been able to give to them, Pedro endeavoured to divert my mind from dwelling on the thoughts which he saw oppressed it. He certainly succeeded better than I could have expected.

Our road led us over a lofty height, at the summit of which we halted to rest ourselves and our mules. As we were sitting on the ground, and employed in eating our dinner, we observed a large condor high above us in the air. He approached us with outstretched wings, and at first I thought that he had been attracted by the provisions we carried, and that he was about to attack us. I cocked a gun Manco had given me, and prepared to shoot him should he come near us; but he passed beyond us, and presently he pounced down on the ground at some distance off. Instead, however, of his rising again with his prey in his talons as we expected, we saw him violently flapping his wings; and, to our great surprise, directly afterwards he was surrounded by a number of Indians, who began to strike him about the head with sticks to keep him quiet. Our curiosity induced us to run as fast as we could towards the spot, when we found that the condor had been caught in a trap laid on purpose for him. A hole had been dug in the ground, over which had been spread a fresh cowhide, with parts of the flesh still adhering to it. Underneath this an Indian had concealed himself with a rope in his hand. The condor, attracted by the smell of the flesh, had darted down on the hide, when the Indian below had firmly bound his claws together, and held on with all his might, the cowhide protecting him from the attacks of the bird’s beak. The other Indians had been concealed near the spot to help their companion. They quickly secured the monster bird, and prepared to carry him off in triumph to their village. At first when we appeared, they looked suspiciously at us; but after Pedro had spoken to them, their looks brightened up, and they invited us to accompany them to their dwellings, which were on the other side of the height.

We gladly accepted their invitations, for they lived near the road we wished to pursue. I have so often spoken of the wretchedness of Indian huts, and of the coarseness of the food, that I need not describe them. They were no exceptions to the general rule. The scene before them was wild and dreary. At some distance off appeared a mass of long rushes, beyond which extended a sheet of water, the opposite shore of which was scarcely visible. Numerous flocks of waterfowl were hovering over the marshy banks of this lake, which I found was of very considerable extent, though inferior to that of Titicaca, the largest in South America.

Pedro and I were sitting round a fire in the hut with our Indian hosts, before retiring to rest, when a loud moaning noise was heard in the distance. The Indians regarded each other with terrified looks.

“What can cause that noise?” I inquired of Pedro. He shook his head, and turned to one of the Indians.

“It forebodes evil to the herdsmen,” answered the man. “In yonder lake, which is so profound that no plummet has ever reached the bottom, there dwell huge monsters, neither beasts nor fish. No man has ever seen one near; but at night, when the moon is shining, they have been descried at a distance, prowling about in search of prey. When that noise is heard, which has just sounded in our ears, it is a sign that they have attacked some of the cattle feeding in the surrounding pastures; and to-morrow morning there is no doubt several will be found missing.”

“But cannot the monsters be caught or killed?” I asked. “Surely it is foolish in the herdsmen to allow the cattle to be killed with impunity.”

“Who would venture to do it?” exclaimed the Indian with a look of horror. “Besides, I told you, Señor, that no one has seen them near enough to observe their form; and sure I am that neither stones cast from slings, nor arrows shot from bows, nor bullets from guns, would pierce their hides.”

“I should like to encounter one of these monsters,” I replied. “A ball from a good rifle would soon enable me to judge what they are like.”

“May Heaven protect you from such an adventure!” answered the Indian.

“If I ever return here, we will see.”

I said this because I very much doubted the existence of the monsters he spoke of, and suspected that the moanings we heard arose most probably from some of the cattle which had sunk into the marshes near the lake, and were unable to extricate themselves. In every part of the world where I have since been, I have heard similar legends, and have in most instances been able to discover a very probable explanation of the mystery.

The rays of the sun were shining on the waters of the lake as we passed one end of it the next morning, and it now wore a far more cheerful aspect than it had done on the previous evening. The two next days of our journey were one continual descent, and we were now approaching the ruined village, near which the body of the faithful Ithulpo was said to have been discovered, and in which I supposed my parents had taken refuge.

I could no longer attend to any of Pedro’s remarks, but rode on sadly and moodily, dreading to find the truth of the dreadful report I had heard, confirmed, yet not daring to believe in its possibility. It was now necessary to proceed with great caution, for we were in a part of the country which had been inhabited chiefly by Spaniards; but we found that they had all fled or been destroyed, and the blackened ruins of farm-houses and hamlets met our sight every league we proceeded. Here and there we encountered an Indian, of whom Pedro made inquiries; but from no one could we obtain information to guide us.

Chapter Eleven.

Dreadful surmises—Taken prisoners by Indians.

We were passing over a somewhat level country, when Pedro pointed to a line of blackened walls and charred timbers in the distance.

“Yonder is the place you seek, Señor,” he said, in a tone of commiseration which touched my heart. “You are seeking for parents whom you have known, and their memory is dear to you. I, alas! have never known any parents to love, and my heart is vacant.”

I knew he wished to utter words of consolation, but I have no recollection of what more he said. My mind was too full of the work before me. I urged on my mule, for I felt an eager desire to search through the village; yet what information could I expect to find in those deserted ruins? As we approached, we saw a wretched half-starved dog skulking among the walls. He looked at us to see if we were friends whom he knew, and then fled away. Not a human being was to be seen. We passed through the desolate streets. Some of the walls had been cast down, and the roofs of all the houses had been burned and fallen in. The church only was standing; but the doors were open, and the interior presented a scene of horror which baffles description. Numbers of the unfortunate inhabitants had fled there as their last place of refuge, but it had proved no sanctuary to them. In every part of the building, on the steps of the altar, and by the altar itself, were seen heaped together the mangled remnants of the forms of human beings. Their dresses showed that they were those of men, women, and children; but weeks had now passed since they were slain, and their bones alone remained. The beasts and even the birds of prey had been there, or it would have been impossible to enter into that charnel-house.

Pale and trembling I wandered through it, scarcely able to draw breath from the foul air which filled the place; but no sign of those I sought could I find. At length I staggered out again into the open air, where Pedro, who was holding our mules, waited for me. I determined next to search each of the houses separately.

As we were wandering through one of them, an object met my sight which riveted my attention. It was a silk handkerchief. With a trembling hand I picked it up. It was exactly such a one as I remembered to have seen my sister Lilly wear round her neck. It was of an ordinary sort; a little three-cornered handkerchief with a pink fringe. There might be many such in the country. This might have been the property of some Spanish girl or young Chola, for there was no mark on it to distinguish it; but still, as I looked at it, I felt almost confident that it had been my sister’s. How it had escaped being burned or trampled on I could not tell. Perhaps it had been dropped near one of the outside walls, which the fire did not reach, and had been blown by the wind into the corner of the room, where I found it. Pedro was of the same opinion. I placed it carefully in my bosom, though how it could prove of use I could not tell. We searched and searched in vain through every other house in the village; but no other trace or sign which I could recognise could we find. The whole day was thus spent, and night almost surprised us while we were still in the ruins.

Near the village was a meadow, where Pedro had led our mules to feed; and we had, besides, found some Indian corn, which we had given them; so they were in good condition to proceed. But after the example of the state of the country we had seen, it was impossible to say where we could hope to find shelter for ourselves. I asked Pedro if he would object to remain in the ruins all night.

“Oh, may the good saints defend us from such a thing!” he answered with a look of dismay. “After the sights we have seen, how can you think of doing so, Señor?”

“The dead cannot hurt us, you know; and we can easily fortify ourselves against any attack of wild beasts,” I answered. “We will shut our mules up in a room of one of the houses where no people have been killed; and we can sleep in a room next to them. We shall find plenty of timber to barricade ourselves in, and they will give us good warning if any wild beast comes near to attempt an entrance.”

For a long time Pedro was not convinced of the wisdom of my proposal; or rather, his dislike to the idea of remaining prevented him from being so. His objections were very natural; and I own that had I not been desirous of making a further search in the neighbourhood the following morning, I would myself have much rather proceeded, if there had been sufficient daylight to enable us to find another resting-place. This was, however, now totally out of the question; so Pedro was obliged to accede to my wishes. I fixed upon a house on the outskirts of the village, which had, it appeared, been the residence of a person of superior wealth and rank. Some of the rooms had been but little injured. One of them I selected as our abode for the night, and an adjoining one as a stable for our mules. Having collected some food for our trusty little animals, we brought them inside the house. We first cleared away the rubbish out of the rooms, and then placed against the doorway some timbers and planks, which we tore up from the floors, so as effectually to prevent the ingress of any wild beasts.

By the time we had thus fortified ourselves it had become perfectly dark; and I must own that a feeling such as I had never before experienced, crept over me, as I thus found myself shut up with my young companion in that abode of the dead. I knew that I must arouse myself, or it would master me completely.

“Come, Pedro,” said I, “we must now light a fire. It will serve to cheer our spirits, and to keep us warm, for I feel the evening chilly.”

The floor of the room we were in was composed of bricks, so that we could make our fire in the middle of it; and as there was no roof, we had no fear of being incommoded by the smoke. From among the rubbish I managed to pick out several smaller bits of timber, which had escaped being totally consumed, and some of the dry grass we had collected for our mules served as lighter fuel to kindle a flame. Having thus collected sufficient materials, we piled some of them up in the middle of the room, and kept the rest in a corner, to feed our fire as it required.

A flame was soon kindled; and as it burned up brightly, it contributed very much to banish the feelings which had before oppressed me, aided, I suspect, by the exertions which it had been necessary to make to collect the fuel. I have always found that exertion both of mind and body is the best, I may say the only, remedy for melancholy and foreboding thoughts. The light enabled us to find more fuel, which we agreed it would be requisite to husband with care, so as to make it last till sunrise. We had no wish to be again left in darkness.

The light, however, served to show us more clearly the desolation of the place. The walls were bare, and not a particle of furniture had been left; for the Indians had carried off from the village everything that had escaped the flames. Above our heads a few charred timbers only remained of the roof, beyond which the stars were seen shining from out of the dark sky.

“We might have been very much worse off,” I observed to Pedro, as we sat by the fire eating the provisions which we had brought with us. After supper we lay down in the cleanest spot we could find, and tried to recruit our strength by sleep.

I was awoke by Pedro’s hand touching my shoulder. I looked up, at first scarcely able to remember where I was. He had just before thrown some chips on the fire, which made it blaze brightly. I saw that he had his fingers on his lips to enforce silence, so I did not speak; but his looks showed that something had alarmed him. I soon discovered the cause, from hearing the footsteps of several persons in the neighbourhood. I was about to inquire, in a whisper, who they could be, when I observed him glance up at the top of the wall above us. I turned my eyes in the same direction, and then I saw, by the light of the fire, the elf-like locks and red-coloured countenance of a wild Indian, who was gazing down upon us. He looked as much surprised to find us there as we were to see him.

“Pray, friend, who are you, and what do you seek here?” asked Pedro, in the Quichua language.

The stranger made no answer, and presently afterwards a dozen other Indians sprung up to the top of the wall. They were dressed and painted as the warriors of a distant tribe, dwelling in the northern part of the country. After looking at us for an instant, they fixed their arrows in their bows, and were drawing the strings when Pedro shouted out to them:—

“Stay your hands. We are friends of the Indians, and under the protection of the Inca Tupac Amaru.” At the same time he held up a gold ring with which Manco had provided him.

The Indians evidently supposed we were Spaniards, and were accordingly about to put us to death. They did not seem inclined to alter their purpose, for they drew their arrows to the heads; and I believed that our last moments had arrived, when the name of the Inca restrained them.

“We will hear what account you have to give of yourselves,” said the man who had at first appeared, letting himself down from the top of the wall. He was followed by the rest, and others who had climbed up; and we were soon surrounded by a large body of Indians. I endeavoured to look as unconcerned and as little alarmed as possible, so I re-seated myself on the block of wood which I had before occupied. One who seemed to have authority over the rest, took a seat opposite to me, while they stood round the room Pedro forthwith began to give a history of our proceedings, and the cause of our present wanderings. The chief, after some time, appeared satisfied.

“We have vowed to destroy all the white men we meet,” he exclaimed; “but though your skins are white, your hearts are with the Indians, and we will not injure you.”

On hearing these words, I breathed more freely; for I had my misgivings that the Indians would not believe Pedro, and would torture us before they put us to death, as they had lately too often treated their white captives. We soon became on very friendly terms. The chief told Pedro that he and his followers belonged to the very war party which had destroyed the village; that they had swept the country for some way farther to the north, burning all the houses, and murdering all the white inhabitants they encountered; and that now, laden with booty, they were returning to their own homes in the far distant interior. The army now lay encamped at a little distance from the village, in a strong position, where they could not be surprised by any Spanish force which might be near them. He and his band had, he said, come to the place for the purpose of carrying off some of the spoil which they had concealed when last there. They had found it undisturbed, and were consequently in a very good humour.

I told Pedro to endeavour to learn from them, whether they had heard of any English people being in the village when they attacked it. Pedro put the questions I desired.

“If any English people were there, or other strangers, they shared the fate of the rest,” answered the chief with a look of fierceness. I shuddered as he spoke. “It was not a time for us to distinguish people. We had years and years of bitter cruelty and wrong to revenge on the heads of the Spaniards. No one escaped. We came upon them in the night, suddenly and without warning. We surrounded the village, and then burst in upon them while they slept in fancied security, despising the poor Indians whom they so long had trampled on. As they rose from their beds and attempted to fly, we cut them down at the doors of their houses. We threw burning brands upon the roofs, and closed them in till the fire had destroyed them. We drove them shrieking through the streets, and shot them down with our arrows. Some took refuge in the church; but it did not save them. When the morning broke, not a soul remained alive. But we were not content. We had begun to taste the sweets of vengeance, and we rushed on through the country, burning and destroying in our course. We have still more work to perform. Our swords must not be sheathed till the Inca sits once more on the throne of his ancestors, and till not a Spaniard remains alive to boast that his people once held sway in the land.”

As I watched the countenance of the speaker, it wore an almost terrific expression, full of an intense hatred, and a desire for vengeance; yet, before the outbreak, he had probably been like most other Indians, a mild, peaceable, and patiently suffering man. The account he had given of the destruction of the place almost banished the hope which still existed within my breast. Yet I resolved to persevere in my search. My dismay was very great, when I learned from Pedro that the old chief intended to remain in the village with his followers till the morning, and then to carry us along with him as prisoners.

“He believes our story,” said Pedro; “but still he thinks that if we continue our journey, we may give information to the Spaniards of the road the army is taking. He will, I dare say, treat us well, and release us when he fancies we can run no chance of injuring his people.”

The news caused me great vexation, for, though I had no fear that the Indians would injure us, I was afraid that we should be led a long way out of the road in which we could hope to make any effectual inquiries, if, indeed, further search was of any avail. I was anxious also to examine the country surrounding the place where the body of Ithulpo was said to have been discovered; and I told Pedro to entreat the chief, before he commenced his march, to allow us to go out for a few hours as soon as it was light, promising faithfully to return. Pedro made the request, but the old chief, when he understood the object, said it would be useless to grant it.

“Your friends were all killed,” he said, “You search for those who are not to be found.”

“Then we must appeal to the head chief commanding the army,” I said to Pedro in Spanish. “Try and learn who he is.”

After making inquiries, Pedro told me that he was a powerful cacique, who had assumed the title of Tupac Catari; and though he was, as most of the caciques were, descended from an Inca noble, he was only in a remote degree connected with Tupac Amain. He did not consider himself in any way under the orders of the Inca, and was inclined, it appeared, to set up as the Inca himself. It argued ill for the Indian cause, that there should be this division in their forces. From what I heard of him, I was afraid that there was very little probability of his granting the request which had been denied by his inferior, the old chief.

“If, then, we are to be treated as prisoners, we must endeavour to make our escape should any opportunity present itself,” I whispered to Pedro, whom I had drawn aside.

Not to excite the suspicions of our captors, I pretended to be contented with the arrangement, when I found that there was no chance of altering the old chief’s determination; and returning to the fire, I sat down, desiring Pedro to say that I was very tired, and wished to be allowed to sleep till daylight. The Indians apparently finding themselves in tolerably comfortable quarters, wrapped their ponchos round them, and lay down on the ground round the fire, to follow my example. I was, however, too much excited to sleep, and had lost myself in forgetfulness but a very short time when daylight appeared, and the whole party sprung to their feet.

Pedro and I were allowed to mount our mules, and accompanied by the Indians, who bore the spoils they had collected, set out to join the main body, which was already on its march to the northward. We came in sight of them about three miles to the west of the village, as they were passing over a wide sandy plain, bordered by a range of thickly wooded hills. There appeared to be about thirty thousand of them,—a body, as far as numbers were concerned, fully able to compete with any Spanish force which could be sent against them; but they were in a very undisciplined and disorganised state, and were, from what I heard, more intent on obtaining plunder, and on destroying the defenceless whites, than on pushing their first successes with vigour against the common enemy. There were some four or five hundred horsemen among them armed with spears; the rest were infantry, who carried slings, and bows, and axes, and heavy wooden clubs. The cavalry guarded the flanks, and the footmen marched in separate bodies under their respective chiefs, with banners at their head; but there were a great number of stragglers, and, as far as my eye could reach, I observed small bodies who appeared to be scouring the country in search of plunder or provisions. The booty was distributed among the soldiers, each of whom bore a load on his back, consisting of woollen and other goods, household utensils, furniture, and clothing of every description.

The chief, Tupac Catari, rode at the head of his forces, surrounded with banner-bearers. He was a fierce, wild-looking Indian, with a forbidding expression of countenance; and his dignity was not increased by his having dressed himself in the uniform of a Spanish officer, whose cocked hat he wore with the points resting on his shoulders. The lower parts of his legs were bare, except that he had sandals on the soles of his feet, fastened with leather thongs, and a huge pair of silver spurs to his heels. His wife came behind him in a sort of litter, covered with coloured cotton, and supported on men’s shoulders. His followers were habited in every variety of costume, which they had picked up in their expedition; a few of the better organised bodies only retaining their national costume. Is this, I thought, the sort of character who is to aid in the liberation of his native land?

A force like his may, as it has proved, have the power to lay desolate a country, and to murder the defenceless inhabitants; but will they be able to sustain an attack from disciplined troops, when such are sent against them? The general—for so I may call him—halted when we appeared, and made inquiries of the old chief about us. A long conversation then ensued, the result of which was that we were ordered to accompany him. He wanted a secretary, we were told, to write despatches to the other chiefs, and to communicate with the Spaniards; and he thought that either Pedro or I should be able to answer his purpose. In vain we pleaded the necessity of proceeding as we had intended. He refused to listen to any appeal we could make.

“You may consider yourselves fortunate in not losing your lives,” he at last answered. “We have sworn to kill every white man we meet; and you have to thank your friend Manco, on account of the love all the Indians bear him, that we have not killed you; so be content and say no more.”

The old chief who had first taken us prisoners, finding himself thus unceremoniously deprived of our company, left us to our fate, and for some time we rode on in silence among the general’s body-guard. Every man in the army seemed to be talking at the same time. They were, I found, boasting to each other of the deeds of valour they had performed, of the enemies they had slain, and of the booty they had collected. The general after some time called us to his side, and asked us if we could inform him what the Spaniards were about, and whether they were likely to attack the Indian armies.

“Tell him,” I said to Pedro, “that the Spaniards will never consent to yield up the country to the natives. They are only waiting to assemble their forces, to endeavour to regain the places they have lost. If they have not men enough here, they will send to Spain for more, and for guns and artillery, and all the munitions of war. They will soon appear, well armed and disciplined; and a hundred of their troops will be a match for a thousand or even two thousand Indians. The only chance of success the Indians have is to be united, to act under one chief, and to follow up each advantage, till they have driven the Spaniards from their shores.”

“Very good,” said the general. “I will be that chief, and will follow the advice of the English stranger.”

And he drew himself up proudly in his saddle, as if he was about to become Inca of Peru. I saw after this, that any advice I could offer to him would be thrown away; besides, I doubted much whether I was justified in offering encouragement to the Indians. I felt that they had been most unjustly and cruelly treated, and certainly desired to see them obtain their emancipation; but at the same time, I saw that there was little or no hope of their ever regaining their country, or restoring the ancient dynasty of the Incas; and that the attempt would only cause a vast amount of bloodshed, and too probably end in their total destruction. As an Englishman, too. I regretted that I had no business to interfere in a cause which, just as it certainly was, if maintained properly, was not my own; and I resolved, therefore, to be silent for the future.

The dreadful cruelties committed by the Indians had horrified me; and the romance with which I had at first invested their brave attempt at emancipation, had vanished on a nearer inspection of the means by which they were carrying it out. I never did and never can believe that the end justifies the means. God’s righteous laws must be implicitly obeyed; and no reasons which we may offer can excuse us for neglecting them. Yet we may be allowed to believe that he weighs our actions of good or evil by the knowledge we possess through the light of His word; and acts which, committed by us, might be unpardonable, may, when perpetrated by ignorant savages, be overlooked through His mercy in the day of judgment.

From the time that the Christian and the civilised Europeans first landed in Peru, they treated the ignorant and heathen natives with the greatest cruelty; and thus taught by their task-masters, they, on the first opportunity, showed that they had not forgotten the lessons they had received, but treated them as they themselves had been treated. Had the Spaniards taught the Peruvians mercy, justice, and piety, by their own example, this terrible outbreak would never have occurred, and the weaker race would have become willing servants to the stronger. We ought always to bear in mind that it is by the just administration of good laws, and by the conduct of the rich, the educated, and the powerful, that the lower orders are educated, as much, or even more, than by the lessons given them by their nominal instructors.

Ministers of religion will preach in vain from the pulpit, and schoolmasters will find their efforts useless, unless the upper orders set a good example. I entreat my young friends to recollect that they belong to the educated classes, whose behaviour is sure to be imitated by those below them. If their conduct is unchristian, irreligious, or immoral, they will not only have their own sins to answer for at the day of judgment, but the sins of those whom they by their example have led astray. The dreadful excesses committed by the lower orders during the French Revolution were the results of the irreligious and immoral conduct and teaching of the upper classes in France. The Peruvian Indians, who were guilty of the terrible atrocities I have mentioned, were mostly, in name at least, Christians, and had Christian priests ministering to them; but their teaching appears to have had no effect in restraining them from acts totally at variance with all the principles of Christianity. How could they, indeed, have faith in a creed professed by men who, from the time of their first appearance in their country, had not scrupled to murder, to plunder, to ill-treat, and to enslave them?

It is worthy of remark, that when the Indians destroyed every other human being in the places they attacked, they in many instances saved the lives of the priests. I suspect, however, that they did so, not so much that they respected their sacred character, but because in their superstition they fancied they were possessed of supernatural powers, which might be exercised for their punishment if they ventured to injure them. There were many enlightened and patriotic men among the Indians; and from all I heard of Tupac Amaru and his family, they were worthy of a happier fate than befell them. I shall have to describe their subsequent history as I proceed in my narrative.

Chapter Twelve.

Another battle—We are captured by Spaniards.

It must be remembered that the war party whom Pedro and I were now so unwillingly compelled to accompany, was but an irregular portion of the Indian army, and that the chief commanding it was in every respect inferior to Tupac Amaru, and his brave sons Andres and Mariano, or his brother Diogo. I mention this, because otherwise I might give my reader a very unjust and incorrect history of the principal men engaged in the attempt I am describing to regain the long-lost liberties of the Peruvian nation.

The forces of Tupac Catari had crossed the sandy plain, and ascended the woody height I have mentioned, when we reached a rocky defile, through which lay the road we were to pursue. Instead of sending on an advanced guard to feel the way, as a more experienced general would have done, the chief rode carelessly on at the head of his followers. Pedro and I were allowed to keep together, and to converse in Spanish; for I suppose that Catari thought that we should not dream of attempting to escape from among his numerous army. He was wrong, however; for the idea of doing so was never absent from my mind.

“Pedro,” said I, “you have been so true and faithful, and have shown so much regard for me, that I know you would not willingly desert me, and yet I do not like to lead you into danger unnecessarily; but tell me, do you think we could manage to get away from these people?”

“O Señor, do not suppose I would hesitate a moment to serve you on account of the danger,” he answered, in a tone of much feeling. “What have I, without kindred or friends, to live for, that I should be afraid of risking my life? Yet at present I do not see what chance we have of escaping; though an opportunity may occur when we least expect it.”

“Thanks, Pedro, thanks, my friend,” I replied. “I was certain that you would be ready to aid me; and I hope some day to show my gratitude to you, little as I am now able to do so. But do not say that you have no friends. Surely Manco is your friend, and the Indians among whom you have lived, and the good priest who educated you.”

“The good priest is dead. Manco is my friend, and so are the kind Indians; but I am the child of another race, and though I love the Indians, my heart yearns for the sympathy and affection of the people from whom I am sprung. When I was a child I cared not for it; but since I learned to read the history of my father’s country, and more than all, since I met you, Señor, new feelings and aspirations have sprung up within my bosom. I cannot be content unless I am in the company of those who can converse, like you, on things beyond the narrow circle of the life I have hitherto led.”

“I understand you, Pedro; and I think that I should feel as you do,” I said. “If we can make our escape, you shall accompany me to other lands—we will go forth together to see the great world which lies beyond these lofty mountains.”

“O Señor, your words have given me a new life,” he exclaimed enthusiastically. “I will follow you anywhere you may lead, and serve you faithfully. And yet,” he added in a tone of feeling, “I must not leave the generous Manco without again seeing him; I must bid farewell to my foster father and mother, and the Indians who protected me in my youth; I must return to them once more before I go.”

“I would on no account induce you to be ungrateful, and I should myself be very unwilling to leave the country, even should I discover my family, without returning to bid farewell to Manco,” I said in return.

“Then we will go back to Manco as soon as we can escape from these people; and we may thus with more speed be able to begin our travels,” exclaimed Pedro.

We were both very young, and ignorant of the great world we talked of exploring; and we little knew all the difficulties we might be destined to encounter. The subject, once commenced, was a continual source of interest to us, and we were never tired of talking about it. It served also to prevent my mind from dwelling on my loss, the probability of which I could scarcely conceal from myself.

I have mentioned but a few of Pedro’s observations, for the sake of showing his character. He had benefited to the utmost from the little education which had been given him by the priest of whom he spoke. His disposition was ardent and romantic, and full of generous sympathies; and possessing a clear perception of right and wrong, he was always anxious to do right. He had been made acquainted at an early age with his own history; and though he loved the Indians, he was proud of belonging to a superior race, among whom his great desire was to mix as an equal. He was tall and well formed, with very handsome features, to which his amiable disposition had given a most pleasing expression; so that, whether or not his parents were of good birth, he looked, at all events, in every respect the gentleman.

In early youth, when people are thrown together under difficult circumstances, friendships calculated to endure to the end of life are quickly formed; and thus, during the short time we had been together, we had become mutually much attached; indeed, I fancied that no one could have been many days in the society of Pedro without feeling a sincere regard for him.

So much were we absorbed in conversation, that we scarcely noticed how the time flew by. The leading parties of the Indians had now passed through a considerable portion of the defile, and the rear were about to enter it when we reached a spot more difficult and narrow than any we had yet arrived at.

“If any of the Spanish troops were on the watch to intercept the Indian forces, this is the very spot they should select,” I observed to Pedro.

“May the saints forbid!” he answered. “The poor people would be cut to pieces, and we should suffer with them.”

“I certainly do not wish it,” I said; “though I think we might manage to escape in the confusion; but I thought of it, as it was exactly in such a spot as this that some months ago we were attacked by the Montoneros, when we were rescued by Manco and his followers.”

“Oh, the Spaniards are too much disheartened and terrified by their late disasters to think of attacking the Indians,” said Pedro.

“But suppose they were to attack our captors, do not you think that we could manage to climb up the cliffs, and hide ourselves among the rocks till the fighting is over?” I asked, without at all expecting that such a thing was likely to happen.

I had scarcely made the observation, when our ears were assailed by the loud rattle of musketry, and a shower of bullets flew about our heads, killing and wounding many of the Indians near us. In an instant they were thrown into the most terrible confusion, and the shouts and cries of fear rent the air. Catari, and some of the chiefs about him, in vain endeavoured to lead them on to meet their concealed enemies. So completely were they taken by surprise, that all their courage deserted them. They gave way to their first impulse, which was to fly from the danger. The rear ranks turned, and the rest followed, and fled as fast as they could, with the intention of getting into the more open country they had left. The Spaniards, a strong body of whose troops had been lying in ambush, on this showed themselves, and, with their swords in their hands, rushed down upon the confused bands of the Indians. Catari, and those immediately about him, fought bravely, for they had not a hope of escaping. His people threw themselves before him, and allowed the Spaniards to cut them to pieces in their attempt to preserve the life of their chief. Pedro and I were fortunately at the time a little in the rear of the advanced guard; and we had escaped the bullets which had laid low many of those near us. The Indians, however, were so completely blocking up the narrow defile in their eagerness to escape, that we saw it would be impossible to fly in that direction. Our only chance of saving our lives was to put in execution the plan I had just before been proposing.

“Let us throw ourselves from our mules, and try to climb up the cliffs,” I exclaimed to Pedro.

Just then a bullet struck Catari. I saw him reel in his saddle, when one of his companions seized his horse’s bridle, and attempted to lead him out of the fray towards the rear. But he was mortally wounded; and before he could be got from among the combatants, he fell to the ground. His death was the signal for the rest to fly; but they attempted to do so in vain. The Spanish soldiers pressed in upon them, and cutting them down without mercy, forced them back in confusion. A few of the Indians, driven to despair, still fought fiercely, and for a time impeded their progress, thus leaving a clear space near where Pedro and I stood.

“Now, now!” I exclaimed to Pedro. “We have not a moment to lose. If the Spaniards reach us before we have time for explanation, they will kill us. Jump from your mule and follow me.”

I had observed that on one side the cliff was considerably broken, and that a number of jutting rocks would enable us to climb up to the summit, and afford us some sort of shelter in the meantime. I threw myself out of my saddle as I spoke, and Pedro following my example, we ran as fast as we could towards the rocks. It was the work of a moment to spring up them; there was an abundance of shrubs and creeping plants to help us. By laying hold of them, we drew ourselves from rock to rock. Our lives we felt depended on our activity; and under ordinary circumstances I do not think we could have accomplished the task. We had thus climbed up some forty feet or so in a shorter time than I have taken to describe it, when we reached a platform, above which, as we looked upwards, it seemed impossible that we could ascend. There was, however, the branch of a tree, which grew in a cleft of the rock.

“Take me on your shoulders, and I think I can reach it,” I cried to Pedro.

He stooped down, and, as I sprung on his shoulders, he lifted me up till I caught hold of the branch. I drew myself up, and succeeded in throwing my body over the bough. I then, holding on tight with one hand, gave him the other, and lifted him up till he could catch hold of it also. The branch cracked and bent with our united weight; but we were anxious enough had it not done so, for we were now fully exposed to the sight of the combatants below. They were, however, too much engaged to observe us. When Pedro no longer required my assistance, I lifted myself till I could reach the branch of another tree still higher up, and from thence sprung on to the rock we wished to gain. Pedro kept close behind me, and imitating my example, we in a short time found ourselves behind a rock overshadowed by trees, where, from among the branches which hung down close to it, we could command a view of the greater part of the ravine without being seen, though we were not high enough to escape any stray shots fired in our direction.

By the time we got there, the last of the Indians who had stood their ground, were either killed or wounded; and the Spanish troops swept along the defile like a mountain torrent, overthrowing all they encountered in their course. Their shouts of triumph, and the shrieks of the Indians, reached our ears with terrible distinctness where we stood. During our ascent we had heard nothing; even the rattle of the musketry was unheeded. Now and then the Spaniards halted to load, and they again sent forth a volley, which in that narrow space took terrible effect; and once more they advanced to the charge. The Indians did not once attempt to rally, but fled like a flock of sheep chased by dogs; those in the rear falling the first victims, and the conquerors passing over their prostrate bodies. The rout was most complete; and over the distance which we could see from where we stood, it appeared that many thousands had been killed. Every foot of the ground was covered with them, and the conquerors had literally to wade through their blood as they rushed to the work of destruction. It was a dreadful sight; but still we could not withdraw our eyes from it. We were considering what we should next do; and in order to obtain a better view of the country beyond the defile, to judge whether we should proceed in that direction, I climbed up to a higher part of the rock, supposing that all the Spaniards had passed by; when, to my dismay, I saw some fifty men or so drawn up across the road. They were posted there evidently to guard the entrance of the defile, and to prevent their companions from being attacked in the rear by any fresh body of Indians. Though I was only exposed for a moment, they saw me; and as I jumped down several shots rattled against the rock. Their voices shouting to us, and ordering us to come to them, warned us that we could hope no longer to remain concealed. We, however, were in a very secure position; and we judged, from the difficulty we had in getting there, that they were not at all likely to be able to climb up to us.

“What is to be done now, Pedro?” I asked. “Do you think we could manage to scramble up among the trees, and so escape over the top of the cliffs?”

“Perhaps we might,” he answered, looking up to examine the trees above us. “But what should we do when we got there? We should be without our mules or provisions or arms, and a long way from any habitation where we might obtain shelter. We should also very likely fall into the power of some of the broken parties of Catari’s army, dispersed by the Spaniards; and they, enraged by the disaster which has befallen them, would, seeing that we were whites, kill us without asking us any questions.”

Pedro’s arguments were very strong; but still I thought we should be only falling from the frying-pan into the fire, if we put ourselves into the power of the Spaniards. While we were still discussing what we should do, we heard them again calling to us.

“Come down, you Indian thieves, come down and be shot, or we must climb up after you,” they shouted.

“More easily said than done,” observed Pedro; “but do not let us show ourselves, or they are very likely to shoot us without further questioning. If we could make them hear us from where we are, we might tell them that we are whites, who had been taken prisoners by the Indians.”

“Stay then,” said I, going to the side of the rock nearest to where the Spaniards stood, keeping my body carefully sheltered behind it, I put my head among the leaves, so that they could not see me, and shouted out—

“We are friends! we are friends!—whites, escaped from the Indians. We were afraid you would mistake us for enemies, so we hid ourselves.”

“If that is the case,” said an officer, stepping forward, “come down, we will not hurt you.”

“What shall we do?” said I to Pedro. “We are safe where we are for the present, for their bullets cannot reach us; and I am certain no Spanish soldier will be able to climb up in the way we did to this spot.”

“We shall get very hungry though, if they try to starve us out,” he answered; “besides, it will look as if we were guilty of some crime if we appear afraid of coming down.”

“There is no help for it, I see,” was my reply. “We must put a good face upon the matter. Señor officer,” I shouted, “your men have already shown that they can aim very correctly, and we would rather not run the risk of another peppering; may I beg that you will take care that they do not fire at us by mistake. If we have your word for it, we will descend, as you desire.”

“I pledge you the word of a Castilian that they shall not fire at you,” answered the officer.

“That satisfies us; we will descend,” I shouted back. “Come, Pedro, we must take care not to break our necks though, which we shall do if we slip,” I said, as I swung myself on to a bough of the nearest tree below the rock.

It is nearly always more difficult to descend a cliff than to climb up; as in the former case one cannot see where one’s feet are to rest; and one may chance to find one’s self on a jutting ledge, from whence the height is too great to leap off to the next standing-place below, and one has to climb up again to search for another way down. We had the advantage of knowing the rocks on which we were to rest; yet our descent took much more time than had our ascent. At one place Pedro had to hold fast by a tree while he let me down; and I, in return, had to grasp firmly a jutting rock, and to catch him as he dropped down to me. At length, with no slight exertion and risk, we reached the bottom, where we found the Spanish officer and several of his men, who had been watching us with some admiration, and wondering, as they told us, how we had contrived not to break our necks. They would scarcely believe that we had got up by the same way.

“I thought none but monkeys could climb such a place,” observed the officer.

“We English have a way of doing extraordinary things when we try,” I replied, trying to look as unconcerned as possible.

“English, are you indeed? I thought you must be so.”

“Yes, Señor, I am an Englishman at your service,” I said; for I had agreed with Pedro that it would be better to give a correct account of ourselves, than to attempt any deception.

There is an old saying—“Tell the truth and shame the devil.” Now, although there can be no doubt that there are occasions when concealment is excusable, yet these are very rare exceptions, which occur but seldom in most men’s lives; and as a general rule a strict adherence to the truth is the only just and safe course, even though it may apparently lead one into a difficulty. There is something degrading in a falsehood or prevarication, which must injure the self-respect of a man of proper feeling. It is a sin! There is no disguising it. People often tell falsehoods to conceal what they have done wrong, but that does not make the sin less; it is only adding one sin to another. I say—and I know that am right—Tell truth, and stand the consequences.

I therefore told the officer my true history. How my father’s house had been taken possession of by the Spanish troops; how the Indians had attacked and burned it; and how they had carried me off desperately wounded. Then I described how I had been nursed by an Indian and his wife among the mountains till I had recovered, when the dreadful report reached me of the destruction of my family; and how the Indian had allowed me to set out for the purpose of discovering what had really been their fate, when, in the course of my search, we had been captured by Catari and his followers. The officer seemed much interested by the account I gave him, and to feel real compassion for my loss.

“And the youth with you, who is he?” he asked.

I told him, a Spaniard, who in his childhood had been carried off by the Indians, and educated by the good priest of their village.

“It is a very strange story you tell me,” he remarked. “However, I believe you, for your face assures me that you speak the truth. You both must now accompany me to the place where I am ordered to wait with my men for the return of the rest of the troops. I hear the bugles sounding the recall, and they probably have by this time completely dispersed all the Indians who remained together; but their orders were not to venture beyond the defile, lest the brigands should reassemble and cut them off. We must march at once, for the colonel commanding our force will soon be there.”

I was very well satisfied with his manner of speaking, and felt certain that we should be kindly treated. Fortunately for us, our mules had managed to get out of the way of the troops as they passed by. With much sagacity they had, when we jumped off their backs, crept into a wide crevice in the cliffs, and we found them close to the spot feeding on the leaves of some shrubs which grew among the rocks. On our claiming them as our property, the officer allowed us to mount them; and he invited us to ride by his side at the head of his men. His questions were sometimes very puzzling, for I resolved not to give him any information which might prove injurious to the Indians. I could not, however, deny that I had seen a large Indian force collected very different to that of Catari; and I warned him, that should the Spaniards ever meet it, they would find a victory far more difficult than the one they had just achieved.

“Do you think you could lead us to the place where this army you speak of is encamped?” he asked suddenly, after a considerable silence.

“Señor,” I replied, with a look of indignation, “has anything I have said induced you to believe that I could be capable of so dishonourable and ungrateful an action! The Indians treated me with mercy and kindness. Is such the return you would expect an honest man to make?”

He shrugged his shoulders. “Why, no,” he replied; “to confess the truth, I should not expect you to do so willingly, and I would myself rather not be asked to do such a thing; but I am sorry to tell you that there are others, my superiors, who are not so likely to pay respect to your scruples; and I am afraid that they will insist on your acting as our guide if it is thought expedient to march against the new made Inca.”

“But surely I have the power to refuse to do any such thing,” I exclaimed indignantly.

“But you might be compelled to do it,” he urged. “It would be dangerous for you to refuse. Our generals are not in a mood to be trifled with.”

“I trust that no power could compel me to act so treacherous a part,” I replied calmly. “You, Señor, I am sure, would not so advise me.”

He seemed to be a man imbued with the old chivalrous spirit of the Castilians; and my appeal to his honourable sentiments pleased him.

“You are a brave youth, and I will do my best to serve you,” he replied. “I am in duty bound to tell my colonel what I know, but you can assure him that you could not find your way back, which I think you probably would not be able to do.”

This conversation caused me much anxiety, though I resolved at all hazards not to betray my friends. I could not also but regret that I had been so incautious as to have allowed myself to confess that I had seen the army of the Inca. I should have been more on my guard; and, without departing from the truth, I might have declined answering any questions which could draw the information from me. The frankness and kind manner of the officer threw me off it, however; and I found myself placed in a position I had not at all contemplated. I received a lesson which I hope may be useful to any of my readers who may be placed in similar circumstances. The officer, whose name I found was Don Eduardo da Vila, and a captain of the regiment with which he was serving, was only doing his duty in cross-questioning me; and I believe that he was very sorry that the information he had obtained was likely to prove injurious to me.

We soon reached the spot he had spoken of, where we were to wait for his colonel. It was a rocky height with precipitous sides, of which a portion of only one was accessible, so that it was a complete natural fortress. It commanded the entrance to the ravine; and had the Indians possessed any knowledge of warfare, they would have taken another route, however circuitous, rather than have attempted to pass so formidable a position without first ascertaining that it was not occupied by an enemy. It was nearly dusk, and the chief body of the Spanish troops had not yet returned from their work of bloodshed. Don Eduardo began to be uneasy.

“Can the rebels have rallied and attacked them?” I heard him say to one of his inferiors. “I thought I heard the bugles sounding as we left the ravine.”

“There can be no doubt about it. If they had been attacked, the sound of the firing would have reached us,” was the answer.

“They have probably pursued the enemy further than they intended,” said Don Eduardo, walking a short distance off from where we stood. He was evidently becoming anxious on the subject.

“What do you think about it?” I asked Pedro, who had overheard what had been said.

“It is possible that the Indians may have rallied and cut off the Spaniards,” he answered. “Yet I do not think that they will have had the courage to do so. At first I was almost hoping it, as I thought we might have a better chance of escaping, but then I remembered that though many of the Indians might have been my friends, the Spaniards are my countrymen. I trust no disaster has befallen them.”

Don Eduardo and his lieutenant returned after the consultation; and the latter, with a sergeant’s party, was ordered to proceed along the ravine, to ascertain what had become of the main body. We watched the lieutenant and his men enter the ravine and advance, till they were hid by a turn of the cliffs. Don Eduardo then called us to him, and asked us our opinion as to what was likely to have occurred. We both assured him that we did not think the Indians would have rallied. What we said appeared somewhat to relieve his mind, and sitting down on a rock, he lighted a cigar, and offered some to us, which we declined, as neither Pedro nor I smoked. The men meantime had piled their arms, and lighted fires to boil their cocoa and to cook their provisions. Some were thus employed, others were smoking, and others had thrown themselves on the ground to rest after the fatigues of the day. We learned that they had received notice of the march of Catari’s army from an Indian spy, many of whom were in the pay of the Spaniards. They had watched for them for several days, and at last the colonel commanding the force had resolved to occupy the post where he attacked them, till they should attempt to pass. The view around the spot we occupied was very picturesque. It was also a very strong natural position, while its picturesqueness was increased by the horses and baggage mules picqueted under the trees, the gay costumes of their drivers, the camp-fires, the piles of arms, and the groups of soldiers, in varied attitudes, scattered here and there.

The sun had set and the short twilight had come to an end, when the tramp of men’s feet at a distance reached our ears. We listened anxiously. It was that of trained soldiers; and in a short time we saw them looming through the gloom of the evening. As they drew near, the advanced guard uttered a shout to warn us of their approach, which was responded to by the party on the hill. Soon afterwards they appeared on the summit, and as they marched into the centre of the space, they piled their arms, and joined their comrades round the fires. Each man came laden with the spoils they had retaken from the Indians.

After a portion of the troops had filed by, there came, with two soldiers guarding each of them, some fifty Indians who had been taken prisoners, and preserved to grace their triumph. Poor wretches, we found that though their lives were for the present spared, their fate was sealed, and that it was intended by a public execution to strike terror into the hearts of their countrymen. Those who could not move fast enough were dragged forward by ropes fastened to their wrists, or urged on at the point of the sword. When they halted, they were all huddled together like sheep in a pen, and a strong guard placed over them to prevent their escape. From the words we overheard, the soldiers appeared to be recounting eagerly, to those who had been left as a reserve, the adventures of the day. Pedro and I were shortly summoned by Don Eduardo to attend the colonel; but fortunately he was too tired and hungry to interrogate us closely, and after a few questions he dismissed us, with permission to join several of his officers round their watch-fires.

We were surprised at seeing only three or four wounded men; and we learned that, with the exception of one killed, they were the only sufferers among the troops. They were in high spirits, as this was the first success the Spanish forces had met with since the commencement of the outbreak. They boasted that they had killed several thousands of the Indians, though their own loss had been so small. They had followed them beyond the defile, where the remainder, entirely broken and dispersed, had saved themselves in the recesses of the forest. The officers civilly invited us to partake of their supper, Don Eduardo having recommended us to their notice; and afterwards, the picquets having been placed, we all wrapped ourselves in our cloaks and lay down to sleep.

Chapter Thirteen.

A battlefield at night—Our experiences of a Peruvian prison.

I am not fond of dwelling on horrors; but I should fail to give a true picture of warfare and its effects, were I to neglect to describe those scenes which are its never-failing accompaniments. I tried to sleep; but at first the blaze of the fire, the voices of those around me, and the din of the camp, kept me awake; and when that had ceased, all the soldiers except the sentries, and even the Indian prisoners, having dropped off asleep, there came up from the depths of the mountain gorge a sound which, as I suspected its cause, effectually banished repose. Though rendered faint by distance, it came through the quiet night air with a distinctness which was truly terrible. I listened with painful attention. There were the shrieks and groans of human beings in their mortal agony, and the suppressed roar and hissing snarl of the fierce puma and the sanguinary ounce, as they disputed over their prey. Many Indians, I guessed too surely, had crawled, desperately wounded, into the crevices of the rocks, where they lay concealed as the Spanish troops passed by, and escaped instant death to suffer a lingering and more terrible fate at the last. All night long those melancholy sounds continued, and though they might have been heard by my companions, they did not appear to disturb their repose. I scarcely knew whether to envy or commiserate their apathy.

The night at last passed away. The soldiers started to their feet at the sound of the bugle’s call, a hasty meal was taken, baggage mules were laden, the men fell into their ranks, and the order to march was given. Pedro and I mounted our faithful little beasts, and rode by the side of Don Eduardo, who, after he had got the troops into order, called us to him.

We descended the side of the hill, and took a direction towards the west, very much to my satisfaction, for I was afraid that we should have again to pass through the gorge; and my heart sickened at the thought of the sad spectacle we should there have to witness. There was no road, and the ground was very uneven; but the men and animals seemed accustomed to it, and managed to scramble along at the rate of about two miles-an-hour. We marched for about five hours, when we reached the bank of a river, where a halt was called, and the men were ordered to pile arms and cook their dinners, scouts being sent out to give notice of the approach of any Indians. The river ran through a broad valley, having on either side high cliffs, and below them grassy land sprinkled with trees. On the top of the cliffs was a wide belt of forest, beyond which, stretched out to the south, a vast extent of sandy desert. As we passed over it, I observed the remains of numerous small canals, which Pedro informed me served in the days of the Incas to irrigate it, when what was now a barren plain was covered with fertile fields.

The spot where we had approached the river was at the mouth of a narrow stream, which wound its way down from the mountains, its course marked by a line of trees, which it served to nourish. While the troops were resting, the colonel summoned Pedro and me into his presence, to make more inquiries about us. I mentioned that he was a very different sort of person to Don Eduardo. He was a stern, morose man, none of the kindlier sympathies of human nature finding a place in his bosom. He was sitting on a rock, under the shade of a tree, with his secretary, with paper and a pen in his hand, kneeling by his side, and making a table of the rock, ready to take notes of what we might say. He questioned us narrowly, and all we said was put down. I gave him the same account that I had to Don Eduardo.

“And so you have been living among the Indians, and encouraging them in their rebellion against their rightful sovereign, I doubt not,” he observed, fixing his piercing eyes on us. “Young man, your name is not unfamiliar to me.”

I felt no little alarm on hearing these words, which was increased when he desired his secretary to turn to some notes he had in his portfolio.

“I thought so,” he exclaimed. “You are the son of an Englishman who is accused of conspiring with the Indians to overthrow the government of the country. Your father has met with his deserts, for I see that he and all his family were murdered by the wretched people he had encouraged to revolt; but you, let me assure you, will not escape the punishment which is your due. You have been treated with too much leniency by us; you and your companion are now prisoners. Guard lead them off, and take care that they do not escape.”

The information so brutally given me, confirmatory of my worst fears, almost overcame me, and I believe that I should have sunk to the ground, had not the soldiers who were ordered to take charge of us supported me as they led me away. I was far too much absorbed by the dreadful news, the truth of which I could not doubt, to be able to contemplate the very dangerous position in which I was placed. I did not attempt to answer the colonel, nor to exculpate myself; indeed, any appeal to him would have been of no avail. Pedro and I were marched off, and placed by ourselves under the shade of a rock, where several men were stationed as sentries over us. The officers with whom we had before been associating on friendly terms seemed to regard us with looks of pity, but they dared not speak to us. When the troops again marched we were guarded by two soldiers, who rode by our sides with drawn swords, while we were not allowed to address each other. The time occupied by that journey was the most miserable portion of my life. Hope had almost deserted me. All those I loved best on earth were gone; and at the end of it I had nothing to expect but a long imprisonment in a loathsome dungeon, or perhaps death. The next evening, when the soldiers halted to bivouac for the night, as Pedro and I were sitting disconsolately on the ground at a short distance from each other, with our guards between us, I saw Don Eduardo approaching. He told the soldiers to withdraw, and sat down by my side. I saw by his manner that he had undertaken a task which was not altogether to his taste.

“I have got permission from the colonel to speak to you,” he began. “He considers himself authorised not to act very rigorously with you if you will accede to his proposals.”

“What are they, Don Eduardo?” I asked, at once guessing their tenor.

“Why, he understands you have seen the army of the rebel chief, Tupac Amaru, and are acquainted with their intentions,” he answered.

“I own that I have seen large numbers of Indians collected together, but I am entirely ignorant of what they were about to do,” I said. “But pray go on, Don Eduardo.”

“The proposal is similar to what I made you when we first met,” he replied, the colour rising to his cheeks. “If you can conduct a Spanish force to where they are to be found, or can contrive to put some of their chiefs into our power, you and your friend shall forthwith be set at liberty.”

“You, I am sure, Don Eduardo, can expect but one reply from me to such a question, and you know that it is the only one which, while I remain an honourable man, I can give.”

“I am afraid so,” he answered, looking down much grieved. “I am to add, that if you refuse, as soon as we arrive at the town of San Pablo, you will be tried and shot as a rebel.”

“Before I have been found guilty?” I asked.

“I fear your guilt in our eyes has been too well established by your own confession,” he observed. “Let me advise you to think over the subject well. It is hard for a youth like you to die.”

“Tell me, Don Eduardo, do you believe me guilty?” I asked.

“You have been in communication with the Indians and you wish them well,” he said, avoiding an answer to my question.

“I wish the Spaniards well, and have never instigated the Indians to rebel by word or deed,” said I. “But you have not told me if you think me guilty.”

“I do not. From what I have seen of you I think you incapable of doing so wrong a thing,” he replied, kindly taking my hand. “I wish to save your life.”

“I warmly thank you for what you say, Don Eduardo,” I exclaimed; “but I cannot do what is proposed. If I am not guilty it will be more easy to die; but I trust that, as an Englishman, the government will not venture to put me to death unless my guilt is clearly proved.”

“In these times no respect is paid to persons,” he said. “You must not trust to such a hope; yet I would take a more satisfactory answer back to my colonel.”

“I can send no other answer than what I have given,” I replied; “you would from your heart despise me if I did.”

At this he looked very melancholy. “Well, I fear it must be so, yet I will do all I can for you,” he said, as again pressing my hand in token of his good-will, he rose to leave me.

Having ordered the sentries to return to their posts, he went to where my companion in misfortune was sitting. He conversed with him for some time; and though I had great confidence in Pedro, I was afraid that he might ultimately be tempted or threatened into compliance with the colonel’s demands. I wronged him; for I afterwards learned that he remained firm to his honour. The night passed away without any adventure; and wearied out by bodily fatigue and mental anxiety, though the hard ground was my couch, I slept till daylight. My conscience was, at all events, clear of wrong, and I never recollect to have slept so soundly. I awoke more refreshed than I had been for some time, and with a lighter heart in my bosom. Even hope revived, though I had little enough to ground it on. The air was pure and bracing, my nerves felt well strung, and the face of nature itself wore to my eyes a more cheerful aspect than it had done for many days. The troops advanced more rapidly than they had before done, and towards evening the spires of several churches rising from the plain, the rays of the sun lighting them brilliantly up, came in sight. They were in the town of San Pablo, the houses in which soon after appeared. As we approached, a number of the Spanish inhabitants came out to hear the news, and seemed highly gratified at the result of the expedition. The unfortunate Indians who were brought in as prisoners, chiefly attracted their attention; and I was shocked to hear the abuse they heaped on them. The miserable beings walked on with sullen and downcast looks, without deigning to reply. They had no hope—they had lost the day, and they knew the fate which awaited them.

As we marched through the unpaved, dirty streets, the inhabitants came out of their houses to look at us, and to offer the troops refreshments and congratulations. We found the town full of people of all colours, of whom a large number were Indians who had refused to join the revolt.

In the centre of the town was the usual large plaza or square; and on one side of it was a building which we were told was the prison. Towards it we were at once conducted. One side of the square was without buildings, a broad stream running past it, beyond which were cultivated fields, and gardens divided by walls. In the centre was a fountain, continually throwing up a jet of crystal water—a refreshing sight in that climate. The prison fronted the river. On one side was a church, and on the other the residence of the governor of the town, or of some other civil functionary. On either side of the buildings I have mentioned, were long rows of houses of various heights, though mostly of one story, very similar to those I have already described. Three streets, running at right angles to each other, led into the square. I have not without reason been thus particular in my description.

The soldiers who had us in charge, led us across the square, amid the shouts and jeers of the people. Even the blacks, the half-castes, and the Indians, came to stare at us with stupid wonder, calling us rebels, traitors, and robbers. The unfortunate Indians who had been made prisoners, went before us. The massive gates of the prison were thrown open, and they were forced within. We came last.

My heart sunk within me as we entered those gloomy walls. The interior was already crowded with human beings, many of them Indians, found with arms in their hands, or suspected of an intention of joining the rebels. We advanced along a low, arched gallery, intersected by several gates; and having passed two of them, we turned to the left, along a narrower passage, at the end of which we reached a small door. The gaoler, who showed the way with a torch, opened it; and, to my dismay, I saw that a steep flight of steps led down from it to some chambers below the ground.

“We are to be shut up in a dungeon, I fear,” I whispered to Pedro.

“So that I am with you, I care not where I am,” he answered.

Four of the soldiers followed us, to prevent our running away, I suppose; though we should have had but a poor chance of escaping even had we tried. The rest faced about, and marched back through the passage. I hesitated on the top of the steps, so narrow and broken and dark did they look.

“Come along, Señores, come along!” said the gaoler; “but take care how you tread, for the steps are somewhat worn, and you may chance to break your necks some days before their time.”

Though inclined to make merry at our expense, he held his torch so as to afford sufficient light for us to see our way. The soldiers laughed gruffly at his joke, bad as it was; and this made him attempt one or two others of a similar character.

“The gentlemen have not perhaps been accustomed to live in a palace, but they will find one here, with plenty of servants to attend on them; so I must beg to congratulate them,” he said, chuckling as he spoke. “They will have plenty of playmates, though some of them will not remain very long, I suspect. They have a way here of making a speedy clearance at times.”

We had now reached the bottom of the steps, and another small door, plated with iron and secured with two stout iron bars, appeared before us. The gaoler removed the bars, and taking a key from his girdle, opened the door.

“Go in there, Señores,” he said. “It is somewhat dark at present, but you will get accustomed to it by-and-by.”

Saying this, he forced us into the dungeon. I went in first, and stumbled down a couple of steps, nearly falling on my face. While I was holding out my hand to save Pedro from doing the same, the door was shut behind us, and barred and bolted as before. We found ourselves in almost total darkness, a small aperture near the ceiling alone affording a dim gleam of light, which served to show us the gloomy horrors of the place. Two massive pillars supported the low arched roof, which seemed covered with moisture. The size of the place we could not tell, as the darkness prevented our seeing the walls at either side. The floor was unpaved, and composed of damp earth strewed with filth. We stood for some minutes holding each other’s hands, without speaking, and without moving. We felt bewildered and stupified with the calamity which had befallen us. Pedro was the first to recover himself.

“They cannot keep us here for ever,” he said, breaking the long silence. “Others have been in worse places, and have escaped. Let us hope, Señor, for the best.” He spoke in a cheerful tone, which had a reviving effect upon me.

“We will hope for the best, Pedro,” I exclaimed. “Something may occur to deliver us. We must consider, however, what we have to do. I propose that we first make a tour of inspection round our dominions. It will give us some occupation, though idleness seems rather encouraged here.”

“I would rather find the way out of our dominions, as you call them, than become better acquainted with them,” said Pedro. “However, I am ready to set out whenever you please.”

“We may possibly find the way out during our inspection,” I remarked, as we began slowly and cautiously to move round the walls of the cell.

It was narrow but long, and extended, as I concluded, along part of one side of the inner court. We found two other pillars towards the further end, and we felt several rings secured in the walls, with heavy chains attached to them. Of their use there could be no doubt; and we congratulated ourselves that we were still allowed to have our limbs at liberty. In our walk we stumbled over an iron bar, and our feet knocked against some other rings attached to stones sunk in the floor.

“So some of the inmates of the mansion have been chained down like maniacs to the ground,” Pedro observed. “We are indeed fortunate in escaping such treatment.”

Though we searched most minutely, we could discover nothing which might suggest any means of escaping. We had just concluded an examination, and had returned to our seats, when the door of the dungeon was opened, and the gaoler appeared, bringing a jar of water and two loaves of brown bread.

Pedro examined his countenance. “Stop,” he exclaimed, as the man was going away; “Sancho Lopez, I do believe you are an old friend of mine.”

“In truth yes, and you saved my life,” answered the gaoler. “But I must not stop—but I must not stop. Be at rest, I do not forget the matter.”

Pedro afterwards told me how he had saved the Spanish gaoler’s life in a snow-storm in the mountains, and we agreed that it was a great thing to have him as our friend.

We had been in the dungeon about a fortnight, and though it was damp and unwholesome in the extreme, we did not appear to have suffered in health.

One morning Sancho entered our cell with a cheerful countenance.

“I bring you good news, Señores,” he said. “I have just received a visit from a young officer, who has, it appears, been making interest in your favour; and he has gained permission for your removal to a more airy abode. He seemed very anxious about you, and said he pitied you very much, though he was unable to obtain your liberty, which he wished to do. I hurried here to tell you this, as I thought it would give you pleasure. I must now go back to get the chambers ready for you, and will return with two of the under gaolers to conduct you to it. One caution I have to give you. Do not mind what I say to you before others, and never answer any of my remarks.”

Without waiting for our reply and thanks, Sancho closed the prison door, and left us to ourselves.

“We have to thank Don Eduardo for this. I am sure he is the officer Sancho spoke of,” I remarked.

“I think so also,” answered Pedro. “I am glad that he has not asked us to pass our word not to escape.”

“So am I,” I observed. “While we were on our road here, I often contemplated the possibility of getting out of prison; but then I did not expect to be put into a dungeon like this.”

For some time we could talk of nothing else but the prospect of making our escape.

Two hours or more had passed away, and Sancho had not returned. We knew that he would not willingly have deceived us, but we began to be afraid that the governor had rescinded his permission for our occupying a room open to the air, and that we might be doomed to remain in our dungeon for weeks or months longer. At last we heard footsteps approaching the cell; the door was opened, and Sancho and his two assistants appeared.

“You are to accompany me, Señores,” he said, in the gruff tone he had used at our entrance. “You are fortunate in coming out of that place alive; though some I have known would rather have had to remain there than be obliged to march out into the square yonder.”

The assistants laughed as he said this, and we soon had too great a reason to know to what he alluded. Sancho led the way with a torch in his hand; and his assistants followed, holding us tightly by the arms, as if we would have tried to escape from them. I certainly could not have done so had I tried, for when I came to mount the steps, I found my knees trembling under me from weakness, arising from being shut up so long in the damp dungeon, though I had till then thought myself as strong as ever. We traversed a number of passages, and mounted a second flight of steps, when we reached a small door plated with iron. Sancho opened it, and exhibited a room about six feet broad and eight feet long, with a window strongly barred at the further end. There were two chairs and a bedstead, with a straw mattress on it.

“Put the youngsters in there,” he said gruffly to his assistants. “It is a room fit for an hidalgo of the first order. They may see and be seen if they choose to put their noses through the gratings.”

On this the gaolers very unceremoniously thrust us in, and Sancho, without saying a word more, closed the door upon us. It appeared such an age since we had beheld the blue sky and the smiling face of nature, that we eagerly rushed to the window to discover what view could be obtained from it. We found, to our no small satisfaction, that it was not more than twelve or fifteen feet from the ground, and that it looked out on the great square I have before described. I have never forgotten the sensations of delight with which I inhaled the fresh air as it came through the open bars, and gazed once more on the bright sky, and the clear water of the river, the fields, and the trees beyond, and the human beings who were thronging the open space below us. They all appeared so full of life and activity, and the murmur of their voices seemed like music to my ears, so long accustomed to the silence of the dungeon. The bars of the window were very strong, and placed very close together, so that, as Sancho had observed, we could only just get our noses through them. We were, however, glad to get them out as far as we could, and every moment I found the breeze restoring to my limbs their accustomed strength. My first impulse was to shake the bars to try and find whether any of them could be moved; but I restrained myself, lest some one from below should observe us and suspect that we were thinking of escaping. As we stood there, we heard several voices in piteous tones asking for alms; and by pressing our faces close to the bars, we discovered that some of the prisoners in the neighbouring rooms were letting down hats and baskets by lines at the ends of poles, like fishing rods, to collect food and money from the passers-by. We were still eagerly watching the scene, when I felt a hand laid on my shoulder. I started back, and saw Sancho. We had been so interested that we had not heard him enter. He placed his finger on his lips to impose silence.

“I have been so occupied that I could not come before,” he whispered. “I have brought you some white bread, and some meat, and fruit, and fresh water, and a little brandy to mix with it, which have been ordered by the friend who has obtained for you the indulgence of this room. Here are the provisions.” He put down in the chair a basket covered with a cloth. “I cannot remain, for a fresh set of prisoners have lately arrived, and I am employed in looking after them.”

“Who are they?” I asked. “More Indians, I fear.”

“Yes, Señor; there are a hundred of them. Poor fellows, I pity them, for they will certainly be shot in the great square out there before many days are over. There is a young chief among them. I grieve for him most, for he is a very fine fellow. He walked along as he came to prison like a prince, and heeded not the shouts and revilings of the mob who followed him and his companions. Their misery will soon be over, for they are to be tried to-morrow, and they have not a chance of escape.”

“Can you tell me his name!” I asked anxiously; for I instantly thought of Manco.

“No, I cannot,” he answered. “I only know that he was taken a few clays ago in a skirmish with the enemy, who are not many leagues off. It is feared even that they may attack the town, though we have too many soldiers here to give them much chance of success.”

“I trust they will not,” I exclaimed, thinking of the dreadful scenes which had before occurred. “But can you learn the name of this young chief? I fear he is a friend of ours.”

“Oh, do not acknowledge him, then,” said the gaoler, “as you value your lives. You cannot benefit him, and may run the risk of sharing his fate.”

I saw the mistake I had committed; but still I pressed Sancho to learn who he was, and he undertook to comply with my wish, provided I followed his advice. I again asked him to inform us who was the friend who had interested himself in our favour; but he replied that he was not at liberty to say, and he then hurried from the room.

The news he had brought made us very sad, for we could not help contemplating the scene of bloodshed which was about to occur, which was of itself sufficiently horrible, even should my suspicions that Manco was a prisoner not prove correct. We were doomed not to have our anxiety relieved, for Sancho did not again make his appearance during the day. He was probably afraid of being observed if he visited us too frequently. We ate the food Sancho had brought us most thankfully, and it much contributed to restore our strength; but we had lost all pleasure in looking out of the window on the square, which was so soon to be the scene of the slaughter of so many of our fellow-creatures. We found a bundle of blankets and some clean linen hid away under the bedding; for the latter, which to us was a great luxury, we had no doubt we were indebted to Don Eduardo. At night we threw ourselves on the bed, and tried to sleep; but my rest was very disturbed, and I constantly dreamed that I heard firing, and saw the unhappy Indians being shot down before the windows. Towards morning, however, I fell into a deep slumber; and, probably owing to the change of air and the improvement in our food, we both slept to a much later hour than usual. We were awakened by the confused sound of the voices of a concourse of people, and jumping up, we hurried to the window. From thence we saw a large crowd collected in the square, who seemed to be eagerly watching the doors of the prison. We could distinguish the tones of those nearest to us; and from the words which reached us, we learned that a sort of trial had taken place the previous evening of the prisoners lately captured, as well as of those in Tupac Catari’s army, and that they were all condemned to be shot. No one seemed to pity them; but, on the contrary, all appeared to exult at the prospect of the slaughter which was about to commence.

“The pretended Inca, Tupac Amaru, has been taken,” said one man.

“No; that is a mistake,” was the answer. “But another chief has, though he fought like a lion, it is said.”

“Who is he?” asked another.

“A relation of the Inca’s: one of the viper’s brood,” replied the first.

“They say two strangers were made prisoners leading on the rebels,” observed a third. “They are to be shot also, I hope.”

“No doubt of it; but the viceroy has thought it necessary to send to explain the matter to the English consul at Lima; and his answer has not arrived,” remarked a fourth.

“It is known that it cannot arrive for three or four more days; and care will be taken to shoot them before that time,” said the former speaker.

“Can they allude to us?” I asked of Pedro, feeling my heart sink within me.

“There is no doubt about it,” he replied. “We must be prepared for the worst; but I do not think they will dare to kill one of your great nation. They will shoot me though, as I have no friends to help me.”

“Nor have I, Pedro; but I would rather say, Let us hope for the best,” I answered. “They would gain nothing by killing either of us, and it would be very unjust to kill you and let me escape.”

“It would be very unjust to kill either of us; but they care little for justice, and they wish to strike terror into the hearts of their enemies,” he remarked calmly.

“Such cruelty as they are about to perpetrate will only exasperate the Indians the more,” said I. “If they were to treat them well, and let them go, they would be more likely to put down the rebellion.”

The crowd was every moment increasing, as people were coming in from all directions. Among them were a large number of Indians, mestizos, and other half-castes, who seemed to look on with the same unconcern as the Spaniards. My eye had been attracted by a man whose florid complexion and dress showed that he was a seaman of some northern nation, and I hoped an Englishman. He shouldered his way through the crowd with a confident, independent air, as if he felt himself superior to any about him. At length he came close under our window, and caught my eye watching him. He stared at me fixedly for some time, and I thought recognised me to be a countryman by my light hair and fair complexion. Once he put his hand up to his mouth, as if he was going to hail me, as he would a man at the masthead; but he again let it drop, having apparently changed his mind, and, returning his hands to his trousers pockets, he rolled away with the unmistakeable air of a British seaman. I longed to call after him to tell who I was; but, afraid of being heard by others, I restrained myself.

“Is that man a friend of yours?” asked Pedro.

“I never saw him that I know of before,” I answered.

“Well, I thought that he recognised you,” he observed. “I marked the expression of his eye, and I should say that he knew you, or mistook you for some one else.”

I eagerly watched the sailor, afraid that he would go away, and that we should see him no more. I observed, however, that though he dodged about among the crowd with a careless air, he never got to any great distance from our window. This circumstance kept alive my hope that he had come for the purpose of bringing us information, or of helping us to escape. The crowd had now begun to grow as impatient at the non-appearance of the prisoners as they would at a bull-fight, had there been a delay in turning the bull into the circus, when three bodies of troops were seen marching up from the several streets leading into the square. They formed on either side of it, making a lane from the prison gates to the river; while the crowd fell back behind them. I had observed a number of Indians collecting on the opposite bank of the river, who now came down close to its edge, watching anxiously the proceedings of the soldiers. They appeared, however, not to be remarked by the people in the town. As they were partly concealed by the trees and the walls dividing the fields, their numbers might not have been perceived by the people in the square. The bell of the nearest church began to toll; the crowd looked eagerly towards the prison; the massive gates were thrown open, and we saw issuing forth a posse of priests and monks, bearing crucifixes and lighted tapers, who were followed by the unhappy Indians intended for execution, chained two and two, and each couple guarded by a soldier with his musket presented at their heads.

I watched them file out with aching eyes, for every moment I expected to see Manco led forth. I had a painful presentiment that he was among the victims. The last of the Indians had passed on, and I began to breathe more freely; but still the crowd began to look towards the gates of the prison. Alas! I was not mistaken. The mob raised a shout of exultation, and I saw a man I could too clearly recognise, between two soldiers, with a priest advancing before him, and reciting the prayers for the dead. It was the kind, the brave Manco himself. He walked on with a proud and dignified air, undaunted by the revengeful shouts of his enemies, thirsting for his blood. His step was firm, and his brow was unclouded, and his lips were firmly set; but I observed that his bright dark eyes were every now and then ranging anxiously among the crowd, as if in search of a friendly glance. His fellow-beings who formed the mob, looked at him with eager and savage curiosity; but no one appeared to offer him any sign of recognition. He was closely followed by a company of soldiers, with arms presented. They formed, I discovered, the fatal firing party. As they advanced, the other soldiers formed in the rear, and the mob followed close behind. The sailor, I observed, went with the rest for a short distance, but when he found that their attention was entirely occupied with the prisoners, he disengaged himself from among them, and rolled back with his unconcerned air towards our window.

“Shipmate, ahoy,” he exclaimed in a suppressed tone as he passed.

“Who are you?” I asked eagerly.

“A friend in need,” he answered, in the same low tone. “Keep a stout heart in your body, and if you can manage to rig a line of some sort, let it down out of your window soon after dark. If it’s just strong enough to haul up another it will do. I’ll bring a stout one with me.”

“We’ll do as you say, friend, and many thanks,” I answered.

“That’s all right then,” said the seaman. “When you hear a cat mew under your window, let down the line. I shan’t be far off. I must now go along with the crowd to see what’s going on. I wish that I could lend a helping hand to some of those poor fellows; but it won’t do, I must look after you, you know. A countryman in distress has the first right to my services.”

I longed to learn who he was; but before I could ask him, he had sauntered away among the crowd. Meantime the soldiers had formed three sides of a hollow square, the river forming the fourth. Close to the bank there stood a large group of human beings—the victims destined for execution. Their arms and legs were secured with cords, so that they could not escape. They uttered no cries or lamentations, but appeared ready to meet their fate with stoical indifference. The priests, with their crucifixes and candles, collected round them, exhorting them to repentance, and uttering prayers which none of them could understand. I looked anxiously for Manco, but he was not among them, and at last I discovered him standing apart, under charge of a file of soldiers. With a refinement of cruelty, it was intended that he should witness the execution of his friends and countrymen, before he himself was led forth to be shot. A priest stood by his side, endeavouring to make him listen to the words of exhortation he was pouring into his ears; but, I judged, with no effect. His arms were folded, and his eyes were turned towards the group in the centre. Several officers were riding about the square. At a signal from one of them (the colonel who had sent us to prison), the priests retired; and the firing party, consisting of a hundred men, fell back to the distance of about twenty paces. There was a death-like silence; even the savage crowd were awed. I could scarcely breathe, and a mist came before my eyes.

There was a pause of a minute. Perhaps, I thought, the commanding officer himself hesitates to give the word which must send so many of his fellow-creatures to eternity. I was mistaken. “Fire,” he shouted, in a sharp loud voice. A rapid discharge of musketry was heard, and as the smoke cleared off, a number of the prisoners were seen struggling and writhing in agony on the ground. Some of them lay still enough, for they, more fortunate, were shot dead; while the wounded uttered the most fearful shrieks and cries for mercy. More than two-thirds stood erect, unharmed by the bullets. The soldiers, loaded as fast as they could, and again sent forth a deadly fire from their muskets. The number of prisoners was fearfully thinned. The soldiers fired again and again, and each time fewer remained alive. At last but two Indians continued standing side by side, unscathed by the fire. I was in hopes that they might have been pardoned; but no, the soldiers advancing, presented their pieces at their breasts and shot them dead, while those who lay wounded on the ground were likewise put out of their misery.

All eyes were now turned towards the chief Manco. I know not on what account his limbs were allowed to remain unfettered. Perhaps they thought that among such a crowd a single man could do no one an injury. He walked along towards the spot where his murdered countrymen lay in heaps, with his head erect, and a firm, unfaltering step. The priest followed him; but he waved him off, as if his services were of no further avail. Even the officers seemed to feel some respect for him; and I saw one of them give him a handkerchief, with which to give the signal for the soldiers to fire. He stood boldly facing them, with his eye firmly fixed on his executioners, a little way on one side of the heap of dead men. My heart felt ready to burst; yet painful as it was, I could not withdraw my sight from him. I anxiously watched for the fatal moment. He gave a leap upwards it appeared, and threw the handkerchief in the air. The soldiers fired; but when the smoke cleared we could not distinguish his body on the ground. The head and shoulders of a man were, however, seen in the waters of the river, and he was striking out with powerful strokes towards the opposite shore, where at the same instant a number of Indians were observed plunging in to meet him.

“See, Pedro, he has escaped—he has escaped!” I exclaimed. “It is Manco I am certain; how bravely he swims. They will not be so cruel as to kill him now. He will reach the opposite shore. Ah! alas, he sinks. No, he has only dived; see, he comes up some way down the stream.”

The firing party advanced to the banks; but they had expended all their cartridges, I suppose, for they stood watching him in stupid astonishment; and no one, for a minute or more, thought of ordering any of the other soldiers to advance and fire. This gave the swimmer a great advantage; and as the current was strong, he had soon glided some way down below the square. At last some hundred men advanced to the edge of the river, and opened a rapid fire on him; but still he continued his course undaunted. The Indians on the banks set up loud shouts, as did those who had swam out to meet him. He was quickly among them, when it became impossible to distinguish him from the rest. Many, I suspected, lost their lives in their attempt to save their chief. A number of soldiers jumped into the canoes on the banks of the river, and attempted to pursue the fugitive; but long before they could have reached him, the swimmers had landed, and were seen rushing up among the trees. Whether or not he was among them I could not tell; for the bodies of those who were killed floated down the stream out of sight. A rapid fire was kept up at the opposite bank, which the Indians, as they landed, had to pass through; but they were soon sheltered from its effects by the trees, and in a few moments not one of them was to be seen. Carts came to convey the dead away; sand was strewed over the spot; the crowd, murmuring at the escape of the principal victim, dispersed; and the square in a short time resumed its usual appearance.

Chapter Fourteen.

A friend in need—Our escape.

Pedro and I turned from the window, and sitting down, with our hands before our faces, endeavoured to shut out the dreadful sights we had witnessed. It was satisfactory, however, to believe that Manco had escaped; and I trusted that he would not fall again into the power of his enemies. When Sancho entered with a supply of provisions, he found us so employed.

I do not know whether he suspected that we had some hopes of making our escape, and wished to warn us of the danger. His manner, I remarked, was more cordial than usual; and perhaps he did not expect to see us again. As soon as he had left us, we consulted how we should form a line to let down out of the window, as our sailor friend had advised. We hunted about, but could not find even the smallest piece of rope. At last I suggested that we might tear up one of our shirts, and by twisting the bits and tying them together, we might make a line long enough to reach the ground, and strong enough to haul up a thick rope. We forthwith, therefore, set to work; and having tried each bit as we fastened it on, we were satisfied that our line would answer our purpose.

It was nearly dusk by the time we had finished it; and lest some one should by chance come in and see what we had been about, we hid it away under the mattress. It was fortunate that we took this precaution, for just as we had done so the door opened, and a gaoler, accompanied by our kind friend, Don Eduardo, and another person, entered the room. Don Eduardo bowed to us, and as he took a seat which Sancho offered him, he looked at us rather sternly, as much as to signify that we must not appear on familiar terms.

“I have brought this gentleman to prepare your defence for you, Señores, as I hear that you are to be tried to-morrow,” he said, in a kind tone. “I am sorry to tell you that it will go hard with you if you cannot establish your innocence.”

“I have to thank you very much, Don Eduardo,” I answered; “but all we can do is to protest our innocence—we have no witnesses. The Indians, who might have proved that we were ourselves taken prisoners by their chief, have this morning been shot.”

“It is indeed a difficult case,” remarked the advocate. “I will do my best, Don Eduardo; and we must hope that something will appear in their favour.”

I need not repeat all that took place. The advocate asked us a variety of questions, and made a number of notes; and then rising, followed Don Eduardo, who stiffly bowed to us as before, out of the room. Sancho, who went last, turned his head over his shoulder, and shook his head, with a grave expression on his face, which showed us that he thought our case was desperate. This circumstance made us more anxious than ever to effect our escape; and we waited anxiously for the signal the English sailor had promised us. By degrees the noises inside and outside the prison died away. People, fatigued with the excitement of the morning, had retired earlier than usual to their homes, and the square was totally deserted. It was very dark, for there was no moon, and a thick mist rising from the river, hung over the town; and what was of more use to us, there was a strong wind, which howled and moaned among the buildings, and rattled about the tiles. The time seemed to pass very slowly; and we began to fancy that the seaman might have been prevented from fulfilling his intention.

“Perhaps he was watched speaking to us, and has been taken up by the officers of justice,” I remarked.

“Perhaps he was found coming here with a rope in his possession,” said Pedro; “or perhaps he was deceiving us.”

“No, I will not believe that,” I answered indignantly. “I am sure he is honest. He is an Englishman and a sailor, there is no mistaking that; and he did not look or speak like a rogue. Let us hope for the best.”

Just as I made this observation, we heard what sounded like the mew of a kitten, just under the window. We instantly jumped up, and I let down our line. I felt it gently tugged.

“Haul up,” said a voice; and as we got to the end, we found a rope sufficiently strong to bear a man’s weight attached to the end.

“Fasten that to a strong bar; and look out not to make a lubber’s knot,” added the voice.

We did as we were bid; and soon after a strong tug had been given to the rope, a man’s head and shoulders appeared at the window. He looked in to discover who was in the room.

“All friends here?” he asked.

“Yes, to a friend in need,” I replied.

“All right then,” he said; and, apparently satisfied, he climbed up farther, and sat himself down securely on the window-ledge. “Now my lads, you’d like to get out of this, I suppose,” he said, in a careless tone, which showed that he was in no way agitated by the risk he was running. “Well, there isn’t a moment to be lost; and so I’ve brought three files, that we may all work away at the bars together.”

Pedro and I took the files he offered us, and waited till he had examined the bars.

“Here are two together, which seem loosened in their sockets,” he observed. “Now it seems to me, mates, if we were to file away at the upper part, just below the lowest cross bar, and could wrench out those two bars, as you are not very stout, there would be room for you two to slip through.”

“I feel sure that we could easily get through,” I answered; “but what are we to do, friend, when we are outside?”

“Never you trouble your head about that, youngster,” he replied. “I’ve planned it all, and it can’t fail; so do you just take the file and work away.”

Thus admonished, Pedro and I began to file away at one bar, while the sailor attacked the other.

“Don’t stop,” he whispered; “the noise is much less likely to be noticed if you go on regularly with it, than it breaks off every now and then.”

We filed away accordingly with all our might; but I could not help trembling at times with alarm lest we should be heard; for though the wind howled and whistled in a most satisfactory manner, yet there is something so peculiar in the sound of filing, that I was afraid the sharp ears of the gaoler or guards might hear it. Pedro and I had got through more than two-thirds of our bar, and we agreed that we might easily wrench it out of its place, when our arms began to ache, and as we rested for a minute, we heard a footstep approaching the room. In great alarm, we told the sailor.

“Never mind,” he answered, quite calmly. “Stow the files away, and lie down on the bed, and pretend to be fast asleep. I’ve got a lump of pitch in my pocket, and I’ll just fill up the grooves we’ve made in the bars, so that they’ll not be observed. There, that will do. Now I’ll just wait down below till your visitor has gone.”

We threw ourselves on the bed, as he advised, and listened with intense anxiety. The footsteps passed by, and we heard doors opening near us. All was again silent for some time; and we had just sprung up, and were about to call the sailor, when we heard the footsteps returning. We threw ourselves down once more on the bed. Just as we had done so, the door opened, and Sancho, holding a lantern in his hand, put his head into the room. His two assistants appeared behind him. As the light flashed on my eyes, I closed them fast.

“All right here, the lads are fast asleep,” he said, turning to the men. “Hillo! Señores, wake up, will you. The governor has received notice that some stranger was seen this morning, wandering about outside the prison; and he has sent us round to see that all our inmates were safe. Just remember, then, that we paid you a visit, that’s all. Now go to sleep again, for you won’t have many more nights to rest here. Ha! ha! ha!”

The men laughed as he said this, as if they thought it a very good joke; and Pedro and I sat up and rubbed our eyes.

“Buenos noches, good night, Señores,” he repeated; and to our infinite satisfaction, without approaching the window, he and his assistants retired, and closed the door behind them.

We listened till their footsteps had died away in the distance; and then jumping up, we went to the window, where I gave a low mew, which was answered by the sailor, who quickly climbed back again to his former post. I told him in hurried accents what had occurred.

“Never mind,” he answered coolly. “More reason for haste. Another half-hour’s work will set you free. Bear a hand about it, then.”

His calmness reassured us; and having carefully cleared away the pitch, we went on filing at the bar as fast as we could. My heart certainly did beat more rapidly than it had ever done before; for I expected every moment to be interrupted by the entrance of the gaolers. Fortunately the wind blew, and the tiles rattled more loudly than ever. At last, to our great satisfaction, both the bars were almost filed through. The sailor seized the one he had been working at, and with a powerful wrench, tore it from the stone window-frame.

“There,” he said, giving me the piece of bar. “Put it carefully down. We will leave it as a legacy behind us.”

Pedro and I grasped the other, and with all our strength tore it away.

“Hurra! all right now, mates,” said the the sailor, scarcely refraining from giving a cheer. “Bear a hand, and squeeze through. I’ll help you.”

“You go first,” said Pedro. “I’ll follow you.”

I could just manage to squeeze my head and shoulders between the bars; and with the assistance of the sailor, who hauled away by my collar, I found myself standing outside them on the window-ledge.

“There won’t be room for all of us outside, so do you, mate, just get hold of the rope and slide down to the ground,” observed the sailor.

“Where is it?” I asked, for I could neither see nor feel it.

“Get hold of the bars with your hands, and lower yourself till you get your feet round the rope. Don’t let go with one hand till you’ve a firm hold with the other. I’ll guide you.”

Following his instructions, I lowered my body over the window-sill till I could grasp the rope with my hands, when without much difficulty I slid down to the ground. For an instant my satisfaction at being once more outside the prison walls made me forget the risk we ran of being recaptured, and the difficulties we had still to undergo. I stood anxiously watching for the appearance of my companions; for it was so dark that I could not distinguish them even at the short distance between the ground and the window. In moments such as those, each one appears an age, and I trembled for our safety. At last I saw a figure gliding down the rope. It was Pedro. Scarcely had he reached the ground when the sailor was by my side.

“Now, mates,” he whispered, “let’s hold on to each other, and put our best legs foremost. I’ve a canoe ready on the banks of the river, and we may be far away before our flight is discovered.”

We lost no time in words, but taking each other’s hands that we might not be separated, we ran as fast as we could across the square, guided by the sailor, who had taken the bearings of some lights he told us to steer by. Owing to the stormy weather and the late hour, no one was crossing the square; indeed, even the most callous were probably inclined to avoid the spot where the Indians had been executed in the morning. We must have passed close to it. At last we reached the side of the river, but had not hit the place where the sailor had left the canoe. Here was another difficulty. Could any one have removed it? We groped about for some time in vain.

“Can you both swim?” asked the sailor.

“Yes; but it’s a long way across, and there are perhaps crocodiles in the water,” I answered.

“Better be drowned or swallowed up by a crocodile, my lads, than retaken by those land-sharks,” he observed. “It must come to that if we cannot find the canoe.”

Pedro and I agreed to this; and, though we had not our full strength, we prepared to take the swim, trusting to the brave fellow’s assistance.

“Well, I see there’s some risk, so we’ll have another hunt for the canoe first,” he observed. “Stay, I think it’s lower down the stream.”

He was right. Directly afterwards, to our great satisfaction, we stumbled upon the canoe. To launch it was the work of a moment; but though we hunted in every direction, we could only find one paddle.

“One must do,” said the sailor. “I can manage. No time to be lost, though.”

Saying this, he stepped in first, and seated himself in the stern, with the paddle in his hand. He then turned the head of the canoe to the bank, and told Pedro and me to creep in carefully over the bow. We did so, and placed ourselves by his direction along the bottom. A stroke of his paddle then turned the canoe round, and we floated rapidly down the stream. I listened for any sound to indicate that we were followed, but nothing could be heard above the howling of the wind in the trees. Neither of us uttered a word, not that there was much chance of being heard by any one on shore. The water bubbled and hissed round us, and the wind threw it in sheets of spray over our heads. At times it came rippling over the sides of the canoe, and there seemed a prospect of its being filled; but the seaman held on his course without hesitation. We had shot quickly by the few lights which here and there twinkled from the houses, and were beginning to breathe more freely, thinking that we had altogether got clear of the town, when I fancied I heard the splash of oars behind us. I could not tell if the sailor had heard the sound, but he seemed to ply his paddle with even greater vigour than before. Once or twice he turned his head for an instant, which confirmed me in the idea that we were followed; but even his practised eye could not pierce the darkness which shrouded us. At last I saw that he had relaxed in his efforts, and that he kept his paddle moving sufficiently only to guide the canoe as it dropped down with the current. We had been a couple of hours in the canoe, or perhaps not quite so long, though the anxiety we felt made the time pass slowly.

“Well, I believe it was only a cayman or an alligator, or one of those sort of brutes, after all,” he exclaimed, drawing a deep breath, like a man relieved from a heavy care.

“I have not been able yet to thank you, friend, for what you have already done for us; but I should like to know what you propose doing next,” said I, as soon as I found we might venture to speak.

“Well, that’s just what I was thinking of, mate, myself,” he answered. “But you needn’t thank me, for to my mind, I haven’t done much for you yet. All I have had time for was to get you out of limbo, and afloat on this here river. We must now hold a council of war, to know what’s to be done.”

As he said this, he made the canoe glide in towards the nearest bank. We quickly found ourselves in a quiet bay, overhung with trees, into which we had by chance entered. The sailor held on by the bough of a tree, which served to keep the canoe from floating out again. The wind had much abated, and the sky had become much clearer, so that there was sufficient light to enable us to steer free of any dangers in the middle of the stream; though where we now were we should have been completely concealed from the sight of persons on board any boat which might have been passing, or even of one sent in search of us.

“Well,” said the sailor, “what do you propose, mate?”

“I must first ask you whereabouts we are,” I answered. “I promised an Indian who preserved my life, to return to him before I left the country, but I cannot tell where he is now to be found. Our wisest plan would be to try and reach the sea, so as to get on board some English ship. I do not think we shall be safe till then.”

“What has your friend, then, to say to the matter?” said the sailor.

“He does not understand English, but I will ask him.”

Pedro replied that he thought we should be guided by the sailor, who had already helped us so much.

The sailor seemed pleased with the answer.

“Why, then, I’ll try and do my best for you, mates,” he said. “You see we are about ten miles away from your prison, and somewhere close upon two hundred miles from the nearest port where we are likely to fall in with any English ship. The Spaniards don’t encourage them to come openly into their ports with the high duties they clap on, though there’s a good deal of smuggling on the coast; and more than half the British manufactures used in the country are landed without paying a farthing of duty. I would rather stick to the river as long as we could; but then, you see, it’s the very place the Spaniards are likely to send to look for us. So I propose that we pull down some five or six miles further, where there are some rapids which we cannot pass, and then we will land on the south bank, and make our way over towards the country they call Chili, though it’s hot enough, to my mind, at times. We might manage, to be sure, to get across the mountains, and launch a canoe upon one of the streams which run into the river of the Amazons. It’s a long way, to be sure, but others have gone down the river; and I don’t see, if we can keep stout hearts in our bodies, why we shouldn’t. When one man has done a thing, I always think another may, if he set the right way about it.”

“A voyage down the river of the Amazons!” I exclaimed. “The very thing I should be delighted to accomplish. I do not care for the dangers or hardships we shall have to encounter. I say, let us try it by all means. I am sure Pedro will agree. We must first try and find my friend Manco, the Indian chief, if he should have escaped from his enemies.”

I then explained to the sailor who Manco was.

“That’s the spirit I like to see,” he answered. “We shall do, depend upon it. I’ve no great fancy for being caught by the Spaniards and clapped into prison; and they are certain to be looking for us all along the western coast. We shall have to go rather a roundabout way, but that can’t be helped. Now, from what I hear, the Indians have pretty well cleared the country of the white men to the south of this, so we shall have little to fear from the Spaniards; and as you say the Indians are your friends, if we fall in with them, it is to be hoped they will treat us well. We can’t expect, you know, to get through the world without running through a little danger now and then.”

I told the sailor I agreed with him.

“And now, my friend,” I said, “I have some more questions to ask you. I do not know your name, and I cannot guess how you came to find us out.”

“What does that matter, mate? I do not know yours; and to say the truth, I never heard of you till a few days ago, when I heard the people talking—for I know something of their lingo—of a young Englishman who was to be shot for siding with the Indians. Now, thinks I to myself, that is a very bad thing for the lad, and if I can lend him a hand, we’ll disappoint the Dons. It’s my belief, a seaman—as far as that matters, anybody—ought always to help a countryman in distress, or he’s not worth his salt.”

“Then I ought first to tell you who I am,” I replied; and I gave him a short account of myself, and my late adventures, and how I came to meet with Pedro.

“That’s very strange,” he muttered; “very strange. I’m more than ever glad to be of use to you. Now for my name. It’s not a long one. I’m called Ned Gale. I was born at sea and bred at sea; and it isn’t often I set foot on shore, so that what good there is in me I picked up afloat.”

“Then how comes it, Ned Gale, that you got so far inland as this?” I asked.

“Why, you see the ship I sailed in was seized by the Spanish authorities, in the port of Callao, where we had been driven by stress of weather. It was alleged that we had been smuggling on the coast, which was neither here nor there, as there was no one to prove it. At last the master was advised to appeal to the viceroy, and so he set off to Lima to see him, taking me in his company. When we got to Lima, we found that the viceroy had gone up the country; so away we went after him. We travelled over mountains, and across sandy plains, and rivers and torrents, day after day, but he always kept ahead of us. You see that he had gone out to fight the Indians; and when at last we came up with him, we found him in a very bad humour, for his troops had been beaten in every direction. So he would not listen to a word my captain had to say. The fact was, the bribe Captain Hindson had been advised to offer him was not large enough. My poor captain had before been very ill, and as the ship was, his own property, and all he possessed in the world, his loss ruined him. From the day he got the viceroy’s answer, he never again lifted up his head; and in a week he died in my arms. It was of a broken heart, I suppose; for there was nothing the matter with him that I could see. Poor fellow, I have seen many a shipmate struck down by the shot of the enemy, or sinking under the foaming waves, when there was no help at hand; but I never mourned for one as I did for him, for he was a right honest and kind man. The Dons did not show much Christian charity towards him after he was dead either, for they said he was a heretic; so they would not bury him in the churchyard, but carried him away to a field, where they dug a hole and covered him up like a dog. I didn’t think that mattered at all, however; so I owed them no grudge for it. I never could see the use of praying for a man after he was dead. He did not mind where he lay, and God will know where to look for him at the last day, when he has to stand his trial like all of us. At first I felt a wish to die too; but I soon got over that, and taking the money and the few things the captain had given me (I’ve got his note about that matter—his will he called it), I started off for the coast to look out for another ship. As I have been often in the country, I have picked up some of their lingo, so got on well enough among the Dons; but I found I couldn’t very well travel alone, and often had to wait till I found some one going my road. It was in this way, while I was looking out for companions, that I happened to fall in with you. And now you know something of my history, are you willing to trust me?”

“Had I known nothing about it, after the essential service you have rendered us, I would confidently have trusted you,” I answered.

“Avast now then, mate,” exclaimed Ned Gale; “don’t give me any soft sawder; I’m not fond of it. I like the cut of your jib, and you like the cut of mine; so we shall sail very well in company. By-and-by we shall know more of each other. And the young Don there, I like his looks too, though I’m not over partial to the natives. Howsomdever, we’ve had talking enough, and as my arms are rested, and there don’t appear to be any enemy abroad looking for us, we may as well get under weigh again.”

I agreed with him; and Pedro and I sinking down into our former position, we again glided out into the stream. The river was in places very shallow, and more than once we touched the bottom, and the water began to foam over the stern; but Gale lifted her clear with his paddle, without our being obliged to jump out, and away we went again as rapidly as before. Pedro was very silent—he felt confused and astonished at all that had occurred; neither did Ned Gale nor I exchange many words, for we could not tell at what moment we might come upon any of the villages which are to be found on the banks of the river. Now and then we heard a dog bark, and the crowing of some cocks in the distance gave signs of the approach of morning; but no habitations were visible, and no human voices gave us cause for alarm.

Several of the villages on the south bank, Ned Gale had learned, had been destroyed by the Indians; but they had not attempted to cross to the north side. After about an hour’s paddling, we reached a spot similar to the one where we had before taken shelter. We paddled along the shore of the little bay for some way, trying to find a place hard enough to bear our feet, for the bank was generally soft and muddy fringed by a broad belt of reeds, which the alligators must have found convenient for tickling their snouts with.

“Step out,” said Gale, “and learn if we are likely to make our way inland from this. I will wait for you and look after the canoe.”

Doing as he desired, Pedro and I felt our way along with cautious steps, for under the trees it was so dark that we could scarcely see our hands held up before us. We found that the ground rose a little way beyond, and appeared quite hard. Satisfied with our discovery, after about a quarter of an hour’s absence, we commenced our return to the boat. We walked on slowly, every instant expecting to fall into some hole; and at last we agreed that we ought to have reached the canoe. We hunted about to the right and to the left, but we could not even see the river. We called out as loud as we dared, but Gale did not answer.

“There is the river; I see it shining through the trees,” said Pedro.

Very soon we got up to it; and Pedro, who was a little in advance, was very nearly falling in. I dragged him back, and we began to hunt for the canoe. It was nowhere to be seen. Again we shouted louder than before, but Ned Gale did not answer. Could he have deserted us? Such a thing seemed impossible, yet we began almost to despair.

“Could an alligator have picked him off?” I asked Pedro, shuddering as I thought of our friend’s probable fate.

We had kept along the bank of the river for some way. Just then Gale’s voice sounded close to us. We were soon up with him, and had told him of the result of our expedition, and of our alarm.

“It was my fault, I suppose,” he answered, laughing. “I found a tree to which I could make the canoe fast, so I thought I might as well take a little sleep while you were away. I heard you call, and dreamed that I answered you. The honest truth is, I spent all last night looking about the prison to find you out, so I haven’t closed my eyes for many an hour. You’ll pardon me, mates, I hope; nature’s nature, and will have its way.”

I assured him, now that we had found him, we did not mind the fright; and asked him what he proposed doing next.

“Why, the first thing, you see, is to send the canoe out into the stream, so that our enemies may not discover where we have landed,” he answered. “It will float away over the falls; so they may be looking for us miles below them perhaps.”

According to Ned Gale’s suggestion, we towed the canoe to the end of the point which formed one side of the bay, and he then throwing the paddle into it, we gave it a shove, which sent it out into the middle of the stream, down which we could distinguish it gliding rapidly away, till it was lost to sight.

“We must lose no more time now, mates,” said Ned Gale, as we climbed up the bank. “We must get some way inland before daylight, and then stow ourselves away in a wood till we have time to look about us. We must keep clear of all cottages, for the white-brown fellows hereabouts would make no bones of selling us to the Dons, if they thought they could get anything for us. You see I’ve brought prog enough to last all hands for three days or more, on somewhat short commons; and mayhap we may snare some game to eke it out much longer.”

This was good news, for, by taking proper precautions, I thought we might at all events avoid falling into the hands of the Spaniards; and of the Indians I had no fear. The ground over which we were passing, was very rough and uncultivated, and we could discover no beaten path. After some time we came to a mud wall; and on the other side we found a field full of maize, just fit for cutting. This gave us a very welcome supply of food, and we filled our pockets and caps, and a bag Ned Gale had brought with him, for that very purpose.

It was necessary, however, to get away from the farm before daylight; so we skirted along the wall, and once more found ourselves on wild ground. The whole eastern sky was covered with a mass of flame, a sign that the sun himself was about to appear, when we caught sight of a forest spreading out before us. We pushed on much faster than we had been able to do during the darkness, and had just concealed ourselves among the trees, as the sun, rushing from among the mountains, cast a bright glow of light over the plains we had just passed. The first thing Ned Gale did, was to climb up one of the tallest trees on the outskirts of the forest, to take a look round and see what was in sight, as, he observed, a good seaman always does the first thing in the morning. When he came down, he reported that he had observed in the far distance some smoke, which he supposed arose from the farmhouse we had passed in the night; but that he had discovered no other human habitation while as far as the eye could discern there appeared to be only an uncultivated plain. Having eaten nothing since our last meal in the prison, Pedro and I were very glad when Ned Gale opened his wallet, and produced some dried meat and bread and cheese, and what was almost of greater value, a good supply of cocoa. He had a flint and steel with him, and a tin cup for boiling water; so we collected some sticks and lighted a small fire, sufficient to cook our cocoa and to parch some peas. On looking over our provisions, we found that we had already ample to last us a week, so that we might venture to push across the mountains towards Cuzco, where, Manco had told me, he expected about this time the Indians would be collected in great force. We had, however, more than a day’s journey before we could reach the foot of the mountains, which were upwards of thirty miles off.

On hunting about, we discovered a spring of bright water bubbling up close to the roots of an enormous tree, which it evidently very much assisted to nourish. We ate a good meal, and then Gale insisted that Pedro and I should lie down and rest, while he watched. As we both of us very much required sleep, we were not sorry to follow his advice; and in about two hours we awoke much refreshed.

I have not yet described Ned Gale. He was about five feet six in height, and very strongly built, with rather a large head, covered with a profusion of light hair. He wore a full bushy beard and large whiskers. His eyes were full and round, and of the brightest blue I have ever seen in those of a man. His month was large, and filled with strong white teeth, and his nose, though rather thick and prominent, was otherwise well cut. Indeed he came up fully to the description of a fine-looking fellow without being handsome. His dress was that of an ordinary seaman of those days. He wore a belt with a brace of pistols stuck in it, which were partly concealed by his loose cloth jacket. His head was covered by a small low-crowned straw hat; and the puzzle seemed to be how he could manage to keep it on. Altogether he presented a figure very seldom seen so far inland as we then were.

“Come, mates,” he exclaimed, “it’s time to be making headway again.”

We jumped up, and having divided our stores into three equal parts, and cut some thick walking-sticks, we shouldered our bundles, and recommenced our journey.

Chapter Fifteen.

Our flight with Ned Gale, and the adventures we met with.

We travelled all day through the forest, the glimpses we every now and then obtained of the mountains serving to guide our steps. On emerging from the forest we arrived at a rapid stream.

“How are we to cross this?” I exclaimed. “We shall spoil all our provisions, and have our clothes wet for the night, if we are obliged to swim across.”

“Oh, I think we may be able to ford it,” said Ned Gale. “Here, mates, let’s catch hold of each other’s hands, that if one falls the rest can pick him up. I’ll lead across, and sound with my stick. To my mind, that’s the way people should help each other through the world.”

After hunting about for some time, we found a broad place, where, from the appearance of the bank on either side, we fancied there might be a ford. So we took off our lower garments, and fastening our loads high up on our shoulders, we commenced the passage. For some way the water was shallow, and rose but little above our knees; but we went on slowly, Ned carefully sounding with his stick in advance. It was fortunate that we did so, for on a sudden Ned sung out that he could find no bottom; and scarcely had he spoken, when he sunk up to his armpits, and had not we not hauled him back with all our might, the current would have carried him down the stream. We tried several other places, but everywhere found the water too deep to ford.

“It won’t do,” observed Ned. “We must stand back to the shore, and try to find another way of crossing. Here, mates, let’s set to work and collect as many dry rushes as we can pull. I’ve seen the Indians cross much broader and more rapid rivers than this on a few bundles of rushes.”

I told him, so had I; and I did not know how it was that I did not think of it before. Ned had a large clasp knife, with which he cut away the rushes at a great rate, while, as Pedro and I had had ours taken from us in the prison, we were obliged to tear them up by the roots, or to break off the dry ones. When we had made a large heap of them, Ned gave me his knife.

“There,” he said, “you go on cutting, while I begin to build our craft.”

There were some young trees growing near, one of which about ten feet long he had cut down. This he said was to serve as a keel, to make the craft somewhat ship-shape. He first fastened the rushes together in small bundles, and these he secured along the pole on either side, one outside the other. He placed smaller bundles at the ends, and fastened them together; thus forming in a few minutes a very respectable-looking canoe, which, though not water-tight, would have enabled us to perform a much longer voyage than we had to undertake. By placing some bundles at intervals across the canoe, we hoped to be able to keep ourselves dry, having our feet only in the water. Our next care was to cut some long poles, by which we proposed to pole ourselves across. Ned Gale said a couple would be sufficient, one for him and another for me. Having cut them, we launched our canoe into shallow water, so that we could step easily into it; and then, seizing our poles, we shoved out into the stream. Our canoe kept us well out of the water, though it had a tendency to turn over, which we were well able to counteract with our poles as long as we could reach the bottom. We had got more than half way across, when the water deepened so much that we were obliged to use them as oars, or rather paddles, to get across; and we had floated some way down the stream before we again could find the bottom. At last we landed, and drew up our canoe. I proposed leaving it, to make the natives wonder at the strange contrivance.

“No, no,” said Gale. “Never mind what the natives may think about it. I say, let us stop and pull it to pieces, or some of the Spaniards may chance to see it, and it will show them which way we are gone. It is a foolish notion people have of caring what those they may never see or hear of again, think of something they have made or done. Nothing good or useful, I mean, but some folly or other. It’s what makes people carve their names on the top of a rock, or some out-of-the-way place, that somebody else, about as wise as themselves, may know that they have been there.”

It was the work of two or three minutes only to pull the raft to pieces, and to send the bundles of reeds which composed it floating down the stream. Before leaving the river, we sat down and took the meal which we called our dinner; and having drunk as much water as we required, we filled up the skin Ned had provided, as we could not tell when we might again meet with water. Very fortunate it was that we did so. Having packed up our traps, we trudged onwards.

We had walked about a couple of miles over a country thinly sprinkled with trees, and naturally fertile, though now without a human habitation, when, on looking ahead, instead of the green colour of the grass, and the varied foliage of the trees, we observed, as far as the eye could reach, one unvaried mass of reddish brown.

“That’s a wild heath ahead of us, which we shall have to pass,” observed Ned. “I never saw the like of it.”

“See, see,” exclaimed Pedro, pointing rather more to the right than we had been looking. “What is that?”

At first we could not guess what was happening. It appeared as if at a little distance off there was a heavy snow-storm falling, the whole air being full of large white flakes, so dense as almost to conceal the fierce rays of the sun.

“No, it can’t be snow—that’s certain,” said Ned. “But what it is, I can’t say.”

The seeming snow-drift swept on as we advanced towards the brown heath. Pedro ran on a little ahead, and stooping down, soon returned with a large insect in his hand, which I recognised as a locust. It was fully three inches in length, of a reddish brown colour, and with very long and powerful hind-legs, with which, when Pedro opened his hand, it sprung off to a great distance. The appearance we had seen was that of a flight of locusts, or rather a small division of their army, which was about to settle directly in our course.

We were soon among their outposts, where they lay pretty thick; but beyond, as far as we could see, the ground was completely covered with them. Pedro, who had often seen them before, declared that, like ants and bees, they have peculiar laws and regulations; and that those we first came upon were, like the sentinels of an army, placed to give warning of coming danger. If such is the case at times, they gave no notice of our approach, but merely skipped and jumped about, and knocked against our legs as we walked by.

“It’s a good job these beasts have no fancy for eating meat as well as vegetables,” observed Ned. “If they once began upon us, there wouldn’t be much of us left in the course of an hour.”

As, however, they neither sting nor bite, they did us no harm, though they skipped about us in millions as we advanced, while numbers were crushed every time we put our feet to the ground. We proceeded for upwards of an hour through this moving mass of life, till we stood literally in the centre of a sea of locusts. It was necessary to push on to get from among them before dark, as we had no fancy to attempt to rest among such unquiet companions. It took us more than another half-hour to get clear of them; and we calculated that they covered a space four to five miles broad at the place we found them. We then came upon the ground which they had occupied, and the most ruthless of invaders could not have destroyed a country more completely than they had done. Not a blade of grass remained; every tree and shrub was leafless, and their branches were stripped of their bark. We could not help looking with painful amazement on the scene of desolation which those small animals had caused. Not only would they, as Ned Gale said, have eaten us up had they been carnivorous, but they might have devoured Pizarro and the army with which he conquered Peru in the course of a night. For miles in advance they had left traces of their visit. We congratulated ourselves on having brought water with us, as we could find none in the neighbourhood. What became of this vast flight of locusts I could not tell. I only hope they flew into the sea, or died from repletion; for had they gone on consuming as much daily as we saw them destroy, they might lay a whole province desolate in the course of a few weeks.

We walked on till it was quite dark before we could find a sheltered spot in which to bivouac. At last we reached a deep hollow, which at one period of the world’s history had been probably part of a watercourse, but owing to some convulsion of nature, it was now perfectly dry. Trees grew on the upper edges, and the sides were covered with brushwood. It appeared, as far as we could judge in the uncertain light of the evening, to be a place well suited for our purpose; and we accordingly hunted about till we found a spot where we could light a fire and lie down to rest. This was not very easy, but at length we discovered a small open space covered with grass. Gale cut away the bushes round it, and piling up some in the centre, we lighted a fire. The flames, as they burned up, showed us the wild character of the place we were in. Dark rocks appeared here and there among the brushwood, and tall trees towered above our heads, effectually screening the light of our fire from any persons who might by chance have been in our neighbourhood.

We boiled our cocoa, and parched our heads of Indian corn, and then prepared to rest.

“We might be worse off; and so, mates, I don’t think we’ve any cause to complain,” observed Ned Gale as he surveyed our abode.

This was a favourite expression of his; and he was always contented, whatever happened. I felt grateful; for though our prospects for the future were uncertain, we were at all events at liberty, with a fair chance of escaping our enemies. Ned Gale had a little black pipe which he prized much, and a small supply of tobacco, which he husbanded with the greatest care. He lighted his pipe, and sat over the fire enjoying his smoke in silence.

As usual, we took it by turns to watch and to keep our fire alight. Pedro and Ned Gale had been sleeping for some time, when, finding that the fire required feeding, I rose to put some more sticks upon it. As the flames burst forth more brightly than before, their light shone on the high branches of the trees, when, happening to look up, I saw just above as a face peering down from among the foliage. It seemed to be watching us very attentively; the owner fancying, probably, from his position, that he was unobserved. As he put his head more forward to get a better sight of us, I saw that he was an old black man with a white head; and immediately it struck me that he was employed as a scout to watch us by the Spaniards. My first impulse was to rouse my companions.

“Ned Gale, Ned Gale,” I sung out, “the Spaniards are after us I am afraid.”

He sprung to his feet, and looking anxiously around, grasped one of his pistols, like a man ever ready to encounter danger.

“Where are they?” he asked. “I don’t see them.”

“There, there,” I answered, pointing at the trees.

He and Pedro turned their eyes in the direction I indicated. There was now not only one negro looking at us, but several black faces, encircled with white hair, appeared among the branches. Instead of flying from our supposed enemies, they both burst into fits of laughter.

“Those Spaniards? Why, they are monkeys,” exclaimed Ned. “Ha, ha, ha! Now, if I could bring one of them down, he might serve us for dinner to-morrow.”

I could not help joining in his laughter, though I had no fancy for eating a monkey. He threw up a piece of stick with all his force. It missed its aim, and served to send the whole troop scampering away, uttering mournful howls, to a distance, where they for some time kept up a concert, which effectually banished sleep.

When the monkeys had ceased howling, Pedro began his watch, and I tried to obtain some rest. Ned Gale, with his sailor habits, very quickly was lost in the land of dreams; but I was not so fortunate. I saw that Pedro was reading, and I did not wish to interrupt him. He every now and then shut his book and looked about him. He appeared to me to be on the watch in expectation of some threatened danger. At last I gave up the attempt to sleep as hopeless. There was something in the air of the place, I believe, which affected me. My young companion had been sitting for some minutes lost in meditation.

“What are you thinking about, Pedro?” I asked.

“Of my father and mother,” he answered, with a sigh.

“Why, I thought you never knew them,” I observed.

“I have often dreamed of them though,” he said. “Do you know, Señor David, that I sometimes fancy I may some day discover them. Had I the means of becoming educated as you are, and of obtaining a fortune, I would employ it in searching for them.”

“If we succeed in getting to England, I am sure my friends, in gratitude to you, will put you in the way of making your fortune,” I replied. “But I own I cannot see how this will enable you to find your parents, without any clue to guide you.”

“God, if He thinks fit, will point out the way,” he answered. “I put my trust in Him.”

I could say no more. This idea had, I found, become the absorbing one of his mind.

“If my parents live, He too will show me the means through which I may discover them,” I thought.

I had never yet been thoroughly convinced of their loss. I was perfectly helpless I knew, and I felt forcibly that on Him alone could I place my trust. The feeling brought comfort and consolation; and lying down again, a soothing sleep soon stole over me.

I was aroused by a shout from Ned Gale, who had taken Pedro’s place. I started up, and found the sailor with his pistol in one hand and his long stick in the other, about to spring into the thicket beyond us. The fire was almost extinguished, and daylight was appearing. I looked round for Pedro. To my horror he was nowhere to be seen.

“Where is the young Spaniard?” I exclaimed.

“Follow me,” answered Ned, rushing forward.

I seized a lighted branch, and with my stick in the other hand, I leaped after him. A shriek of terror and agony, which I could not doubt proceeded from Pedro, served to guide us. It was followed by a savage roar.

“Save me! save me!” he shrieked.

A movement in the bushes showed us more certainly where he was.

“A wild beast has got hold of the poor fellow!” shouted Ned, bending the bushes before him as he hurried on.

The branch I held in my hand was of a resinous nature, and burned brightly. It light showed us in a clear space, under a wide spreading shrub, poor Pedro on the ground, with a large jaguar standing over him. The attention of the savage animal had been attracted by our approach, and he stood glaring fiercely, uncertain whether to carry off his prey or spring at us. Ned was afraid of firing, lest we should miss the jaguar and hit Pedro. My torch was of more service than his pistol. I saw in a moment that the only chance of saving my friend was to frighten the beast, so, thoughtless of the clanger to myself, I sprung towards him, and dashed the burning brand in his face. I believe I almost blinded him. With a roar, denoting pain and terror, he sprang on one side, when Ned rushed in, and dragged Pedro away from him.

“Fire—now fire,” I shouted to Ned, thinking the jaguar was about to close with us.

He lifted his pistol and fired. He was so close that the ball entered the beast’s head, and, giving a bound forward, he fell to the ground struggling in mortal agonies. Once again he rose to his feet and attempted to seize me; but my torch turned him aside, and before he could reach me he rolled over, and in another instant he was dead. I looked anxiously to see if Pedro was much hurt, or rather I scarcely expected to find him alive. At that moment a bright light burst forth, and I saw to my dismay that the bushes round us were in a fierce blaze. Ned was carrying Pedro in his arms, and dashing through the bushes towards the place where we had rested.

“After me, mate, after me,” he cried.

I did require to be told to hurry, for the flames were leaping up from all the surrounding shrubs, and climbing many of the higher trees. I overtook him before we reached our encampment.

“Pick up our traps and come along,” shouted Ned, as he made his way towards the path by which we entered the glen. I stopped at our bivouac and collected our packages of provisions, and our other property. Just as I was coming away, my eye fell on Ned’s knife. I put it in my pocket, and was looking to see if I could find any other article, when the flames caught hold of the surrounding bushes, and warned me to beat a retreat. They crackled and hissed and roared in my rear as I ran on. A light breeze had sprung up, and blew them towards us. Fortunately the bright light they caused enabled us to see our way, or we should have had great difficulty in escaping from the glen.

Heavy as Pedro was, Ned bore him like a child up the rough ascent. The fire flew from shrub to shrub, and extended in every direction; the smoke, too, increased in denseness, and almost stifled us. I could scarcely breathe, and expected every moment to sink from exhaustion; but the brave sailor was not to be daunted. Crying out to me to follow, he pushed on over all impediments. I kept close to him, and in a few minutes, which seemed an age, we reached the more level ground above the dell. Ned stopped for an instant to gather breath, but before I had time to discover more than that Pedro still breathed, we were compelled to continue our flight, not only by the approach of the smoke and flames, but by a new danger. The jaguar we had killed was not the only inhabitant of the glen of his species, and as the path we had taken was the chief outlet in that direction, a number of animals of all descriptions came rushing out close to us. I had turned my head to look at the blazing furnace below us, when, to my dismay, I saw close behind me a huge animal, which I at once guessed was a female jaguar, followed by several cubs. I cried out to Ned to hurry on with his burden, and swinging my stick about me, I dealt her a heavy blow on the head, which appeared somewhat to astonish her. At any other time she would probably quickly have avenged the insult; but, frightened by the flames, she merely uttered a growl of anger and turned on one side, followed by her hopeful progeny. We did not halt again till we reached a rocky mound, free from grass or shrubs, to which we had hopes the fire would not approach.

It was now almost daylight, though the blazing dell afforded us ample light to see our way. Ned laid Pedro down, and we anxiously examined his wounds. His side and one of his arms, by which the jaguar had lifted him, were dreadfully torn, but we could discover no marks of the brute’s teeth. He was senseless, but this we hoped was caused more by terror and pain than from any mortal injury. We neither of us possessed any knowledge of surgery, so we had only our own sense to point out what was best to be done; and in truth we had but little time for consideration, for the flames were already spreading beyond the glen, and might soon approach our retreat.

“We must wash the poor fellow’s hurts, and bind them up to stop the bleeding,” said Ned. “Where’s the water, mate?”

We had a little left in our skin bottle, and pouring out some of it on my handkerchief, I wiped away the blood. My shirt, I remembered, was fortunately of linen.

“Here,” I exclaimed to Gale, “just tear off the sleeves for me; they will serve for bandages.”

With a seaman’s promptness he did as I proposed, and we bound up the places where he was hurt, in a fashion which perhaps might not quite have satisfied a surgeon, though we performed the operation as well as time would allow. Our patient had now began to recover, and after drinking a little water, he sat up and looked around with a gaze of amazement on the strange scene below us. The fire in the glen was raging furiously, and sending up dark columns of smoke to the sky. Animals of all descriptions were rushing forth from the conflagration, too terrified to take any notice of us. Three or four fierce jaguars, with terrible howlings, dashed by, followed by several huge serpents, who crawled, hissing, along over the ground, disturbed from their abodes among the roots of the trees. A troop of monkeys ran chattering away; and parrots and birds innumerable flew over our heads, driven from their long accustomed homes.

“It won’t do for us to remain here much longer,” observed Ned. “Ask the young Spaniard how he feels, and whether he thinks he can get along.”

In reply Pedro answered me that he was able to walk, though it was not without difficulty that he lifted himself from the ground. However, as it was absolutely necessary for us to proceed on our journey, Ned and I, supporting him between us, began to descend the rock. There was, fortunately, a sandy track, free from grass, of considerable extent, on one side, across which we proposed to proceed. Ned had loaded his pistols, and we each of us kept our sticks in our hands, ready to defend ourselves from any of the wild beasts which might venture to attack us. The fire continued raging fiercely on our right as we hurried on, and we watched it with intense anxiety, to see whether it was advancing towards us. Had it taken place on the open prairies, which cover many portions of the continent, our escape would have been impossible. As it was, our chance was at times doubtful. By ourselves we might have run for our lives; but our wounded companion impeded us, and I would have sacrificed myself sooner than have quitted him. The ground which we were then traversing was composed chiefly of rock and sand, but there was enough dry grass growing on it, should it catch fire, to scorch us very much, if not to destroy us; and ahead, for some distance, it grew much thicker; while beyond again there appeared a wide extent of sandy soil, which, if we could once reach, we should probably be in safety. As the sun rose, the wind shifted to a quarter which blew the flames more rapidly than heretofore towards us. Ned and I exerted ourselves to the utmost to drag on poor Pedro, who was not so well aware of our danger. Onward, in the shape of a wedge, advanced the devouring flames with the sharp point first. This gradually thickened, spreading out on either side. Now a rock or a sandy patch intervened, but they leaped over all impediments, the long dry grass catching fire from the sparks which, like a vast courier of destruction, were borne forward by the breeze. I looked at Ned to learn from his looks what chance he thought we had of escaping, but his countenance did not betray the slightest sign of fear or doubt. The fire, it must be understood, had, in consequence of the direction the wind had before blown in our rear, been driven in a straight line on our right a considerable distance in advance of us; and now, from the wind blowing from our right, it was taking a course directly across the path we were anxious to pursue. On our left the ground was covered with dry grass and underwood, so that we dared not to venture across it. The only course left us was, therefore, directly ahead.

“I am sorry we left the rock,” said I, as we hurried on.

“We should have been fried brown by this time, if we had remained on it,” answered Ned, giving a glance over his shoulder. “Why, mate, the flames are dancing round it as merrily as waves in a storm. Cheer up: we shall do well yet.”

Taking courage from him, I pushed on with renewed hope. But this did not last long. Every moment the fire got nearer and nearer; and already it seemed to me that the path before us was cut off. By running very fast we might perhaps get across; but with Pedro to help along, I thought we could not do it. I felt that I could not leave the poor fellow, and resolved to remain by him, and perish with him if so it must be; but I saw no reason why the brave seaman should share our fate, when he might easily save himself.

“Ned,” I cried, when we had reached a spot somewhat more free from grass than the surrounding ground, “run for it, my good fellow, and save yourself. I cannot leave my friend, for I owe him much; but he has no claim whatever upon you. Fly! fly!”

“What, mate? I should be a pretty sort of a seaman if I was to do as you say,” he exclaimed, stopping for a moment to address me. “He’s a fellow-creature in distress, and that’s enough for Ned Gale, I hope. Run—ha! ha! Here, just lift him up on my back, and we’ll see what can be done.”

It was the work of a moment to do as he bid me; and throwing me his knapsack, Ned, with Pedro on his shoulders, set off running, and I after him, as fast as our legs would carry us. I had before remarked the great strength Ned possessed when he chose to exert it. He now bore Pedro along as if he had been a child. Away we dashed right into the belt of tall grass, one end of which, not many hundred yards’ distant, was already burning. The fire came hissing along towards us like a fiery serpent. Ned glanced at it over his shoulder, and increased his exertions. He saw that not a moment could be spared. As I saw it coming on, I almost shrieked with a terror I had never before felt; and had I been alone I think I should have fallen. The fire was close upon us. There was a slight rise in the ground. We rushed up it. I thought that our doom was sealed, when, to my joy, I discovered that I had been deceived by the rise as to the width of the belt of grass. A few yards only of grass had to be passed, when beyond appeared the sandy plain, without a particle of herbage on it. We felt the heat of the fire—the flames were upon us. We dashed through the intervening space of grass, and ran on for a hundred yards before Ned thought of stopping.

“Here, mate!” he said at last. “Help the poor fellow down, and hand me a drop of water. It’s hot work, but we have escaped a frying this time at all events.”

We put Pedro on the ground, and then, as he insisted on walking, we moved on a little further, and sat down by him to watch the progress of the conflagration. It quickly worked its way across the belt we had passed across; and then the scrub beyond towards the mountain caught fire and blazed up furiously, extending far away to the east, till the whole country before us seemed one mass of flame. Had it been night it would have been magnificent, but we were truly glad that it was day, that we might more easily see our road.

“Well, I hope there are no poor people’s farms in that direction, or any Indians hiding away, for the fire doesn’t seem inclined to spare them,” said Ned. “And now, mates, let’s have some prog; we’ve a long day’s journey before us, and have had a sharp morning’s work.”

We took our frugal meal, and then seeing that Pedro required some rest, we made him lie down for half an hour before we recommenced our journey.

“I’m thinking, mate, that this fire will be bringing some Indians down to look at it,” observed Ned, as we walked on. “If they are friends they will be welcome, as they will help to carry our poor friend here. Howsomdever, ‘it’s an ill wind that blows no one good,’ and, to my mind, if any Spaniards are on our track they won’t much like crossing that little bit of blaze astern, till we are pretty well out of their reach.”

I agreed with him that I should much like to meet any friendly Indians. We had another reason for being anxious to do so, as our provisions were running short, and, at the slower rate we were now compelled to travel, would scarcely last us till we could reach that part of the country where I expected to find some of Manco’s followers. With regard to the Spaniards harming us, I did not think they would venture so far; but should they have done so, the fire would afford us a better chance of escape, and prevent their dreadful bloodhounds from scenting out our track. Pedro bore up manfully in spite of the pain he suffered from his hurts. From the very temperate life he had led, his blood was cool and healthy, and no inflammation set in; which I was afraid would have been the case. If people would but remember the great importance of temperance, and would avoid strong drinks, and take only a moderate portion of meat, they would escape much suffering from wounds and injuries to which all are liable, and which in so many cases prove fatal, although no vital part has been touched. I have seen the strongest men die from a slight scratch; and the weakest apparently recover from the most terrible hurts. The strong men have eaten and drunk to gratify their palates; the weak have eaten food to live.

Chapter Sixteen.

Fall in with the army of the Inca—Manco again.

We had for two days been travelling through a wild and mountainous country, skirting the base of the Cordilleras, which served as our guide, and looking out for a pass known to Pedro, by which we might cross them. Our provisions were expended, though we had frequent opportunities of replenishing our water-skins, which enabled us the better to support our fatigue. For some distance we passed over a portion of the great high road of the Incas, which led from Cuzco to Quito; and as it was no longer used by the Spaniards, we had no fear of encountering them. It was far superior to any of the modern roads, and showed the high state of civilisation to which the Peruvians had arrived in those days. It was from about twenty-five to thirty feet broad, and paved with large flat stones. At intervals of about twelve paces I observed rows of smaller stones, laid horizontally and slightly elevated thus making the road ascend gradually by a succession of terraces or steps. On each side of the road there was a low parapet wall of small stones. When I remembered that this gigantic and finished piece of work extended for many hundred miles, from one end of the dominions of the Incas to the other, I felt greater regret than ever that the country had been wrested from them by a people who had so cruelly neglected its many advantages.

By the side of the road, situated on hillocks within sight of each other, were small edifices, where the messengers who promulgated the commands of the Incas throughout the country were stationed. A signal was made whenever a messenger left one of the stations, and one from the next met him half way and received the despatch, which was then forwarded from successive stations till it reached its destination. We arrived towards the evening at one of these station-houses (many of which still remain in tolerable repair); and, as a storm was threatening, we resolved to make it our abode for the night. It was a small, low, round tower, but the roof was wanting, which was our first care to supply. For this purpose Ned and I tore off and cut down a number of branches from the trees which grew near; and finding, in a hollow some way down the hill, a pool with rushes growing round it, we collected a sufficient supply to aid materially in forming a thatch. We left Pedro meantime to clean the floor, and to light a fire, though we only had some cocoa and a little Indian corn to cook by it.

Returning with our materials, we placed the boughs across the top of the walls, with the rushes in the form of a rude cone verging from the centre above them. I then collected a number of stones, with which the road supplied us, and handing them up to Ned, he put them on the thatch to prevent its being blown away. Our work being speedily concluded, for Ned had a very systematic way of doing everything, I bethought me of collecting some more rushes to form a bed for Pedro. I was hurrying down for the purpose, when on my way I observed between the trees the walls of a building, standing on a level plot of ground. I called to Ned, and we set off together to examine it, for it struck me it was a small farm belonging to mestizos or Indians. We soon reached it, and I found I was not mistaken. The inhabitants had lately fled, the roof was off the hut, and the maize crop had been reaped. We were at first without hopes of benefiting by our discovery; but as I was looking about, I observed a fig-tree with some ripe figs on it, which I at once collected; and on further search, Ned espied a herd of guinea-pigs nestling under the walls. To knock some of the little animals on the head, was the work of a minute. We would gladly have exchanged some of them for corn, but just as we were about to return to our tower, I discovered a few ears of maize still standing close to a wall. With much satisfaction I gathered all I could find. We had still more good fortune in store. Close to the front I caught sight of a she-goat with a young kid by her side. She had been a pet of the family, I suppose, for she did not run away from us. Ned at once caught the kid, and carrying it in his arms, the mother came after it to our hut.

“I haven’t the heart to kill the little animal,” he observed; “but I’ll tell you what, mate, the mother shall give the young Don a bowl of milk. It will do him more good than all the doctor’s stuff in the world.”

Pedro could scarcely believe his senses when he saw us returning with our valuable prizes. We had now a supply of food to last us for many days, and we might, if we thought fit, remain and rest till Pedro was better able to proceed. We soon had a guinea-pig skinned and roasting before the fire; and then Ned caught the goat, and, acting the part of a milk-maid, filled a tin jug with milk, which he insisted on Pedro swallowing. The figs were very fine, and after the coarse food on which we had so long lived, we found them most grateful to our palates. As we sat round our fire, in spite of the smoke, we felt ourselves in the enjoyment of abundance of luxury. Our fire-place was composed of a few stones; some others served us for seats. Our meat was somewhat tough, and we were without salt. Parched maize served us for bread, and our beverage was cold water, while our beds were composed of rushes and leaves sprinkled on the bare ground; but this was more than we had enjoyed for some time, and we had walls to protect us from the night breeze, and a roof to keep out the rain. Pedro and I were not merry, for we had too much cause for painful reflection. But we were contented, and Ned Gale declared that he was as happy as a prince—that he had weathered on the Dons, and had the prospect of a long cruise on shore. He fastened the kid up within our tower, but the old she-goat was turned out, as we knew that she would not stray far from her young one. It had not long been dark when the storm we had observed broke over our heads. The thunder rattled, the lightning flashed, and the rain came down in torrents; but though a good deal found its way through the roof, we were able to pick out dry spots for our beds, and we had cause to be thankful that we were under shelter of any sort. As our abode also had stood for so many centuries, we had no fear of being washed away. We had collected a supply of stones to block up the lower part of the entrance; and with some boughs in addition we constructed a door, which was sufficient, we thought, to keep out any wild beasts or other intruders. Before turning in, we cut the flesh off the other guinea-pigs, and smoked it over the fire; and we also parched a supply of maize, in case we should be unable to prepare it on any future occasion. Notwithstanding the tempest which was raging outside, we slept very soundly, Ned and I keeping alternate watches, for we were anxious to give Pedro as much rest as possible. Ned insisted on taking the first watch; and when he awoke me, I found that the greater part of the night had passed away. I expostulated with him on making me take less than my share of watching.

“Never mind, mate,” he replied; “you are young, and want sleep. I’m accustomed to do with very little, do you see. Often’s the time, for a month on a stretch, I’ve not had more than three or four hours out of the four-and-twenty, and have been roused up to shorten sail two or three times between them.”

The storm had passed away, and when I put my head out through the branches which formed the door of our abode, I saw that the stars were shining brightly in the deep blue sky. As I stood there inhaling the fresh breeze, that I might the more easily keep myself awake, I saw a dark object emerge from among the trees, and stop, as if looking cautiously around. It was standing in the shade, and at first I thought it was an Indian, though what his intention could be I could not divine. Presently he came more into the road, and advanced towards the tower, when I saw, to my no little dismay, that he was an enormous black bear. He had probably, I thought, scented us out; and I fully expected a visit from him. I did not like to arouse Ned; but I took up one of his pistols which lay on his knapsack, and held it in my hand ready to give the gentleman a warm reception, should he venture to put his snout into the tower. On he came, waddling at a great rate down the road.

“He is certainly coming,” I thought. “Now, if I miss him, he will give me a hug I shall not like.”

I cocked my pistol, and kept my stick ready to give him a poke in the eye, which would keep him at bay till Ned could jump up to my assistance. He stopped for an instant, and gave a low growl: his instinct probably told him that some enemies were near. I drew back a little, lest he should catch the glimmer of my eye. Then he again advanced quicker than before. He soon came so close to me that I felt almost certain that I could hit him; but still as I thought I might only wound him and make him savage, I did not like to fire. I scarcely dared to breathe or move. He passed on down the hill, and I again breathed freely. Presently I heard him give another growl, and directly afterwards I saw him waddling back again at a leisurely pace with something in his paws. As he went by the tower, I perceived that it was the unfortunate she-goat, whose kid we had fastened within. I was determined, if I could not save the poor goat’s life, at all events to deprive Master Bruin of his supper, and calling out to Ned, I dashed through the boughs in pursuit of him. It was hazardous work I own, but I had not a moment for thought. Had I, probably I should have acted more wisely. Ned was on his feet in a moment, and with his pistol in his hand in pursuit of the bear. Bruin saw us coming, but showed no inclination to relinquish his prey. He ran on at a great rate, and it was some time before we overtook him. Even when we were close to him, he continued his flight, apparently taking no notice of us.

“Whatever you do, don’t fire, mate, before he shows his face!” exclaimed Ned. “Give him a poke in the neck; it will make him turn perhaps.”

I accordingly gave him a plunge with my stick, keeping, however, beyond the reach of his paws should he turn suddenly round. Even this did not make him stop, so I gave him another dig, which at last brought him to bay, though he still kept hold of the goat. Immediately he faced about. Ned fired his pistol, aiming at his eye. The ball took effect, and, with a growl of fury, the beast rushed at us, at the same time dropping the goat. On this we retreated down the road, repenting not a little of our folly in having attacked him. Seeing that the bear had received no mortal injury, Ned snatched the other pistol from my hand, and waited steadily till the bear got within arm’s length of him. I trembled for his safety, but resolved not to let him stand the brunt of the combat alone. I made a desperate charge with my stick. This distracted the attention of Bruin, who seized hold of my stick, and at the same moment Ned fired. The ball hit him, I saw, but was afraid had not mortally wounded him, for, with a loud growl, he sprung upon my companion. Ned, however, was on the alert, and leaped nimbly on one side, as I did on the other, and the brute fell headlong over on his snout. We could not help giving a shout of triumph at our victory, which made Pedro, who had been awakened by the shots, hurry up to us, wondering what was the matter. We were not quite certain that our foe was really dead; but a few pokes with our sticks at length convinced us that he was so, and we therefore ventured to examine him. The ball from the last shot had hit him in the eye, and entered his brain.

“Some bear steaks won’t be bad things,” observed Ned. “Now mates, let’s look after the goat. I had made sure of a cup of milk for Pedro this morning.”

We found the goat a little way off, but Bruin had hugged the breath out of its body, and it was dead. Pedro and I thereon dragged the goat close to the hut, while Ned was employed in cutting the proposed steaks out of the bear.

“You see, mates, it won’t do to leave the work for the morning, for before that time the condors, the jaguars, and the pumas will be down upon him, and tear every scrap of meat from his bones,” he remarked. “I wish he had been rather farther off, for the beasts will keep up such a concert that we shan’t be able to sleep much more to-night.”

When he had finished operating on the bear, he began on his victim, observing that though goats’ flesh was somewhat strong, it would serve to make a variety in our provisions. We had now more meat than we could well carry, in addition to which, as the kid could not live without its mother, we were obliged to sacrifice that also. On re-entering our abode, Pedro and I employed ourselves in cutting the meat into slips and drying it before the fire, while Ned again laid down to obtain his share of rest. Pedro told me that the species of hear we had killed lived chiefly on fruits and vegetables, and that he often commits great ravages in the maize-fields of the Indians, by breaking off the green tops and carrying them away to his hole in the mountains; but when he cannot obtain that sort of food, he will catch deer and wild boars, and will even attack the oxen employed in the sugar-mills on the plantations. He has also been known, when pressed by hunger, to assail solitary travellers in the mountains.

In the morning, when we went out of our tower, we saw that several condors had been attracted by the carcase of the bear, and were tearing it to pieces. They flapped their huge wings, and glared fiercely at us with their red eyes as we watched them; but did not quit their banquet, from which we had no wish to disturb them. After a hearty breakfast, with renewed spirits and confidence we proceeded on our way. I have not space to recount all our adventures, and must for the future describe only those which were the most interesting.

We climbed mountains, and traversed glens, and crossed torrents by the bridges I have often mentioned; and yet, day after day, not a human being did we meet. Of course we kept as much as possible at a distance from their habitations; but the few farms we passed were deserted, and we had no doubt that the women and children had been removed to more secluded spots, while the men had gone to join the army of Tupac Amaru.

A week had passed, and we were resting to take our midday meal, in a sheltered glen, under the shade of some lofty trees. Pedro, notwithstanding the exertions he had undergone, had almost recovered from his hurts; and I never felt myself in better health and strength, while Ned scarcely knew what fatigue or illness meant. Our provisions had again run short, though we had collected a little Indian corn at some of the deserted farms we had passed.

“Well,” said Ned, who had lighted his pipe and stretched himself out on his back, “I shan’t be sorry when we get to the big river you speak of. Walking is very pleasant exercise, especially when one hasn’t half a hundredweight of traps and provisions to carry; but it’s very slow work you’ll allow. I like to spank along with a ten-knot breeze across the open ocean, with studden-sails alow and aloft; or to glide down a river with a strong current and fair breeze. Ah, mate, if you ever come to sea with me in a smart craft, you’ll know what moving fast means.”

I told him that I should like nothing better, and that I longed to begin our voyage down the Amazon; but that I must first communicate with my Indian friends, to learn if they had gained any tidings of my parents; for still I clung to the hope that they might have escaped destruction. Pedro also was unwilling to leave the country without again seeing his friends. We were all talking very eagerly about our proposed plans, when a loud yell made us start to our feet, and, looking up, we saw a number of Indians posted on the heights above us. Some had bows, with their arrows ready drawn to shoot us; and others had slings in their hands, which they were whirling round with heavy stones, prepared to hurl at our heads. In another moment we should have had a shower of deadly missiles rattling about us, when Pedro, rushing towards them, shouted out, in the Quichua language, that we were friends of the Inca. In an instant the arrows were withdrawn and the slings ceased to whirl, and the Indians came hurrying down the sides of the mountain. In another minute we found ourselves surrounded by a large band of warriors. They examined us attentively, not being able to make out who we could be, though the words spoken by Pedro proved that we were not enemies. Ned Gale, especially, caused them much surprise, for they certainly had never seen a human being like him before. When their chief arrived, he listened to the account Pedro gave him, and replied that though he had no doubt it was correct, we must accompany him to the presence of the Inca and his chiefs, who were encamped at the distance of some days’ journey.

“I suppose it’s all right, mates,” observed Ned, when I told him what had been said. “For my part, I’m ready to go and see this new king of the Injuns, as they call him; and if he’s an honest chap, and wants a helping hand, why I’m ready to give it him. Just you tell them that.”

I did not exactly translate Ned’s message; but I told the Indians that we were anxious to see the Inca, and would be happy to be of any service to him in our power.

The Indians were, I found, on their way to join the army; and as they wished to continue their march, they desired us to pack up our traps and accompany them. They looked upon us, I found, somewhat in the light of prisoners; though of this we had no reason to complain, as they were naturally suspicious of strangers, who might act as spies on their movements. We were treated kindly, but were narrowly watched whenever the party halted to rest. Though not better equipped, they were far more civilised than most of the tribes who composed the army of Tupac Catari; and they marched with some regularity, and took all necessary precautions to guard against surprise. We learned from them that the Spaniards, having recovered from the alarm into which they had been thrown at the commencement of the outbreak, were collecting in considerable force in the neighbourhood of Cuzco, to defend that city from an attack which Tupac Amaru was threatening to make on it.

“It matters not,” observed the cacique, who was my informant. “The more who collect, the greater number of our foes shall we overwhelm with one blow.”

I ventured to doubt this; but he replied—

“Stay till you see the army of the Inca, and try to number our standards; then tell me if you think the white faces can withstand them.”

I thought it better not to dwell on the subject, for fear of irritating the chief; but I recalled to my memory the handful of Spaniards who conquered the well-trained armies of the Inca Atahualpa, and had little hope for the success of his descendant, Tupac Amaru, with his host of undisciplined levies; though doubtlessly their opponents had greatly degenerated from the hardy warriors who fought under Pizarro.

As it was necessary to supply food for the army, and we were passing through a part of the country where the vicuñas abounded, the party halted to engage in a grand hunt, which is termed a chacu. About two hundred men were told off for this purpose; some remaining encamped, and others being sent as scouts, to the rear, to ascertain that no Spaniards were following us. Pedro, Ned, and I were invited by the cacique to accompany him. Half the party were supplied with weapons called bolas. These bolas were composed of three balls of lead or stone, at one end of as many long lines, formed of the twisted sinews of the vicuña, the opposite ends being fastened together. One ball is rather lighter than the others, and when used, this is held in the hand, while the heavier ones are swung in a circle round the head. When the Indian is about twenty paces from the object he wishes to strike, he lets go the lighter ball, and the weapon flies off, and the strings encircle in many folds the neck or legs of the animal.

Besides the bolas, the party had procured from the neighbouring villages a quantity of rope and a number of stakes, and with them we repaired to an extensive, elevated plain, where many herds of vicuñas were observed feeding. Having selected a spacious level spot, the stakes were planted in the ground, at a distance of fifteen feet apart, and were connected together by the ropes about two feet and a half from the ground. A circular space was thus formed, of perhaps a mile and a half in circumference, an opening of about two hundred paces being left to serve as an entrance. Along the rope were fastened bits of coloured rags, which blew about in the breeze, and were intended to frighten the animals, and prevent them from leaping over the barrier. This enclosure is properly called a chacu. It being arranged, we withdrew, and breaking into a number of small parties, we formed a circle at a little distance apart from each other, and several miles across. We then began to close, driving before us, with loud shouts, all the herds of vicuñas we met with. The men opposite the entrance advanced more slowly than the rest; and the timid animals, seeing the fluttering bits of cloth, ran before us with affright, till they reached the open space, when they darted into the chacu. Some fifty vicuñas were thus in a very short time collected, when the Indians, running among them, began throwing their bolas with the greatest dexterity, never failing to entangle the legs of the game, which they speedily killed with their clubs or knives. Sometimes the Indians use the bola on horseback; and I must remark that it requires great dexterity to do so with effect, as a clumsy person is very likely to twist the cords round his own neck or that of his steed, instead of the animal he is hunting. As soon as the vicuñas were killed, they were carried off to the camp to be skinned and cut up; and we then moved to a distance, to form a new chacu. During three days, which we passed in the neighbourhood, we killed two hundred vicuñas; and then, laden with their flesh, we continued our journey.

The vicuña is a more beautiful animal than either the llama or the alpaca. It is between them in size, measuring four feet from the ground to the top of the head, and two and a half feet from the ground to the shoulders. The neck is longer and more slender; and the wool is finer, short, and curly. The top of the head, neck, and back, and the thighs, are of a peculiar reddish hue; and the inner part of the limbs and the lower part of the neck are of a bright ochre colour; and the breast and lower part of the body is white. Each herd consists of from six to fifteen females and one male, who, standing at a distance, acts the part of guardian, while the rest are grazing, and when danger approaches, gives a peculiar whistle and stamp of the foot. The herd look, with outstretched necks, in the direction of the danger, and then take to flight, the male stopping every now and then to cover their retreat, and watch the movements of the enemy. Should he be killed or wounded, the Indians declare that the females will gather round him in a circle, and uttering shrill cries of lamentation, will suffer themselves to be destroyed rather than desert him.

As we proceeded on our march, we fell in with many other parties of Indians, advancing in the same direction; some of whom were of the savage tribes from the far interior, summoned to swell the host of the Inca. Many of them were accompanied by troops of llamas, carrying provisions. Some of these had bells hung round their necks, and were adorned with bows of ribbons at their ears. They proceeded at a slow pace, carrying their long, graceful necks something like the camel, and gazing anxiously around on either side with their wild prominent eyes, to watch the movements of their guides, or to observe the appearance of the country. They were of a variety of colours; brown, black, white, and pie-bald. I may here remark that the extreme height of the animal, from the sole of the foot to the top of the head, is not more than four feet and from six to eight inches; and from the sole of the foot to the shoulder, rather under three feet. Their frames are so slight that they will not carry a load of more than about seventy pounds weight; but they have the valuable qualification of being able to live many days, find even months, without drinking, owing to their power of generating saliva in their mouths.

Other parties had mules for the same purpose. Some were on horseback, and formed an irregular and very Scythian-like looking cavalry. Several bands of those on foot were followed by their wives and children; showing that they felt confident of victory, and came prepared to take possession of the territories they hoped to conquer. At length, after passing through a dark gorge, and climbing a steep acclivity, we once more began to descend; when, from the height on which we stood, we looked down upon the vast army of the Inca, collected on a plain, or rather wide valley, between ranges of lofty mountains.

“What say you now?” exclaimed the cacique, with a look of triumph. “Do the white faces dream of the mighty host collected to liberate for ever the kingdom of the Incas from their cruel hands?”

“I have heard that it was prophesied that the kingdom of the Incas should be restored by the people of my country. There are none of them there,” I replied.

“It is true,” said the cacique. “But if you and your bold friend were to fight by the side of the Inca, might not the prophecy be thus fulfilled?”

I at once saw the mistake I had made in thus speaking; for I felt that I might be compelled, contrary to the advice my father had given me, to engage actively in a contest in which I had no personal interest.

Before I had time to reply, the signal of advance was given, and the party hurried down the steep to join their comrades in the valley. Far as the eye could reach in either direction, and even up the mountains sides, were extended the vast host of the Inca, drawn up in battle array. From among their dusky lines arose a forest of waving banners, long lances, and battle-axes, tossing to and fro, and glittering in the rays of the noonday sun which shone down upon their heads. At intervals might be seen rich panoplies of feather work and lofty plumes, marking the post of some leading cacique, or Inca noble. Some way to the right, on a rising ground, rose the magnificent canopy under which the Inca Tupac Amaru was to be found, surrounded by his generals and nobles.

As the march was about to commence, our conductors hurried us down the hill past the crowded ranks of the army, towards the spot where the Inca was stationed. When a little distance off, he went forward alone, and prostrating himself before the monarch, announced the arrival of some captives. The Inca immediately ordered us to be brought before him. He was seated under the canopy on a cushioned throne, richly ornamented with gold; and on either side of him were ranged a dense mass of his chiefs and councillors, all dressed in garments similar to those worn by their ancestors. Tupac Amaru himself was habited as tradition has described Atahualpa; and he wore as a crown the crimson borla, or fringe, which hung down as low as the eye-brow, and gave a very peculiar expression to his grave and handsome countenance. I have before mentioned that he was a tall and dignified person; and he looked well worthy in every respect to be the sovereign of the assembled multitude. When he saw us he beckoned us to approach, and made inquiries of our conductor respecting us, not knowing that Pedro and I understood the Quichua language. The cacique simply stated where he had found us, and replied that we could answer for ourselves.

I begged Pedro to act as spokesman, and he gave a short account of our adventures, as well as of my history. The Inca seemed much interested, and assured us of his protection; at the same time inviting us to accompany him in his march to lay siege to Cuzco. Pedro in reply, having expressed our gratitude to the Inca, entreated to be allowed to remain behind, assuring the Inca that he was ready to lay down his life for the benefit of the Indians, but that the Spaniards were his countrymen and he could not fight against them. The nobles who stood round seemed very much offended at this; but the Inca observing that he should consider the subject, turned to Ned and asked him what he would do. I put the question to him in English.

“Tell His Majesty, if it’s to fight the Dons, I’ll help him with all my heart,” he at once replied. “It comes natural like, and it won’t be the first time I’ve been at blows with them. I owe them a grudge, too, for killing as honest a fellow as ever stepped, and that was my late skipper. Tell him all that, mate, and say I’m his man whenever he wants me.”

The Inca appeared much pleased at Ned’s reply, which I interpreted; but he seemed less inclined to treat Pedro and me with favour. My turn came next. I own that I felt great reluctance to refuse fighting, and having no sufficient excuse to offer, was about to answer that I was ready to serve in any capacity the Inca might desire, when a loud shout was raised, and a fresh body of Indians was seen hurrying down the mountain’s side. A chief came at their head, and I looked towards him as the loud shouts of those around me gave him welcome. I could scarcely believe my eyes. It was my friend Manco! I was certain of it; and forgetting the presence of the Inca and his nobles, I rushed forward to meet him.

It was Manco in reality. We clasped each other’s hands, and for a time could scarcely speak. He had thought me dead, or lingering in a Spanish prison, while I till now had been uncertain of his fate. He told me that when he was led out to be shot, it had occurred to him that by keeping his eye on the soldiers he might drop as they fired, and allow the balls to fly over him; and that as he knew a number of Indians were collected on the other side of the river, by swimming across, they might assist him to escape. He never lost his presence of mind, and watching for the moment the soldiers drew their triggers, he fell to the ground, instantly again springing up and flying to the river. Before the smoke from the muskets had cleared away, he had plunged in and was swimming across. Several bullets struck the water close to him, but landing uninjured, he and his friends set off towards the mountains as rapidly as they could proceed. They were pursued by a strong body of Spanish soldiers, who followed them to their retreat. It was several days before they could elude their enemies, and they had then marched through a number of Indian villages to collect recruits, before joining the army.

After he had paid his respects to the Inca, he introduced Pedro and me as his friends, and we at once perceived that we were regarded in a more favourable light than before. We accordingly obtained permission to remain with him; but as the Inca was desirous of having Ned to assist in working his artillery, several pieces of which were with their army, we very unwillingly were compelled to part from him.

Manco having performed his public duties, now set out in search of his wife and child, whom he heard were with the women in the camp. Notice had been given to Nita of his escape from death and safe return, and she with her infant was ready to receive him. This meeting was very affecting; and as the brave warrior once more took his child in his arms, he wept over it for joy. He could not, however, remain with her long, for his duties called him back to the army.

“Pedro, my friend,” he said, “I know you would not fight against your countrymen; to your charge, therefore, I commit my wife; watch over her, and guard her from danger. If I fall, carry her and my child to a place of safety, and restore her, when times of peace again return, to her father and her people.”

Pedro with tears promised to obey his wishes.

“And you, David, what will you do?” he asked.

“I will accompany you,” I replied, forgetting my former resolutions, and inspired with admiration for the gallant chieftain. “I will fight by your side, and help to restore peace and prosperity to Peru.”

Chapter Seventeen.

Siege of Sarata—Capture of Tupac Amaru.

We found the head quarters of the Inca established in an ancient castle, built of large hewn stones on the side of a mountain, and which, from its size and mode of construction, is still one of the wonders of Peru. Here he held his court, and was treated with all the honours due to a sovereign prince. I was particularly struck with the amount of etiquette which was maintained, when I recollected that the Inca himself had, but a few months before, been living the life of a simple farmer, as had his chiefs and councillors, and that many of them had indeed been little better than slaves to the Spaniards. Manco informed me that it had been resolved to despatch him with a force of ten thousand men to join a body of the same number under the command of Andres Tupac Amaru, the young son of the Inca, who was laying siege to Sarata, a large town not far from the lake of Titicaca; and he begged me to accompany him. I was sorry to be separated from Ned Gale, but he said that the Inca had put the guns under his charge, and as they were not to go, he would stick by them.

I was furnished with a very good horse, and took my place by the side of Manco. The men being amply supplied with cacao every day, without apparent fatigue performed forced marches which would have completely knocked up any European troops. As we advanced, we found that all the white inhabitants had fled and taken refuge in the town, where it was said twenty thousand people were collected. My readers may be assured that my great object was, if possible, to mitigate the horrors which I dreaded would take place should my Indian friends prove successful. On our arrival we found the young Andres closely investing the town, the inhabitants of which were already suffering from famine, though they had sternly refused to listen to a summons which had been sent in to them to surrender. They had just before made a sortie, when the Indians had lost a number of men; but they were, after much desperate fighting, again compelled to retire within their trenches. The Indians had taken several prisoners, among whom was a priest; and as soon as we arrived he was sent in with a second summons, containing offers of peace on such conditions as might be agreed on between commissioners to be appointed on both sides. The young general, with Manco and other chiefs, were standing on a hill overlooking the town when the priest proceeded on his mission.

“What is proposed to be done if the inhabitants refuse your terms?” I asked.

“Look there,” he replied. “You see that from the river which passes at a short distance from us, there is a deep ravine leading to the town, and somewhat lower than its banks. By blocking up the course of the river, we propose to turn its waters into the ravine, when they will rush down and speedily flood the ramparts, and wash them away.”

I doubted the power of the Indians to perform this.

“Think you not the descendants of those men who formed these great roads, and built the castles and palaces which still endure, can perform so small a task as that?” he replied. “Wait, my friend, till you see.”

After a considerable delay the priest returned, and acknowledging that the inhabitants were reduced to feed upon mules, dogs, cats, and rats, said that they agreed to the proposed terms, with a truce of two days. During this time numbers of half-famished wretches were allowed freely to wander out and collect all the food they could from the Indians. At the end of the time two officers of the garrison came out, and sent a message by the priest, stating that they were deputed to act as commissioners, and proposed that the enemy should retire to a distance, while the chiefs should meet them midway between the troops and the town. No objection was made, and young Andres, Manco, and other chiefs, with about twenty followers, repaired to the proposed spot. Scarcely had they arrived there than some of their sentinels, posted on a neighbouring hill overlooking the town, gave notice that the Spaniards were collecting in great force at the gates, and were evidently meditating a sortie to capture the chiefs. On this the two Spaniards who were approaching the place of meeting, attempted to escape into the town; but the Indians intercepting them, cut them down as a strong party of the garrison rushed from the gates. The chiefs, vowing vengeance for the meditated treachery, had barely time to retreat; their forces came hurrying up for their protection; and the siege once more commenced with greater activity than before.

The Indians mustered nearly a thousand muskets, with which they kept up a hot fire on the trenches: besides which, they assailed the town with flights of arrows, showers of stones and burning darts, which set fire to many of the houses where they fell. Still the town held out, and the leaders, anxious to proceed to other conquests, sent in a third summons to the garrison to surrender. Another priest was the bearer. I waited with much anxiety for his return, as the Indians had vowed to destroy all the inhabitants, should the town be taken after their offer had a third time been refused. I was not, indeed, quite certain that, in case of a surrender, some of the chiefs and their followers did not meditate treachery. They were, it must be remembered, ignorant savages, and on too many occasions the Spaniards had set them an example they were likely to imitate.

I took my food each day with Manco on a hill overlooking the town, from whence a perfect view could be obtained of the whole scene of operations. During the absence of the envoy hostilities had ceased, and the Indians had withdrawn to a distance from the trenches. They now formed a circle round the town, their cavalry occupying every level space, and the infantry covering the surrounding hills with dense masses. The river flowed calmly by; the valleys looked bright and smiling; and the town itself seemed wrapped in perfect repose. Alas! it was the repose which precedes dissolution. At length the priest was seen issuing from the gates, and taking his way with a sorrowful countenance towards the quarters of the young Indian general. We immediately repaired there. The inhabitants, mistrusting the Indians, as I concluded, refused to surrender.

“Then their doom is sealed,” said Andres; and forthwith gave orders to block up the course of the river, so as to direct it into the ravine communicating with the town.

Several thousand men were employed day and night at this work, while the rest kept the besieged in play. After two weeks’ incessant labour, the works were declared complete, and the whole army prepared for a general assault. I took up my usual post to watch the result, hoping for the sake of humanity that it might fail, but induce the inhabitants to submit. At a given signal the embankments were knocked down, and the water in a vast torrent rushed towards the town, flooding the entrenchments and shaking the walls. They, however, withstood the shock, and the brave defenders again returned to the shattered works from which they had been driven. Once more the sluices were shut, and the inhabitants were left to fancy that the threatened danger had passed by. The next morning, however, the Indians again surrounded the devoted town; in an increased volume the water was made to pass through the ravine, and sweeping onward in a terrific torrent, it rushed down upon the trenches and ramparts, carrying all before it. The defenders fled in dismay from their posts; the signal for advance was given, and the Indians, led on by their fiercest chiefs, dashed through the newly-formed breach and entered the town.

I would willingly draw a veil over the scene of horror which ensued. Little or no opposition was offered; but the spirit of vengeance was aroused, and not a man they encountered escaped. Prayers and entreaties were disregarded—death was dealt on every side. Those who attempted to fly were driven back; and of the twenty thousand persons who in the morning walked alive through the streets, women only and a few priests, and one or two laymen, who had taken refuge within the church, were spared. I had earnestly entreated Manco to do his utmost to save the lives of those who offered no resistance, pointing out to him the policy of so doing; and through his means chiefly those few persons were preserved from destruction. He had claimed some of them as his own property; and for their better protection they were brought to the hut he and I inhabited, on a hill a short distance from the town.

Among them was a man whose deep dejection, and countenance and manners, deeply interested me. Though his dress was soiled and bloody, I at once perceived that he was a gentleman.

“Alas!” he said, “I have been the child of misfortune from my earliest clays. Whenever any bright prospect has appeared before me, it has vanished ere I could enjoy it. I married a wife; she was young and beautiful; but poverty oppressed us, and she had been accustomed to wealth and luxury. A child was born to us, and I trusted it would reconcile her to our lot; but as we were travelling through the country, we were attacked by the Montoneros, and the infant, and the nurse who had charge of him, were carried away to the mountains and slain, for we could never again hear tidings of either of them. For years I toiled on till I amassed a handsome fortune; but scarcely was it obtained, when death deprived me of my wife. I had laid out my money in the purchase of an estate, in the cultivation of which I had resolved to employ myself till heaven should allow me to join my wife and child in another world, when this dreadful outbreak commenced, and reduced me to beggary. By a strange fate, though all my companions have been destroyed, I still am bound to life, which I would gladly have quitted.”

Don Gomez de Castro, I learned, was the prisoner’s name. Our conversation, which had been prolonged till a late hour, for it was now night, was interrupted by a blaze of light, which illuminated the whole sky. Hurrying to the door of the hut, the cause became apparent. The unfortunate town of Sarata was on fire. In every direction the flames were bursting furiously forth, till the entire place became one burning mass. Don Gomez, as he looked at the scene, wrung his hands, and wept bitterly. The fire raged all night; and next morning nothing remained of Sarata but a heap of smouldering ashes. The Indians triumphed, as savages alone may be excused in triumphing, over their fallen enemies. The priests who had been rescued, were, however, treated with respect; which showed the extraordinary influence they had obtained over the minds of the people. Had it been more beneficially exerted, by teaching them the simple truths of pure Christianity, it would assuredly have prevented the horrors of the outbreak; but I fear their aim had rather been to establish their power, for their own selfish advantage, than for the sake of religion. “By their fruits ye shall know them.”

A council of war was now held; when the young General Andres resolved to advance upon the town of La Paz; while Manco, with five thousand men, was to keep the communication open with the north, where he was to rejoin Tupac Amaru.

I rejoiced at this, for I was anxious to see Pedro and Ned Gale again; and I own, from the scenes I had witnessed, I longed to quit the Indian army, and to commence our proposed journey towards Europe. We marched as rapidly as before; the cavalry scouring the country in every direction, and now and then reporting that they had met and destroyed a few of the enemy; but no prisoners were brought in.

I had often expostulated with Manco in vain, on the wanton destruction of human life. His answer was, “We treat the Spaniards as they treated us. I cannot prevent my people from taking vengeance.”

Yet, strange to say, every chief made a point of attaching to himself, as a Christian chaplain, one of the priests who had been saved from the captured towns and villages.

As we approached the neighbourhood of Cuzco, intelligence was brought us that the Spaniards had collected in great force in that city; and that having been joined by a number of Indian tribes from Chili, and further to the south, they were well prepared to give battle to Tupac Amaru. On hearing this, we redoubled our efforts to join the main army. We found them drawn up in the neighbourhood of Tungasuca, in an extensive flat, with a hill on one side, and a river in their rear, prepared to receive the enemy, who were advancing along a valley in their front. A strong body was posted on the hill, where the artillery was likewise stationed. I at once repaired there, in the hopes of finding Ned; but the cacique who had command of it received me very coldly, and informed me that the services of my countryman were no longer required, and that he could not tell where he was. This chief went by the name of Quizquiz, after a famous general of the Inca Atahualpa. I had met him before. I did not like either his countenance or his manners; but the Inca had confidence in him, and listened to his advice. He had become, I suspected, jealous of Ned, and did not like his interference.

After wandering about for some time among the motley assemblage of dusky warriors, I found my old friend in the rear, sitting on the ground, and quietly smoking his pipe. As soon as he saw me, he jumped up and wrung my hand heartily.

“I’m glad to see you, mate, that I am,” he exclaimed. “I’ve been waiting for you, to be off; for the sooner we are out of this, the better, I’m thinking. A set of lubbers there have got hold of the guns, which they don’t know how to work; and they’ll do themselves no good, and the enemy no harm, when they begin to fight, I warrant. The Inca is as fine a fellow as ever stepped; but for that Señor Quizquiz, or whatever they call him, he’ll play him some trick, or my name’s not Ned Gale; mark that, mate.”

Ned having thus vented his spleen, as many another man would have done at having been deprived of his command, told me that Pedro was at a village among the hills in the neighbourhood, anxiously waiting my return. He informed me also that the wife of the Inca, Nita, and a large number of other women were collected there. Accompanied by Ned, I returned to where Manco with his men was encamped; and obtaining permission from him to carry off Don Gomez, we set out to look for Pedro. I was mounted, and I had likewise obtained horses for my companions. Beyond the river I have spoken of there was a succession of lofty hills, among which was situated the village now inhabited by the wives of the chiefs and other women. We were obliged to ride along the banks of the river some way, till we found a ford, which we crossed. As we ascended the first eminence, and looked back upon the scene we had left, it presented a very beautiful appearance. The long lines of warriors, their shining arms, the innumerable banners, and the variety of costumes, from the half-naked savages of the interior, with their skin mantles and feather crowns, to the well-clothed inhabitants of the mountains and western plains, and the rich dresses of the chiefs embroidered with gold and ornamented with precious stones. Then the extraordinary mixture of weapons—the artillery and muskets of modern warfare, with the bows, the slings, the clubs, and darts of ancient times. Each man had come provided with such arms as he could procure; and for years before every Indian who could obtain a musket had carefully concealed it for the moment when he hoped to use it for the liberation of his country.

Tupac Amaru had acted the part of a good general, by providing an ample commissariat, and several mills for the manufacture of gunpowder. Had he at once followed up the successes with which the outbreak commenced, instead of wasting his time in preparing the pageants of mock royalty, I see no reason to doubt that he might really have re-established the dynasty of the Incas in Peru. If we look at the way in which the Circassians, a mere handful of men, have for so many years defended against the arms of the Russians, a country more difficult to protect, we cannot but believe that the Peruvians might have successfully held the passes of the Andes against any force Spain could have sent against them. In the case of the Circassians, however, it is the superior race, few in number, and unaccustomed to what is called civilisation, but defending their mountains against the inferior, though armed and disciplined by service; whereas the Peruvians were decidedly far lower in the scale of human beings than the Spaniards, and for long ages had been unacquainted with war, and had yielded submission to those against whom they had now risen. There were many noble spirits among them; but others had the faults which years of slavery will ever leave behind, and treachery and deceit were among them. Such reflections as these passed through my mind as I watched the embattled host.

Just as we gained the brow of the hill, the loud roar of cannon sounded in our ears, and turning our horses’ heads, we saw a large body of Spanish cavalry galloping towards the Peruvian army. The artillery of the latter had opened on them at too great a distance to harm them. They halted for a time to allow the infantry to advance with several light field pieces, which at once commenced a very effectual fire on the crowded ranks of the Indians. Several large bodies of the Peruvians rushed gallantly on to meet them; when the Spanish cavalry charged in among their somewhat disordered ranks, and drove them back with great loss. Quizquiz finding, it appeared, that his guns did little execution from whence he was posted, dragged them on more in advance. Ned watched him anxiously.

“There,” he exclaimed, “I thought it would be so. Does the lubber think the Dons will let him stay there quietly to fire at them?”

Quizquiz, however, seemed to think differently, and began firing away with great animation, his shot telling with some effect on the Spanish ranks. No sooner was this perceived, than a strong body was despatched to attack him. Some Peruvian troops were also marching to his support; but his danger had not been seen in time, and the Spaniards charging them with great spirit, the general took to flight, and left his guns in the possession of the enemy. I had before suspected him of intending treachery, and I was now certain of it. He, with a number of his men on horseback, rode off, and did not stop till he had crossed the river below us.

The action now became general. The whole Indian line advanced, led on by Tupac Amaru and his bravest chiefs. Both sides fought with the greatest bravery; but the Spanish infantry, trusting in the superiority of their firearms, kept at a distance from the Indians, the cavalry only charging every now and then as the broken ranks of their opponents offered them an opportunity of success. So vastly superior, however, were the Indians in numbers, that the wings being moved forward were on the point of completely encircling the Spaniards, when the whole force of the latter, advancing at a quick march, made a desperate attack on the Peruvian centre, the cavalry meantime charging the wings. The Indians, already shaken, could not withstand the shock. The chiefs urged them on. Many fought with the most desperate bravery. It had now become a hand-to-hand combat, the Spaniards like a wedge forcing their way onward. The great aim seemed to be to seize the Inca. Several of his chiefs perceiving this, seized his horse’s bridle, and endeavoured to drag him out of the fight. His followers, believing that it was the signal of defeat, gave way, and fled in all directions. The chiefs in vain attempted to stop them. Some fled across the plain, others climbed up the neighbouring heights, and many attempted to cross the river.

Among the latter was the Inca, with the chiefs who had surrounded him for his protection. The Spanish cavalry followed close upon their heels. The Inca plunged in with his horse, which boldly stemmed the torrent; while his gallant followers turned and bravely attempted to oppose the passage of the Spaniards, till he had crossed safely over. The latter, flushed with victory, charged them fiercely, and cutting at them with their swords, scarcely a man remained alive. The Inca, with his son and brother, and other relatives, had reached the opposite bank, and was galloping towards the mountains, where he might have found a safe retreat; when the traitor Quizquiz, who, with his followers, had been lying in ambush, rushed out and surrounded him. So completely taken by surprise was he, that neither he nor any of his companions attempted to defend themselves. Of those who did, one man only escaped from among them, and we saw them galloping with desperate speed towards us. Meantime the Spanish cavalry had crossed the stream, and the traitor advancing to meet them, in a few minutes the unfortunate Inca was in their power.

We had been so intently watching these events, that we had not observed what was taking place in another direction. When the chief who had made his escape was perceived by the Spaniards, several horsemen were sent in pursuit of him. He urged on his horse with desperate speed over the rocky and broken ground, at the foot of the sierra on which we stood, the soldiers every now and then discharging their pieces at him. My interest increased as he approached, for I fancied that I recognised my friend Manco. His pursuers got nearer to him, and fired more frequently. I dreaded lest their shot should take effect. They were close upon his heels; for his horse, wearied with his long journey and constant exertion during the day, could scarcely bear him on. Just at that moment a shout reached my ears, and looking up in the direction whence it came, I saw Pedro running along the ridge of the hill towards us. I waved to him as a signal that I had recognised him, and then once more turned to watch Manco’s progress. Tired as was his steed, it was more accustomed to the rough ground than were those of the Spaniards, with their heavy arms and accoutrements. The noble animal exerted all its energies, well aware, it seemed, that a life depended on its speed.

Chapter Eighteen.

Pedro finds his father—Murder of the Inca.

I have said that Don Gomez was at my side. As he saw the Spaniards drawing near, he turned to me. “Señor David,” he said, “these are my countrymen. The Indians have lost the day.”

“You would wish to join them. Is it so?” I asked.

“I would. Have I your permission?” he said.

“You were committed to my charge by yonder chief, who, I trust, will be with us soon. If he gives you your liberty, your word will not be broken, though I shall be sorry to part from you,” I replied.

“But the Indians are defeated,” urged Don Gomez. “Am I to remain a prisoner for ever?”

“Till he who received your word restores it to you,” I again answered; and while I was speaking, Pedro reached us. For a moment he was too breathless to speak; and during this interval I observed that Manco had so far got ahead of his pursuers, that their shot began to fall short. They halted; for just then they perceived us on the hills, probably supposing us enemies; and at the same moment a party of Indians, who lay concealed in some brushwood below us, sprang upon them. Had the Indians waited till the soldiers had advanced a little further, every man of the latter might have been killed or captured. As it was, they had time to turn their horses, and gallop off the way they had come, followed by a shower of arrows, which killed one and wounded another of them.

Manco, without stopping, made his horse breast the hill. He had got up some way, when we saw the noble animal stagger and fall, and both horse and rider lay motionless on the ground. Ned and I galloped down the hill towards him; for Don Gomez had, in the moment before, thrown himself from his horse, and was standing grasping Pedro’s hand, and looking earnestly in his face. We reached Manco. We found that his horse was dead, and that he had received a severe wound in his side. While we were stooping over him, the Indians came up, and, not knowing who we were, were on the point of knocking us on the head with their clubs, when he recovered his senses, and exclaimed that we were friends. We were once more aroused to action by Pedro’s voice; and lifting Manco on my horse, which was fresh and strong, I rode up the hill, accompanied by Ned, and followed by the Indians.

“Fly, fly!” exclaimed Pedro. “I came to warn you of the danger you are in. Look there, look there!”

We looked in the direction he pointed; and I now perceived that while we had been watching the flight and capture of the Inca, and Manco’s subsequent escape, which had occupied a considerable time, a strong body of troops had crossed the ford higher up the river, and were advancing rapidly along the path which led to the village where the wives of the chiefs had been left. In a few hurried words, Pedro told me that on hearing the firing, he had come out to see what was taking place, and that, like ourselves, he had been watching the battle from another height. To my deep regret, I found that, from the character of the ground, the troops were already much nearer the village than we were, and already occupied the only approach to it, so that the Indian women must inevitably fall into their power. I endeavoured to conceal this information from Manco; for, heart-broken and wounded as he was, I thought it would kill him outright. Those only, however, for whom I felt a personal interest, were Nita and her child; and I would have run every risk to save them. We were at the time posted in a dip in the hill, and while Ned and I bound up Manco’s wound, I sent Pedro to a height above us, to report the movements of the troops. In a short time he gave notice that a party of them had been detached from the main body, and were advancing in our direction. I concluded that as we climbed the hill, followed by the Indians, we had been perceived, and that, unless we were prepared to run the risk of falling into the hands of the Spaniards, we must make our escape. Manco was sufficiently recovered to sit on horseback, and I proposed giving him my horse and following on foot. As we were about to move off, I recollected Don Gomez’s request.

“He is at liberty to go,” answered Manco. “Perhaps he may recollect how he has been treated, and intercede for some of the unfortunate Indians who have fallen into the hands of his countrymen.”

To my surprise, Don Gomez refused the offer.

“I will remain some time longer with you, unless that, youth (pointing to Pedro) may accompany me. I would ask him some further questions; for his countenance has strangely agitated my mind.”

I had no opportunity of inquiring what he meant, when Pedro exclaimed that he saw an Indian woman, with a child in her arms, on the ridge of the hill, at some distance; and that the party of soldiers he had seen detached from the main body, were evidently in pursuit of her.

Manco hearing these words, seemed to surmise what had occurred, and, in spite of his wound, throwing himself on my horse and calling on the Indians to follow, he galloped along the rocky height. The eye of love at once recognised the person of the fugitive. It was his own Nita. We all hurried after him, and even Don Gomez seemed anxious for his success. Ned, who was the only other person on horseback, and who, though he rode like a seaman, always managed to make his steed cross places few people would have ventured over, was soon by his side, and together the two galloped on towards the Indian woman.

“Hurra,” shouted Ned, “Hurra! Mr Indian, hurra! We’ll manage to diddle the Dons.”

The Spanish soldiers had begun firing; but as they had at the same time to climb the hill, and were at a considerable distance, their aim was not good. Their bullets, notwithstanding, as we got nearer, came whizzing by our heads; but still we pushed on. They were evidently, however, gaining on the poor girl; and should she fall, or her strength fail her, they would be up to her before her husband could arrive to her rescue. I have often had to undergo moments of great excitement, but never have I felt such intense anxiety as I did for Nita’s rescue. On galloped Manco and Ned. The soldiers saw them coming, and fired a volley. I saw Manco reel for an instant, but still he sat his horse. In another minute Ned had lifted Nita on his horse, and placed her before him, and handing the child to Manco, the two returned at the same rapid rate towards us. The Spaniards, disappointed of their prey, halted, and fired again; and then seeing only a small body of Indians, continued their advance. As we had nothing to gain by fighting, I called out to Manco, as he came up, to order the Indians to retreat. We managed to do so in very good order, and at so rapid a rate that we soon distanced the Spaniards. They were, however, continuing the pursuit, when the sound of a bugle from the main body called them back. Halting as they heard it, they fired a parting volley after us. It was well aimed; several of the Indians were struck, as was also the unfortunate Don Gomez. I ran to his assistance; but he still sat his horse.

“It is nothing,” he said; “a mere flesh wound, which I shall soon recover from.”

I beckoned Pedro, who went up to him and walked by his side. I was afraid lest a sudden faintness should make him fall from his horse.

“What do you propose doing?” I asked of Manco as soon as, having got beyond range of the Spaniards’ muskets, we came to a halt.

“Proscribed and hunted, we must henceforth, like beasts of prey, seek for safety in the caves and recesses of the mountains,” he answered gloomily.

“You say well we must settle what is to be done. There is a cavern high up the mountains some way from this, where some hundred men may take shelter. Few know of it, and if any traitors were to lead the Spaniards to it, they would find it cost them dear to attack us there. I will show the way. On, on, my friends, on!”

I saw that the chief was in no mood for conversation. That day all his brightest hopes had faded away for ever. The liberty of Peru was lost; his friends had been slaughtered round him; and his Inca was a prisoner in the hands of his bitterest foes. We pushed on as fast as the rugged nature of the country would allow us to move; crossing valleys and streams, and climbing mountains, till we arrived at the foot of a lofty and perfectly perpendicular precipice, along the foot of which we moved for some distance. As I looked up, I saw that stones hurled from the summit would completely have annihilated us. Almost at right angles from the cliff arose another hill, up which we now began to climb. On reaching the summit, we turned once more in the direction of the cliffs, which we found were connected with the hill by a natural bridge of rock thrown across a dark and frightful gorge. Ordering the horses to be turned adrift on the hill, Manco, with his child in his arms, led the way across the bridge, and along a narrow ledge, which now appeared as if cut by natural labour in the side of the cliff. I kept close to him to assist him if required; Ned followed, supporting Nita; Pedro, leading Don Gomez, went next; and the Indians in single file after us. A couple of hundred yards along a ledge, where a single false step would have proved certain death, brought us to a hollow in the face of the rock, entering which, we found ourselves in a cavern of very extensive dimensions.

The ground was perfectly level, and the roof dry; and from the appearance I judged that art had been employed to render it habitable. Near the mouth were several pieces of wood which served for torches; and fire being produced by some of the Indians, the cavern was soon sufficiently lit up to show us its extent. On one side, a fountain of pure water spouted from the rock; on the other, a quantity of wood was piled up; and in some oven-shaped buildings, I found was stored a quantity of corn.

It is impossible to conceive a place more impregnable by nature. The summit of the cliffs, I afterwards found, was perfectly inaccessible; while below they extended in a perpendicular wall to a depth of four hundred feet at least. In front the valley widened out to a considerable extent, the opposite cliff being also almost inaccessible, so that the only possible approach was by the narrow ledge along which we had come. Indeed it seemed capable of holding out against any besiegers, as long as the provisions within might last.

As soon as we entered, Ned placed Nita on the ground, and Manco, faint with loss of blood, as well as with fatigue and agitation, sunk down by her side. Taking the infant from him, she handed it to Ned, whose honest countenance had won her confidence. She then placed her husband’s head in her lap, and bent over him in silence, expressing her grief neither in tears nor cries.

“Come, don’t be cast down, Missus,” said Ned, his kind heart moved by her sorrow. “Better times may come, and your good man isn’t going to slip his cable, I hope. I say, mate, she don’t understand my lingo,” he continued, turning to me; “just you tell her what I say. It’ll cheer her up a bit.”

I saw that words could bring no comfort to the poor creature, but that our attention might be more effectually employed in binding up Manco’s wounds. Telling Ned this, we set to work in as scientific a way as we were able. Some of the Indians brought us water, and Nita, when she saw what we were about, aroused herself to help us. We had scarcely finished the operation, when a cry from Pedro called us to the assistance of Don Gomez, who had likewise fainted from the pain of his wound and loss of blood. My attention had, indeed, been so completely occupied with my Indian friend, that I had forgotten that the Spaniard had been hurt. Pedro was kneeling by his side, and supporting him with a look of interest and anxiety, which I at first was at a loss to understand.

“O come, my friend, come and help him, or he will die!” he exclaimed.

Ned, who had seen many a gun-shot wound, and had often assisted the surgeons to doctor his shipmates, examined the Spaniard’s hurts.

“It’s a bad job, mate, I’m afraid,” he observed, pointing to his side. “The ball is in him somewhere, for there’s the place it entered, and I can find no hole where it could have got out again. I’ve been feeling for it all round his back, but there’s no sign of it. How he came on so far as this without dropping, I don’t know. It was his spirit kept him up, I suppose.”

Finding that we could do nothing else to relieve the unfortunate Don Gomez, we washed and bound up his wound, and then laid him on a bed of some straw and skins, which we found in the cavern. The same care had been taken of Manco. The Indians, meantime, had lighted a fire in the mouth of the cavern, and were seated round it in moody silence, brooding over their defeat and the death of many of their comrades and friends. We found some brandy among the stores, and after Don Gomez had swallowed a little of it, which we gave him with some water, he revived, and beckoned Pedro to him.

“You were telling me, as we came along, a strange tale of your life, young man,” he said, in a feeble voice. “It served to sustain me, when otherwise I should have sunk with pain. Can I believe you?”

“Indeed, Señor, I have only told the truth,” replied Pedro. “I was found by the Indians, when an infant, alone in a wood. My complexion shows that I am Spanish; and see, the crucifix and chain which were around my neck when I was discovered, I have ever since worn.”

“Merciful Providence, what do I behold?” exclaimed the wounded man, starting up and gazing eagerly at the ornament Pedro exhibited. “It is—it is! Come to my arms, my son, my son! I have found you, alas! but to quit you too soon again.”

Pedro had thrown himself upon his father’s neck, for such there could be no doubt Don Gomez was.

“Oh, do not say so, my father, whom I have so long sought. Do not say that you must quit me!” he cried, in an agony of tears.

“Alas! it is the climax of my destiny,” answered the Spaniard. “I have longed to discover you, and now that my wishes are fulfilled, death claims me as his own. Such has been my fate through life. I cannot even leave you the wealth I have amassed, for of that also I have been deprived.”

“O do not think of that!” exclaimed Pedro. “It is sufficient for me to know that you are my father; and do but recover and I will learn to work for you and support you. Say that you will not die, and I shall be happy.”

I need not further describe the scene. Pedro sat by his father’s side, and deep and earnest was their conversation. Ned and I left them alone and joined the Indians at their fire, for we saw that we could render no further assistance to our patients. The Indians had brought food with them, and as there was a supply of maize and dried meat and cocoa in the cavern, we had no reason to complain of hunger.

Manco had given orders that one of the Indians should at all times be stationed at the bridge I spoke of, leading to the ledge, to give notice of danger; and they regularly relieved each other at the post, though few would have ventured to cross that rocky ledge even in broad daylight, much less at night, uncertain what reception they might meet with at its termination. The night passed slowly, though I managed at intervals, as did Ned, to obtain some sleep. I after a time got up and stood at the mouth of the cave, looking up at the dark sky studded with thousands of stars, and then glancing down into the obscure depths below my feet. The air was perfectly still, and I fancied that I could hear the roar of cannon and the rattle of musketry echoing among the mountains.

At length I perceived a ruddy glare extending over the sky. I thought at first that it must be a sign of the rising sun, but, as I watched, it grew brighter and brighter, but did not increase in extent, and then by degrees it faded away before the genial glow of the coming day appeared. I guessed, too truly, that it arose from the burning of the village, which the Spaniards had attacked. I did not, however, inform my companions, for I felt that I should only add to their grief by so doing. The Indians continued sleeping till a late hour. They seemed to have the power of thus steeping their misery in oblivion. A night’s rest had somewhat restored Manco, but he was evidently fretting at the thought of the inactivity to which his wound would consign him. “But what would you do if you were able to move about,” I asked. “The Inca is a prisoner, and will, I fear, suffer death, for you cannot hope to rescue him.”

“The Inca never dies,” he answered, lifting himself up on his arm, and looking me earnestly in the face. “The young Andres is still in arms in the south, and may yet be victorious. Should the Spaniards add a deeper dye to the crimes they have committed, by the destruction of the Inca, he will succeed; and should he too be cut off, I and that infant sleeping by my side must succeed to the title. Little did the Spanish soldiers dream whom they were yesterday pursuing, when Nita fled from them with our babe in her arms.”

Hope still I saw supported my friend, and I would not deprive him of it, little as I entertained it myself. Don Gomez had not improved. He was feverish and weak, and I fancied that I saw death on his countenance; but he was happy at having his son by his side, and I was unwilling to warn Pedro of his danger. Several days passed away without the appearance of an enemy in the neighbourhood; and at length the Indians began to grow uneasy at confinement. We also were anxious to obtain information as to the state of affairs. It was just possible that, as Manco hoped, the Spaniards might have been driven back. And that we were shutting ourselves up for no object. The difficulty was to decide who was the most proper person to go in search of information. An Indian would, to a certainty, have been kept prisoner and publicly executed; Pedro could not leave his father; and when I proposed going, Ned declared that I should be either recognised as having escaped from prison, or treated as a spy.

“For my part I don’t mind going myself,” he observed. “I’ve no fancy for being cooped up here any longer; and if I’m asked any questions, all I shall say is, that I’ve got away from the Injuns, and want to get back to my own country.”

Very unwillingly I at last yielded to all the arguments he used to let him go instead of me. I was also afraid that it might have been suspected that he had assisted us to escape from prison; but he overruled that objection by saying that it was a very long time ago, and that it was not likely any of those who had seen him should be at Cuzco, or remember the circumstance. To prevent the risk of his falling into the hands of any Indians, Manco ordered one of those with us to accompany him to the neighbourhood of the capital, where he was to be hid till his return, and then to bring him back safe. It was with a heavy heart that I saw Ned set out. Still I was very anxious to commence our journey eastward, and without knowing the state of affairs, I could not quit my friend Manco, nor could we venture to move Don Gomez into the city. I watched Ned as he passed under the cliff, and saw him wave his hat as a sign that he, at all events, feared none of the dangers of his expedition.

Meantime the Indians ventured out a short distance across the mountains to hunt for game. Several of them were always stationed on the surrounding pinnacles of rocks, whence they could watch for the approach of danger. Now and then they killed with their arrows a tarush, an active and timid little roe which frequents the higher forests which skirt the Andes. At night they used to set snares made of horse hair, at the mouths of holes inhabited by little animals like rabbits. These were called viscachas and chinchillas. The skin of the latter supplies the beautiful fur so much prized in Europe. Their colour and form resembles the rabbit, but they have shorter ears and long, rough tails. As, however, we had an abundant supply of charqui, which is the name given to dried beef in the Andes, we were not dependent on the success of our huntsmen for food. Pedro employed all his time in reading to and conversing with his father; and I observed that a very satisfactory change had taken place with regard to his state of mind. He had now learned to bow to the decrees of Providence without repining, and to acknowledge that whatever the great Ruler of the universe orders, is for the good of His creatures. The event I had foreseen was fast approaching. Every day Don Gomez had grown weaker and weaker, and he could no longer raise himself on his bed of straw. One evening he called Manco and me to his side after he had made Pedro aware that his speedy death was inevitable. “You have both been friends of my son,” he said. “Most deeply do I thank you, though I have no means of showing my gratitude; indeed, I must call on you still further to befriend him. I found him poor, and may leave him so, unless the power of Spain is re-established in Peru. In either case, you can serve him. In the one, still support and protect him; and in the other, witness that I have acknowledged him as my son, and enable him to regain the property which was mine. There is a certain Father Manuel in Cuzco, who knows my signature, and is cognisant of all the particulars of my history. Let him see the papers I have left, should he have escaped the death which has overtaken so many of my countrymen, and he will assist him to the utmost of his means in his object. May Heaven help him to obtain what by right is his!”

We promised the dying man to obey his wishes to the best of our ability, though, as we could not venture to present ourselves in any city of Peru as witnesses, I had very little expectation that Pedro would ever recover his property. That night Don Gomez breathed his last. I will not speak of the bitter anguish poor Pedro suffered, at the death of a parent so lately found and so soon lost. The Indians made a grave in a green mound on the neighbouring mountain; and there we buried the unfortunate man.

Several days more passed away; and at last one of our scouts came hurrying in, to give notice that he had seen some persons approaching along the valley, in the far distance. On the edge of the ledge, and at the mouth of the cavern, stones had been piled up, to hurl down on the heads of any who might appear in the guise of enemies. I looked eagerly out, for I hoped they might prove to be Ned and his guide; for I had begun to be very anxious for my friend’s safety. As the persons drew near, to my great satisfaction, I recognised Ned and his guide. They appeared footsore and weary, and came on very slowly. I went out to meet him at the bridge.

“I can’t say a word, mate, till I’ve had some food and rest,” he answered. “And this poor fellow here, he’s worse off than I am.”

After Ned and the Indian had eaten, they lay down to sleep, and it was four hours before the former awoke and gave me an account of his adventures, which I translated to Manco and Pedro.

“Well, mates,” he began, “I’m glad to get back with a whole skin on my body; and never may I have to see again the sights I’ve witnessed since I’ve left this place. The sooner, for my part, we get out of the country, the better. It was all very well when we had to climb up and down the mountains; I didn’t mind that; but as soon as we got down into the plains, we couldn’t go a hundred yards without meeting with the dead bodies of our fellow-creatures—Red-skin or White-skin, it’s all the same to me. I can’t bear to see men, women, and young children murdered like sheep and lambs. The Spaniards had cleared out and burnt every Indian village on the road. We had to pass near the place where the battle was fought, and there were thousands and thousands of bodies of Indians. The birds and beasts of prey could scarcely consume them. At last we got near the city, and my Red-skin mate there stowed himself away under a rock in a thick wood; and taking the bearings of the place, I went on by myself. I met no one till I got to the walls, for the Dons still kept inside, afraid of the Injuns, though they’d killed so many of them. When the guards at the gates asked me what I wanted, I said I’d come from the mountains, where I’d been hiding away during the row, and that I was looking out for a night’s rest in a civilised place, before I set out back to my own country; which was true enough, you know. They then took me to the governor of the city, and he questioned me right and left; but I stuck to my story. So when he found he could get nothing out of me, he let me go, telling me to come and see him in a couple of days or so. I found there were to be great doings the next day, and what do you think they were? Why, these Christians were going to burn the Inca and his whole family, because they tried to get back their rights. It wasn’t a sight I wished to see, you may depend on it; but I couldn’t help myself. Well, in the morning there was a large crowd in the great square; and in the middle there was a quantity of stakes and wood piled up, and near them a high platform. Presently a number of Indian people were brought out of the prison—men, women, and children—and were marched up to the stakes, and bound to them with cords. Last of all came a man, whom I soon saw was the Inca, for he was dressed as he was on the day of the battle, and looked a real king, every inch of him. They made him stand up on the platform, and look down on what was going on below.

“They first shot all the children, and then they set fire to the wood, and burnt the women, and then the men; and, would you believe it, among them was the wife of the Inca, and his children, and his brothers, and nephews and nieces. He didn’t utter a cry or a groan, but kept looking on as if his eyes would start out of his head; but they, poor creatures, shrieked out for mercy from men who hadn’t got any in their natures.

“When the rest were dead, they put some faggots under the platform, and burnt the brave fellow where he stood. The people shouted and rejoiced as if they had done something to be proud of. I couldn’t stand it any longer, so I hurried away from the place; for I heard that all the Indian prisoners in the city were next to be shot, and that there were some hundreds of them. I got into talk with a number of people. From some I heard one thing, and from some another; but what I made out was, that young Andres, the Inca’s son, with several other chiefs, were still in arms in the south; but that the Spaniards had sent for troops from all parts of America; and that, by fair means or foul, they were resolved to destroy every Indian, till the war was finished. When I found that I could learn nothing more, I waited till night, and climbed over the walls. I then ran on as fast as my legs could carry me, till I got back to the wood, where I found my guide. Thinking I might be pursued, as I have no doubt I was, we made a very roundabout course, and kept a bright look-out for enemies on every side. We managed to keep clear of them, however, but were very hard up for food; and I’m not sorry, let me tell you, mate, to find myself safe back again here.”

Such was the substance of Ned’s account. Prepared, as in a great degree Manco had been, he was dreadfully affected by it, and for some time could come to no resolution what course to take. Had he been alone, he would at once have decided to join Andres, and endeavour still to make head against the Spaniards; but Nita and his child were in the other scale. At last he announced his resolution of quitting that part of Peru, and taking refuge far beyond the borders of civilisation among some of the wild tribes of the interior, in regions where the foot of the white man had not yet penetrated.

“There I will remain,” he said, “till a more favourable opportunity occurs for rescuing my country from the oppression of the stranger. Be assured that time will come. My boy may have grown to manhood, and my hair may have turned grey, or we may both have passed away; but Spain cannot for ever keep her iron yoke on the necks of our people. In the meantime we shall have collected arms, and have learned the art of war from our conquerors; and avoiding the errors which have now overcome us, we shall be able to cope with them successfully.”

He promised, moreover, to accompany us till we should be fairly embarked on the great river of the south. I then asked Pedro what he proposed doing.

“I will go with you, my friend,” he answered at once. “I have no hopes of obtaining my father’s property, and I cannot quit you; I will share your dangers, and accompany you to your native land.”

I rather doubted whether it would not be wiser for him to try and reach Cuzco, and put himself in communication with the Father Manuel, to whom his father had referred him; but he adhered to his resolution of accompanying me.

“I have no friends among my countrymen; I care not for wealth; and I long to obtain that knowledge which here I cannot hope to find. I wish also to see the world, and more than all, David, I would not be parted from you.”

So it was arranged; and Manco having sent out the Indians as scouts in all directions to ascertain whether any Spaniards were in the neighbourhood, we made instant preparations for our departure.

Chapter Nineteen.

Our wonderful adventures and escapes.

During our long stay in the cave, my mind often turned to the future, and I was sorely puzzled to know by what means, without funds of any sort, we should find our way to England. Ned, as a sailor, would have no difficulty; but Pedro and I, from our ignorance of nautical affairs, would be totally unable to work our way. One day Manco asked me what I was thinking about. I told him.

“Let not that distress you, my friend,” he answered. “If gold could restore happiness to our country, I could fill this cavern with it. I will show you where you may supply yourself with all you can require; you will spend it well, and therefore I do not hesitate to confide to you the secret of our hidden wealth.”

Two nights after this, as I was about to throw myself on my bed of leaves to sleep, Manco came to me.

“We will at once set forth to obtain the gold I promised,” he said. “Pedro and your countryman may accompany us to carry what we find. We must return before the morning, lest we encounter any of the Spanish forces, who are ravaging the country on every side.”

A few words served to let Pedro and Ned understand what was to be done, and providing themselves with two bags, they instantly declared themselves ready to proceed. Manco had provided torches, one of which we each of us bore; but he told us not to light them till we should reach the spot to which he was about to conduct us. As we were setting out, he also distributed among us two spades and crowbars, and a pickaxe. He led the way along the ledge and across the bridge; we following in silence. He then descended the mountain, and proceeded down the valley for some distance, when he once more began to ascend. The ground was rugged and difficult in the extreme, and path there was none, so that, had we desired it, we could not again have found our way. For two hours we toiled on, up and down hill, following close upon the heels of Manco, who seemed to know the road by instinct. At length we reached a valley, the hill on one side of which was covered completely with buildings, one rising above the other, and some apparently hewn out of the solid rock. The moon, which had lately risen, lighted up the scene, and increased its wild and mysterious appearance. Not a sound was heard, not a human being appeared from this city of the dead. Manco stopped and gazed up at the city.

“Two centuries ago, thousands of human beings, full of life and activity, thronged those walls,” he remarked. “All are gone, and of descendants they have left none. All, all have been victims to Spanish cruelty. Follow me.”

He moved on, and led us into several. Some had two and even three stories, and the floors of slabs of stone or slate still remained. We at last reached a house larger than the rest, with a number of windows. Manco stopped in the centre of the chief hall, and said, stamping his foot, “Dig there.” Lighting our torches, we stuck them in the ground, and set to work. After digging about two feet, we came to a mass which proved to be the body of a human being, swaddled up in bandages of cloth, and in good preservation. It was in a sitting posture, with the knees drawn up to the chin. Placing it on one side, we dug on. Clearing away another stratum of earth, we reached a collection of household utensils, which at first I thought were of copper and clay; but as Ned was examining them, he exclaimed—

“They are gold, every one of them!”

“Dig, dig,” said Manco; “you have more to find.” A third layer of earth was now removed, and we came upon a number of idols, all of gold or silver, and surrounding them a quantity of bars of pure gold. None of us had ever seen so much wealth in one mass. “There, take what you can carry, and cover up the rest,” exclaimed Manco. “You call that wealth,” he continued, as if divining our thoughts; “yet of what use is it to mankind thus locked up from sight? Now hasten, or daylight will surprise us before we can reach the cave.”

Following his direction, we loaded ourselves with as much of the pure gold as we could carry; and then replacing the body as we found it, we again covered up the grave. Then extinguishing our torches, we set out to return to our cavern, which we reached in safety. It was with very great satisfaction that I bade adieu to the cavern which had for so long a time been our home. We had three horses, on one of which Nita was mounted, and the other two were loaded with a supply of provisions; each of the Indians, besides, carrying enough for his own wants, till a part of the country should be reached where more could be procured. Manco took every precaution for our safety which prudence could suggest. He sent the Indians on ahead as scouts to inspect the country before we advanced, and to bring us timely notice of the approach of an enemy. At that time it was difficult to know who were friends and who were not, for many of the Indians had gone over to the Spaniards, in the hopes of saving their lives and property; and others, still worse, we had too good reason to know, were ready to act the part of traitors, and to deliver up their countrymen for the sake of the reward they expected to receive.

We proceeded for some way along a series of wooded ridges, called by the Spaniards Ceja de la Montaña (the Mists of the Mountains), on account of the thick mists which, rising from the rivers in the valleys below, are attracted by the trees, and hang over them in dense clouds. In summer these mists are absorbed by the sun’s rays; but in winter they discharge themselves in endless torrents of rain. At night we took up our abode in some deserted hut; but never, if we could avoid it, did we rest in the abode of man, and whenever we did, Manco kept three or four of our allies watching at a distance outside; and we always again started at early dawn. As we reached the extreme eastern edge of the Ceja, we looked down on an interminable extent of forest, composed of trees of a height with which few in other parts of the world can vie. These wooded plains are called Montañas, which is the name given to the whole of the country eastward of the Andes.

As we advanced, our ears were saluted by the cries of numerous birds and animals. Sometimes I thought I heard the roaring of a bull at a distance, when I found it to proceed from the black ox-bird; and at others the grunting of a hog sounded close to us; and a beautiful bird called the Tunqui, like a cock with a tuft of red feathers, and an orange bill, started up and astonished us with the contrast between his gruff note and gay plumage. In the evenings, groups of the pheasant-like Hachahuallpa summoned their distant companions with the cry of Ven acá, ven acá—Come here, come here; and owls and bats flew out with noiseless wings to pounce on their unwary prey. Bears and ounces, pumas and tiger-cats crossed our path; and stags started from their thickets, where they had sought shelter from some of those above-named enemies. Monkeys chattered at us, and squirrels leaped among the trees; rats and mice were found in the huts, and argutis in the maize-fields; snakes crawled along the ground, and birds of prey circled high above our heads. But in truth it would be impossible to describe one-tenth of the beasts, the birds, and reptiles we encountered in our journey; though I shall mention those I had opportunities of examining.

We approached one evening the farm of a cacique, who, with most of the men of his village, had marched to join the army of Tupac Amaru. The women only, and some of the old men and children, remained. It was on the extreme borders of the country inhabited by Christian Indians. Beyond all was totally unknown to the white men, and but seldom visited by the civilised natives.

Manco sent on a messenger to give notice of our approach, and to crave the hospitality of the cacique and his family. He returned shortly, saying that the females only were at home, and that as yet they had received no account of the result of the expedition; but that they bade the strangers welcome.

“Alas!” said Manco, “we are, I fear, the bearers of evil tidings. Had the cacique escaped, he would have returned ere this.”

We proceeded on, and in a space cleared of trees, we found a collection of low buildings. The walls were constructed of reeds, the interstices being filled up with loam; and the roofs were covered with palm leaves. On one side of the house was a coffee plantation, and on the other some fields of maize, with fruit-trees growing round them. At a little distance, on some marshy ground, was a field of sugar-canes; and by the side of a brook a row of the useful banana. The poor woman came out to receive us as we approached. Her first inquiries were for her husband. Manco had seen him and all his people cut to pieces. She did not faint or shriek out, but retired into an inner room, sat herself down on the ground, surrounded by her women, and groaned bitterly all the night long. We did not see her again; but after a time one of her females came out and set food before us. Our Indian companions found shelter in some of the huts of the village; and one belonging to the farm was given up to Ned, Pedro, and me. We had Indian corn bread, and cakes made of the juice of the sugar-cane, called chancacas; potatoes, bananas, oranges, and pine-apples, and several varieties of dried meat; with a liquor also made from the sugar-cane, called guarapo: indeed we had no cause to complain of any want of provisions. As we were safe here from all risk of pursuit, Manco proposed to remain for some days, that we might recruit our strength before prosecuting our journey.

The cacique had been accustomed to increase his wealth by buying from the wilder tribes the celebrated Peruvian bark. In the month of May, a number of Indians set out together, some of whom, of greatest experience, who are called cateadores, or searchers, climb the highest trees to spy out the manchas, or spots where the chinchona groups are growing, distinguishing them merely by a slight difference in the tints from the dark-green of the surrounding foliage. When the cateador has discovered a group, he leads his companions to it with wonderful precision through the almost impenetrable forest; a hut is built, the trees are felled, and incisions are made in the bark, and after a few days, as it dries, it is stripped off and placed in the huts to dry still more. It is then packed in bundles, and sent to market.

A party of Indians came one day to the village, on their way across the Andes, from the more distant forests to the east, laden with balsams and odoriferous gums, which they had collected from a variety of resinous plants. They were ignorant that the war had broken out, and when they heard of it, they were unwilling to venture further, and returned, to their own country. The men who carried the loads had on merely a piece of cloth round the waist; but the women who accompanied them wore a loose tunic without sleeves. Their legs were bare, but painted with the juice of the huito, which made it appear that they had on half-boots. The object was to protect their legs from the stings of insects. I found that they professed Christianity. They were regular medical pedlars; for they had powders, salves, plasters, seeds, and roots of every description; claws of the tapir, as a remedy against the falling-sickness; and the teeth of poisonous snakes, carefully stuck into rushes, as specifics against head-ache and blindness. Manco had purchased a sufficient number of horses to mount all our party, and to carry such provisions as we required; though, from the abundance of game to be procured in the forests, we had no fear of being in want of fresh meat. Still, however, as there was no notice of the approach of the Spaniards, he thought it better to remain a few clays longer, to recruit our strength, before we recommenced our journey. Three of the Indians only had remained with us, the rest having departed to their homes in the south. Pedro, Ned, and I employed our time in wandering about the neighbouring country, under the guidance of one of the Indians; but we were charged by Manco not to go far from the village.

I can scarcely venture to describe the magnificence of the vegetation of that region. There were numerous ferns and nettles growing in the form of large shrubs; wonderful bignonias and gigantic orchids drawing their nourishment from the air; with every variety of climbing plants, throwing their thousand tendrils round the trees which gave them support. I could not but admire the various forms of the stately palm, the thickly-leaved balsam-yielding leguminosae, the luxuriant laurels, and the solaneae, with their numberless flowers of vast size. Further on, again, on the flat lands towards the east, the mighty trees rise to an immense height from the humid soil, without a flowering plant or shrub below their branches, forming a canopy almost impervious to the light of day.

One day we had gone farther than usual from home, when we reached a narrow lagune, overspread by the boughs of the gigantic trees which grew on either side of it. The air and earth were teeming with animal life. Birds of beautiful plumage, and every variety of note, were perched on the branches, or flying above our heads; butterflies of many hues were flitting about in all directions; and reptiles and insects innumerable were crawling along the ground. More beautiful than all were the humming-birds, which, like flashes of coloured light, appeared and disappeared as they flew by us; and surpassing his brethren in gorgeousness of hues, was the golden-tailed humming or fly bird, numbers of which haunted every glade we passed. From many of the shady branches hung nests built by the pouched starlings, four or five feet long, and swinging to and fro with every breath of wind. Flocks of green parrots were chattering on the higher boughs, and preparing to seek their night—quarters in the higher parts. Our guide called them jornaleros (day-labourers), and told me that the name was given them because, on the return of every day, they come back at the same hour from the mountains, where they sleep, to gather their food in the lower forests. I had shot several birds, and was aiming at one, when he seized my arm, and implored me not to fire.

“Do you not hear its note, Señor?” he exclaimed. “If you were to kill that bird, Heaven would afflict you with some dreadful disaster. Listen: does it not say, Dios te de (May God give it thee)?”

The bird, as he rested on a branch before me, threw back his head and rocked his body, and certainly uttered a note which might easily be thus translated.

I had got close to the lagune, and was watching a bird which, with fluttering wings, was hovering in the air a short distance from me, when our guide forcibly drew me back, whispering, with a look of terror, “Did you not see the Yacumaman? Would you venture within the mighty coils of the Mother of Waters?”

At first I did not know what he could mean, till, creeping back, I saw what I had at first taken for the root of a tree, but which I now perceived to be an enormous serpent. Its body was wound in several huge coils round the stem of a decayed tree, while it bathed its tail in the waters of the lagune. Its head was now thrust forward, as with glittering eyes it watched an opening in the forest. Presently a slight rustling was heard, and a beautiful stag came to quench its thirst after the heat of the day. It came up fearlessly, and dipped its head to drink. Again it lifted it up, and looked around. On a sudden it caught sight of those beautiful eyes. Instantly its limbs began to tremble. It seemed to have no power to fly, but stood looking with mute wonder at the object which fascinated it. The monster uncoiled itself, and glided from the tree. Still the stag did not attempt to fly, yet in fleetness it could have outstripped the wind. There it stood, a willing victim. In another moment the serpent had sprung upon it, and encircled it in its monstrous folds. As we could not rescue the stag, and had no wish to interfere with the serpent, we hurried from the spot. We were already later than it was wise to remain from the village, but we could not help stopping to listen to the delicious notes of a cinnamon-brown bird, with head and neck of dark olive, which was perched on a bough overhanging our path. Never from a feathered songster had I heard notes more sweet or harmonious.

“It is the organista,” said our guide. “Hurry on, Señores, hurry on, his note forebodes a coming storm; and, from the glimpses I have caught of the sky between the trees, I fear that we shall have one before we reach the village.”

We took the Indian’s advice, for a storm in that wooded region was an event to be avoided, and walked as fast as we could over the soft ground towards home. We had not got far, when a cry from Pedro, who was a little in our rear, made us stop. As we hurried back to him, we saw that he was limping along as if in great pain, and trying to overtake us; and at the same time I observed a snake winding its way along among the trees at a rapid rate from us. It was about two feet long, and covered with the most brilliant stripes of deep red, yellow, and black. The Indian caught sight of the reptile at the same time.

“Ah! mercy, Heaven, mercy!” cried poor Pedro. “I have been bitten by that deadly snake, and in a few minutes must die. Farewell, my friends, farewell!”

“Courage, Señor, courage!” exclaimed the Indian; “I have some huaco cake with me. Eat, eat, and you may yet live.”

Saying this, he produced from his pocket some cake of the huaco leaves, a piece of which he put into Pedro’s mouth, and spreading some more on the wound, pressed it with all his force.—A litter was soon formed, on which we placed him and carried him along, for the pain was too great to allow him to walk. After a time, however, he declared that the pain was gone, but that he felt as if his leg was made of lead. We hurried on, for we had no time to lose. Thunder was heard rolling through the sky; and distant flashes, seen through the trees, showed that the storm was approaching. Suddenly a tremendous crash was heard close to us; and, looking back, a tall tree, one of the giants of the forest, appeared riven from the crown to its roots, and a vast branch lay across the path we had just passed. Nothing now was required to expedite our steps. The wind roared, the mighty trees rocked to and fro as if they had been reeds, the thunder rattled in deafening peals, and the lightning, in zigzag form, rushed down the stems of the trees, running like serpents along the ground, and flashed vividly in every direction. The storm I had witnessed in the Cordilleras was grander, but it was scarcely so terrific in its effects. We got under shelter in the cottage before the tempest had reached its height. Pedro was instantly placed in bed, when, after a time, a profuse perspiration came on. Some cooling drink was given to her, and a pumpkin poultice was applied to the wound.

The huaco plant grows in the woods. The leaves am half an inch long and half an inch broad, of a solid texture, the upper surface being of a dark-green, with purple veins running through it. The stem is slender, hard, ribbed, and of a bluish colour; and the leaves grow singly, two being placed opposite to each other. It is said that the natives discovered its qualities by observing that a bird called the huaco, which feeds on snakes, whenever it was bitten flew off and ate some of this plant. I have heard that the harmless snakes are great enemies to the poisonous ones, and will attack those much larger than themselves.

It took two or three days before Pedro had completely recovered from the effects of the bite.

Chapter Twenty.

Spaniards pursue us—Attacked by wild Indians.

“Up, up, my friends!” exclaimed Manco, rushing into our hut one morning, just before daybreak. “The Spaniards are traversing the mountains with fire and sword, and we must haste away from this.”

We all instantly sprung to our feet, and without exchanging many words, packed up our goods. By the time we were ready, the horses were caught and saddled, and we were soon mounted and ready to proceed. Our party consisted of Ned, Pedro, and I; Manco, Nita, and their child; and three Indians, of a tribe with whom the latter were going to take up their residence. We had, besides, two other horses laden with clothing and provisions. Bidding adieu to our unhappy hostess and the villagers, our cavalcade was put in motion, and we plunged into the interminable forest. Without the assistance of our Indian guides, we could not possibly have found our way among the gigantic trees which shot up like tall masts from the level soil, often branchless till near the summit, where their boughs intertwined, and formed a canopy which the rays of the sun could scarcely penetrate.

“On, on, my friends!” cried Manco; “the enemy may be on us before we are aware of their approach. They have traitors with them, and will certainly despatch a force to search us out.”

This was sufficient to make us urge our horses to their utmost speed; and all day we rode on, halting only now and then for a very short time, to rest our animals or to take food. At night we encamped in the forest. For our shelter we cut a number of canes which grew near a stream, and with them formed some huts, which we thatched with palm leaves. We had supplied ourselves with grass hammocks and Indian mosquito curtains, and by hanging them up in our huts we obtained very comfortable quarters. We frequently had streams to pass, which feed the great arteries running into the Amazon. They were in most instances too deep to be forded, so we had to wait till we could construct rafts to convey ourselves and our luggage, our horses swimming alongside. We took care to make a great noise to keep the caymans at a distance, lest any of them should think fit to grab at our animals’ legs. We had the satisfaction of feeling sure that, should we be pursued, our enemies would take much longer time to cross than we did. Still, however, we pushed on as fast as the nature of the ground would allow. We were now approaching the river Ucayali, at a spot not far from the banks of which Manco intended to make his abode. He might, of course, have found numberless places among the Andes, where the Spaniards could not have discovered him; but so many of his brother chieftains had already been betrayed by their own countrymen, that he had resolved to remove himself far beyond the reach of treachery, among savages who, if they had not the virtues, were free from the vices of civilisation, and were too independent to be tempted by a bribe to deliver him into the hands of his enemies.

Though in general the country was level, here and there mountains and rocky ledges crossed our path, the far-stretching spurs of the Andes. We found the country very thinly populated, though we occasionally fell in with small parties on their hunting expeditions. The first infidel Indians we met somewhat raised our curiosity. They were short in stature, and had swarthy complexions and long black hair, without any beard on their chins. They wore a long frock without sleeves, and when we first saw them we took them for women. They were armed with bows and arrows. They had never seen any white men before, and were at first very much frightened and inclined to run away; but our Indians, who spoke their language, that of the Panos, assured them that we would not injure them, and they became very communicative. When they heard where we were going, they entreated us not to proceed, assuring us that we should encounter numbers of cannibal Cashibos, who would to a certainty kill and eat us.

“Tell them that we fear not the Cashibos nor any other wild men,” said Manco. “If they molest us, we will treat them as the beasts of the forest, though we would willingly pass them peaceably.”

As we rode along after we had parted from our little friends, I asked Manco who were the dreaded Cashibos; and he told me that they were the most savage and warlike of all the wild tribes in the Pampa del Sacramento, between the rivers Ucayali and Hualtaga. “We must be on our guard against them, for they are equally cunning as fierce, and I truly believe that they really do eat those they can take prisoners.”

Our own Indians were evidently very much afraid of these Cashibos, and kept a much more watchful guard than heretofore, both as we rode along and after we encamped for the night. Several days after this we were approaching that part of the Ucayali, where we proposed to embark. I longed to reach it almost as much as did Ned. “Ah, mate,” he exclaimed, when I told him that we had little more than one day’s journey more on horseback to perform; “let us once get our craft built and afloat, and we may snap our fingers at the Cashibos, and any other enemies to boot.”

It was necessary, before embarking, to lay in a supply of provision, that we might not be impeded in our passage down the river; and as our Indians observed signs of an abundance of game, we halted much earlier than usual to hunt. Ned remained with Pedro and Nita to build the huts and look after the horses; while Manco and I, with our three Indians, set out for the chase. At some distance off, between us and the river, was a lofty, rocky hill, which served as our land-mark; and by taking the bearings of it with two other heights still farther off, I hoped to be able easily to find my way back to the camp. Manco and I had the rifles, the Indians their bows and arrows. While wandering among the trees, which were here more than usually interspersed with shrubs and creepers, I very soon got separated from my companions. This did not alarm me, as I was certain that I could without difficulty find my way back to the encampment. I soon fell in with a pathway, which I recognised as one formed by the peccary or wild hog, which traverses the forests in droves consisting of two or three hundred. I stopped and listened, for I thought I heard a grunting sound, which showed that some were not far off. I was not mistaken, for the noise increased in loudness, and I satisfied myself of the direction from which it was coming. Hiding behind a tree, I stood ready to fire, in the hopes of killing one of the leaders, and having time to load and take a second shot before the herd passed by. As soon as they appeared along the path, I singled out one and let fly; but my aim was not steady, and I only wounded the beast. At the same time I had, I suppose, exposed myself to view; for the whole herd, led by their wounded companion, came rushing towards me with furious grunts of rage, evidently with the intention of destroying me. To hope to escape by flight was out of the question, for they would soon have overtaken me. Fortunately I had observed a tree, with branches which I could reach; and retreating to it, I had climbed up a few feet from the ground before the furious herd reached me. When they found themselves disappointed of their prey, they dashed their snouts into the ground round the tree as if they would tear it up by the roots, and thus get at me. They worked so perseveringly, that at first I had some little apprehension that they would succeed, and I began to consider how, if the tree fell, I should manage to escape my assailants. On climbing higher, I saw that the boughs of the tree I was on interlaced with another, and that I might, by catching hold of the latter, save myself, should the peccaries succeed in their attempts. The peccaries grunted and dug away below, and I climbed up higher and higher. At last I reached a branch on which I could conveniently sit and load my gun. “Stop,” I thought to myself; “before I take more trouble, I may as well shoot some of these gentlemen. They cannot carry off their dead, and when they go away, as I suppose they will do some time or other, they will leave them behind for me.”

The execution followed the thought. I tumbled one of my enemies over, and his companions finding that he was dead, set off to escape from a similar fate. I had, however, time to load and fire again, and killed another hog. As the one I had at the first wounded was by this time dead, to my great satisfaction, the herd scampered off, leaving three of their number behind. I fired a fourth time, but missed, and then descended from the tree. How to get the peccaries to the camp was now my puzzle, for one of them was rather too heavy a load for me to carry, and I had no knife with me to cut them up. If I left them where they were, in all probability they would be eaten up by some beasts or birds of prey before I could return to them. To save them from the former, it occurred to me that I might hang them up on the branches of the tree which had enabled me to escape from becoming their food, instead of their becoming mine.

There were a variety of creepers, out of which I could form ropes; and selecting some of the toughest and most pliant, I secured them to the peccaries, which I dragged under the tree. Having, with no little satisfaction, hoisted up my spoils, I set out to return to the camp. On my way I stopped to look at a tree which seemed to bear a great variety of leaves. On examination, I discovered it to be a mora, round the stem of which climbed a number of creepers. On the summit grew a fig-tree, fully as large as a common English apple-tree; and from its branches again hung pendant a number of vines, both fig-tree and vines bearing a quantity of fruit; but the parent mora, from the undue exhaustion of its sap, was already giving signs of decay, and in a short time both fig-tree and vine, I saw, would inevitably follow its fate. A little farther on, a couple of sloths were making their progress through the woods. I watched them passing from one tree to the other, as the branches met, stirred by the breeze; and having hitherto seen them hanging lazily by their claws to boughs, I was surprised at the rapidity of their movements. I have often heard people assert that the sloth spends his torpid existence in a perpetual state of pain, from the peculiar sighing noise he makes, and the slowness of his movements when placed on the ground. In the first place, I cannot believe that God has created any animal to pass an existence of pain. The fact is, that the sloth is formed to live in trees, to climb, and to feed on leaves, and not to walk on the ground. Though he cannot be called a frisky animal, he certainly does not deserve the name given to him, as, when he chooses, he can move, as I now had proof, at a great rate. Dogs bark, donkeys bray, and cocks crow, and the sloth sighs, when he wishes to speak; while, from his long arms and short legs, with his sharp claws, he by nature is intended either to be climbing, or, if asleep, hanging, with his back perpendicular to the ground. I shot one of my friends, and hanging him over my shoulder, carried him towards the camp. Scarcely had I resumed my walk, when I saw a large grasshopper, as I thought, playing about a bush, and on the point of settling. As I was passing near it, I was about to put out my hand to catch it, to examine it more minutely, when, just in time, I sprang back; for there I beheld, to my horror, the head and crest of an enormous rattlesnake. In another instant I should have been his victim. I did not stop to see what way he went, but hurried on as fast as my legs would carry me. I listened, as I advanced, to the notes of the various birds which filled the forest, and sometimes to the cries of beasts; and I fancied that I heard others answering them from a distance.

By some means or other I missed the path I intended to follow, and found myself in a thick mass of trees. In trying to get out of it, I entirely lost the line I was pursuing; and at length finding a tree I could climb, I mounted to the top of it, to look out for my land-mark. While I sat on a bough, concealed by the thick foliage, I found that I had a view of an open space at some little distance off, a mass of low trees only intervening. I was about to descend, when my eye caught sight of a figure moving through the glade. Presently another, and then another, followed. The stopped and listened attentively, as if they had heard something to interest them. They were tall men, dressed in long tunics, and had beards and lank black hair. Each man carried a club by his side, and a long spear in one hand, and a bow, with an arrow ready for use, in the other. As one of them turned his face, I saw that he was a Red Indian; and by the peculiar expression of his countenance, I felt certain that they must belong to the dreaded Cashibos. I trembled for the safety of Nita and my two friends, for I could not doubt that many others were in the neighbourhood; and I could scarcely dare to hope that they could fail to discover our camp, or to fall in with Manco and the Indians.

They were evidently intent on taking game, for they sounded the notes of several birds in succession, to try if any were in the neighbourhood. Two or three answered, and shortly making their appearance, fell, pierced by the Indians’ unerring arrows. Again they sounded their notes, which were answered from a distance, but no game appeared.

I must own that I was far from comfortable all the time, and afraid to move or almost to breathe. Every moment I expected to see them turn their heads, and to be discovered by their sharp eyes; and from the account I had heard of them, I could hope for nothing better than to be shot, and cooked forthwith for their suppers. After waiting, however, a short time, I saw them dart among the trees, and, to my great relief, in an opposite direction to the camp. Instantly I hurried down from my lofty perch, and made the best of my way towards the camp, keeping a bright look-out, lest any of their friends should catch me unawares.

I ran in breathless haste, anxious to warn my friends in the camp. Twice, in my hurry, I missed my way, and found myself going in the very direction the Cashibos had taken. At length I saw a column of smoke curling up among the trees. I felt certain that it must proceed from the camp; yet, as I got nearer, a horrid idea seized me, and I fancied that I must be mistaken, and that I might find instead, the cannibals seated round one of their dreadful banquets. Still I went on, advancing as cautiously as I could, and taking care to leave as little trace of my course behind me as possible. After going on in this way for some time, my ear caught the sound of singing; and looking between the bushes, I saw a fire burning with a spit before it, and on the spit there was roasting what I might have mistaken for a small baby, had not my friend Ned been officiating as cook; and I guessed that it was a monkey which had been prying too near the camp, and had been shot either by him or Pedro. The scene I looked on was one of perfect quiet and repose. The three huts were finished; Nita was concluding some arrangements in the interior of hers, and her infant lay in a basket at the entrance. Ned, as I said, was acting as cook, and Pedro was attending to the horses which were picqueted around. I was very unwilling to be the bearer of bad news to my friends; but there was no time to be lost, so I walked in among them.

“Ned,” I said, “we must be on our guard, there are Indians in the neighbourhood; they are fellows who would eat us if they could.”

“They must catch us first,” said Ned coolly. “If they do, they’ll find some of us tough morsels, I calculate.”

On seeing me, Nita rushed out and inquired for her husband, being alarmed at my having returned alone. I somewhat tranquillised her by explaining that I had been separated from the rest; but still she saw that all was not right. Though I was anxious to bring in the peccaries, Ned agreed with me that it would be imprudent to leave the camp, for we could not escape being discovered before long by the Cashibos. After a time I told Nita quietly that I had seen some strange Indians, and that I thought it wise to be on our guard against them; indeed, as we might possibly find a large party of them, and be obliged to retreat in a hurry, it would be better to pack up and be prepared for a start, as we were not in a spot where we could well defend ourselves if attacked. Nita agreed with me in the wisdom of this proceeding, and accordingly we packed up our goods, and saddled and loaded our horses. I loaded my rifle, and Ned his pistols and musket; and Pedro and Nita got the bows and arrows and spears ready. I expressed a hope that all this preparation would not be required.

“So do I,” answered Ned; “but you see, mate, a good seaman always gets his ship snug at night if he thinks a storm is brewing, because he can’t see exactly the time when it may come. So I think we are right to get ready, for the savages, who may pay us a visit when we least expect them; and as just now, you see, if the rest don’t come back, and we’ve only got you and I, and the young Don and the woman and the child, who won’t be much help, the odds will be rather against us. Looking at these things, I think if we were to build up a bit of a fortification like, it would be some aid to us in case of need.”

Ned’s advice was too good to be neglected, and accordingly we set to work and cut down some young trees and branches; and taking the huts as a centre, we threw up a sort of breast-work, sufficient to assist in protecting us while we knelt down to fire.

We had by this time become very anxious at the prolonged absence of Manco and the Indians; and I greatly feared that they might have been surprised by the Cashibos, and murdered. The sun was casting the tall shadows of the trees across the forest glades, and still they did not come. At length I determined to mount one of the horses and go in quest of them. Just, however, as I was putting my foot in the stirrup, a shot was heard close to us, and then another, and several arrows came glancing between the trees, but falling short of the camp. Directly afterwards one of our Indians burst through the brushwood, an arrow sticking in his side. With a look of terror, he pointed towards the point from which he had come, uttering the words “Cashibos—Cashibos.” Having broken off the head of the arrow, and drawn out the shaft, I told the poor fellow to run into the camp; I sprung on my horse, and dashing forward with my rifle in my hand, I saw Manco and the two other Indians contending with a dozen or more Cashibos. Manco had shot two of them; but the rest, undaunted by the unexpected effect of the new instrument of death he held in his hand, were on the point of rushing in upon him with their clubs. I saw there was not a moment to be lost, and forcing my way through the tangled mass of creepers and shrubs which lay between us, I reined up for an instant, and took a steady aim at the leading savage. He fell to the ground with a yell of rage, and I then, without stopping to load again, dashed on towards the next.

“Well done, mate, well done,” I heard Ned shouting behind me. “Knock the rascals on the head; that’s the way to settle them.”

So astonished were the savages with the sudden apparition of me and my horse, that I had struck one fellow to the ground before he had time to defend himself. Ned took aim at a third, and wounded him; but the savages, rendered more furious, still came on with menacing gestures. Manco had during the interval reloaded his rifle, and singling out another savage, brought him to the ground. This made the rest once more halt, and seeing me loading, they were on the point of taking flight, when some loud cries resounded through the woods, and gave them notice of the approach of some more of their companions.

“To the camp, to the camp, my friends!” exclaimed Manco, when he was aware of this; and obeying his order, we all retreated at once towards the huts. The Cashibos had received too strong a taste of our quality to follow at that instant, and allowed us to reach the camp unmolested. We instantly held a council of war, and at first Manco, when he saw the fortification we had thrown up, proposed waiting where we were to receive the attack of our enemies; but he soon agreed with me and Ned, that it would be wiser to escape while we could, on horseback. We could not tell how many Cashibos there might be, and they would probably collect ultimately in such numbers as to overwhelm us, even should we at first succeed in beating them off. Our Indians, I found, were fully expecting to see their companion drop down dead, from the effects of the poison they supposed to have been on the arrow; but either it had not been poisoned at all, or the poison had dried and peeled off, for the man did not seem to suffer more than from an ordinary wound.

The advantage of our having made our preparations for moving beforehand was now apparent, and to it we probably owed our safety; for, without the loss of a moment, as soon as our plan of proceeding was settled, we mounted and rode off at a rapid rate through the woods. The Cashibos caught sight of us, and saluted us with loud shouts and war-whoops, and a flight of arrows came whistling after us; but we were already beyond their reach, and it only made us gallop the faster.

“Sing away, old fellows!” shouted Ned; “though you’ve lost your supper, we’ve saved ours,” and he held out the monkey at the end of the spit which he had snatched from the fire as we were mounting, and brought along with him.

Fortunately the country before us was tolerably free of trees, and the rock I have mentioned served to guide us; but the sun soon sunk below the horizon, and left as for a time in darkness. The sky was clear, and a bright star soon came out, by which we steered our course towards the river. The chief danger now to be apprehended, was from the fallen trunks of trees, or any soft bogs into which our horses might sink. After a time the moon got up, and showed us more clearly our way. On we pushed, therefore, for though the Indians might not follow us in the dark, we were very certain that they would directly it was day; and our great aim was to get to some rocky spot by the bank of the river, where we might, by having the stream on our side, the more easily defend ourselves. Vampire bats and owls, and other night-birds flew by; and snakes and noxious reptiles crossed our path as we rode on; but nothing stopped us.

We pulled up when we reached the rock which had at first guided our course, and consulted whether we should take up our position there for the night, and prepare to defend it against the savages; but it was finally agreed that we would travel on till we reached the river. The journey would knock up our horses, but as we should have no further need of them, that could not be taken into consideration. Nita bore up very well; indeed she seemed to suffer from fatigue as little us any of us. Sometimes her husband carried her child, and sometimes Ned took charge of it. About midnight a halt was called, on an elevated spot, whence we could command a tolerably clear view on all sides. We required to rest and feed our horses as well as ourselves, though we could not venture to light a fire, which would have betrayed our position to our pursuers. While we rested and ate, we kept a vigilant watch; for though it was not probable that the Indians would have followed close to our heels, it was just possible that they might have done so, as in consequence of the numerous impediments in our way, a quick-footed man might have gone almost as fast as we did.

While I was gnawing away at the leg of the monkey, and looking out at the same time into the darkness below, I saw something move across an open glade. It came nearer, and stopped at a spot where the moonbeams streamed full upon it, when I saw that it was a large jaguar. He sat upon his hind-legs and looked at us very wistfully, as if he should like to secure one of us for supper. Presently he moved again and came a little nearer, when he sat down to look at us as before. I was going to have a shot at him, but Manco restrained me, observed that it might be heard by the Cashibos, and lead them to us. Still the jaguar crept nearer, and once more stopped to watch us. If he was hungry, we must have been very tempting to him. Our Indians at last thought it was no joke, for in another moment the jaguar might have picked one of us off; so they set up so loud a scream that they made him turn about in a fright, and scamper off into the forest. As this would to a certainty have led the Cashibos to us, if they were in the neighbourhood, we once more mounted and continued our journey. Sometimes I thought I heard the savages behind us; but the sound proved to be the cry of some bird or beast of prey.

No other adventure occurred, and, as day dawned, the calm waters of the river appeared shining brightly through the trees. A little further on rose close to the stream a high rock, the river face of which was almost a perpendicular precipice, while that inland was steep and rugged in the extreme. The top was of sufficient extent, it appeared, to enable us to pitch our huts on it, and to keep our horses there, it necessary. Having surveyed it, we discovered a path by which we could hope to lead up our horses, every other side being too difficult for men, even unencumbered with burdens, to climb up. After some trouble, we reached the top, whence we found a fine view up and down the river, and over a wide extent of forest on either side.

“The sooner we turn this place into a castle, the better for us, mate,” observed Ned. “What say you? We must get some trees down first, though.”

I told Manco what the sailor said, and he instantly agreeing, we set to work forthwith to cut down all the trees which grew around, and which might serve as a covert to the enemy, and would form palisades for us.

We set to work with a will with hatchets and knives, and in an hour had cut stakes enough to fence in the whole rock. Where the soil was of sufficient depth we drove them into it; and at the other places we piled up stones, which we brought up from the margin of the river. We gave ourselves not a moment’s rest; even while we were eating we were sharpening the stakes. Ned set the example, and we all imitated him. In more important points, as a leader. Manco showed himself fit to be a chief; but the British seaman, where manual work was concerned, was his superior. By noon we had a very respectable stockade run up, such as might withstand an attack for a short time from any ordinary enemy not possessed of firearms. All the trees and shrubs on the sides of the rock had been cut away, and stones had been piled up near all the more accessible points, to serve as a rampart, or to be used as weapons of defence.

“Now, mates,” exclaimed Ned, after he had walked with an air of satisfaction round our fortifications, “the work is done, so let’s pipe to dinner.”

To dinner, accordingly, we went; and one of our dishes was the sloth I had shot, and we had some more monkeys, and several birds, which we had brought hung on to our saddles. We were obliged to light a fire, and we did not fear to do so, as we knew that in daylight the Indians would just as easily track us without its guidance as with it. After dinner we began to construct our huts in a more substantial way than usual, as we should be compelled, we knew, to live here some time to build our canoe. Everything depended on the rapidity with which we could work, so as to be in perfect readiness to receive an attack from the cannibals, should they have ventured to follow us. It was night before all our arrangements were concluded; and as during the whole time we had not given ourselves a moment’s rest, we were well nigh worn out. It was necessary, however, to keep a watchful guard during the night, for which purpose we divided ourselves into three watches. We slept with our weapons by our sides, ready for instant use. When it came to my turn to watch, I walked round the ramparts to keep myself awake, for I was well aware of the cunning of the Cashibos, and that they always make their attacks at night. As I stopped for a moment, a long, shrill plaintive cry came through the night air, followed by three others of the same length, gradually deepening in tone, and which had a peculiarly melancholy expression. At first I thought the cry must have arisen from some human being in distress. I remarked it to the Indian who was watching with me.

“Ah, that sound comes from a little bird,” he answered. “We call it the alma perdida. It is bewailing the dead, and good cause has it now to sound its notes—Aye de me!”

The night passed on, and though on several occasions I fancied that I could distinguish the forms of the savage Cashibos skulking round us, none appeared, and daylight once more returned.

Chapter Twenty One.

Conclusion.

Voyage on the Amazon—Para—Sail for Rio de Janeiro—All’s well that ends well.

Our first care in the morning was to search for a tree which might serve us to scoop into a canoe, till lower down the Amazon we might fall in with one large enough to convey us to Para. Fortunately we discovered one to suit our purpose close to the rock, and we instantly set to work to bring it to the ground. Thanks to Manco’s forethought in providing us with good hatchets, in the course of three hours it lay prostrate on the ground, a piece of about thirty-five feet long being marked off to form the canoe. All day we worked at it, one man at a time being stationed on the highest point of the rock to give notice of the approach of an enemy. Before night we had made some progress in fashioning the bow, and in scooping out the inside. The night passed off as before, and we began to hope that the Cashibos had had a sufficient taste of our quality, and did not intend to attack us. Ned expressed his opinion that it would be necessary to build up some sides to our canoe; and as we had no means of sawing planks, we looked out for some tough smooth bark to answer the purpose. The Indians sewed the pieces we stripped from the trees neatly together; and afterwards they collected a quantity of black bees’ wax, with which to cover the seams. An Indian occupies the greater part of a year in making his canoe: we calculated that we could do the work, with the aid of our iron tools, in ten days or a fortnight. Three days had passed away, and still no Cashibos had appeared.

“They will, I suspect, not come at all,” I remarked to Manco.

“Do not be sure of that,” he answered. “You do not know their savage and revengeful natures. They will lie in wait often for weeks or months together, to destroy an enemy. I’m afraid that they have only gone to collect their friends, and will be down on us in greater numbers.”

The fifth night passed away, and the sixth night came. Our canoe, though far from complete, was sufficiently hollowed out to form a boat, and Ned had that day shaped some paddles; but we had still to build up the sides, and to pay over the whole with wax, to make it water-tight; also to put in seats, and half-decks to the bow and stern, as well as to provision her, to make her fit for our voyage down the river. It was my watch, and Pedro and one of the Indians were with me.

“Hist, Señor!” said the latter. “I hear an enemy’s footsteps on the ground. The sound comes down upon the wind. They think we are asleep, or they would be more cautious. Lie down, and we will not undeceive them till they are close to us.”

“You are right,” I answered; and I crept silently to where Pedro was standing, and told him what the Indian had said, desiring him also to rouse up the rest to be ready for action.

In another minute all hands were at their posts. We were only just in time; for presently we could distinguish through the stockades a number of tall savage-looking figures collected among the trees; and an arrow, with a burning head, was sent flying into the centre of our fort. It stuck in the ground, and did no damage. Instantly it was followed by a whole flight, and the most terrific yells and cries rent the air, as some hundreds of the fiercest-looking savages were now rushing on towards the fort.

“Now, be steady, and fire,” cried Manco.

We did, and each of us hit his man; our Indians at the same time sending their arrows from their bows as fast as they could draw the string, returning those which the Cashibos had sent. Several of our enemies had fallen by the time they had reached the foot of the hill. Still they came on, and began to climb the rocks. If they succeeded in getting up, and climbing over the stockades, we saw we should to a certainty be overwhelmed. On they came with terrific cries and yells. Again and again we fired, and rarely missed; but their numbers were so great, that little impression was made on them. They found, however, as they got higher up, their difficulties increased. Our Indians plied them rapidly with arrows, and at intervals tumbled down the stones on their heads, and we continued loading and firing without cessation. We could almost reach them with our spears; and so crowded together were they, that they impeded each other’s movements. This gave us a great advantage, of which we did not fail to profit; and seizing the largest stones at hand, we dashed them down on their faces, and knocked them off the cliff. Their places were, however, speedily supplied by others, and at length some of them succeeded in reaching the stockades. Now came the tug of war; for the fighting was hand to hand, where numbers would have the advantage. Just then I recollected the effect our horses had had on them before; and calling Manco, we mounted two which stood behind the hill, ready saddled, and dashed forward at the enemy with our spears in our hands, uttering loud shouts. The apparition so startled the foremost ranks, that they turned round to fly, hurrying those behind them back also. Seeing the success of our manoeuvre, we told the rest to follow our example. Nita, who had been by the side of Manco, leaped on a horse. Ned took hold of her baby; and the Indians, leading the baggage-horses, we prepared to gallop down the rock, and to charge the main body of the Cashibos. It seemed an act of desperation, but it was our only chance. Our arrows and stones were exhausted, and our ammunition would not have held out much longer. Our enemies, seeing us coming on with so bold a front, were seized with a panic; and, with loud cries, they all turned round and fled into the woods, leaving some dozen or more of their number dead on the field.

“We may now rest where we are, I suppose,” I observed to Manco.

“No, no!” he answered. “They will go away, and hold a war council, and return again before long. We must get away from hence, and put the river between us before daylight, or we shall suffer from it.”

Accordingly we descended from our rock, and security the horses to the trees, we united our strength, and launched our unfinished canoe into the water. The wood of which she was composed was so light that she floated high; but to give her greater buoyancy, we secured a quantity of dry rushes round the gunnel; and we found that when our stores were in her, there was room for all the party.

“Come, mates, it’s time to be under weigh, if we are not to wait till the Injuns are back upon us,” shouted Ned. But one of our Indians was missing.

While I was looking round for him, a bright light shone from the top of the rock, and soon afterwards he made his appearance. I found that he had gone back to light a fire, to make the Cashibos suppose we were still on the rock. Ned’s voice again summoning is, we embarked in the canoe; and the horses being fastened to their halters, plunged into the water after us, encouraged by the voices of the Indians. Ned, Manco, Pedro, and I seized the paddles, and away we went down the stream, gradually edging over to the opposite side. The horses, having been accustomed to cross rivers, swam well; and for half an hour we continued our course, till we reached a convenient landing place. Our poor horses were very much exhausted; but we reflected that had we left them on the other side, they would have fallen into the hands of the Cashibos. Our intention had been to have sent them back with the Indians; but the men had petitioned so hard to be allowed to accompany Manco, that he could not refuse them; and we, therefore, were compelled to turn our animals loose, with a hope that they might escape being devoured by jaguars or shot by Indians.

We had landed in a little bay, the entrance of which was concealed, from the opposite shore. By aid of our horses, we dragged up our canoe, which already had begun to leak from want of caulking. Close to us was a rock, very similar to the one we had left, and to this we resolved to fly if we were again attacked; but Manco and the Indians expressed an opinion that the Cashibos would not attempt to follow us across the stream.

As soon as daylight returned, all hands set to work to finish the canoe. Some went to collect more bees’ wax and bark, others fastened the bark to the part scooped out, and others put in the seats and decks, Ned acting the part of master-shipwright, and directing the whole, being actively employed with his own fingers at the same time. Three more days were occupied in finishing the canoe. At night we were afraid of lighting a fire, lest we should show the Cashibos our position, or we should have worked even then. We slept as before, with our arms ready for instant action. Our Indians shot some monkeys and three peccaries, with some birds, which served us for provision for some days; but we had no fear of being in want of food, as we were certain of finding an abundance of turtle on the banks of the river, and further down, of being able to purchase from friendly Indians, plantains, bananas, guavas, granadillas, pine-apples, water-melons, and many other fruits and vegetables. We waited till morning, and having bade farewell to our poor horses, we launched our canoe, and stepping into her, pushed off into the stream. We were but just in time to escape our enemies, for as we passed down we saw the shore lined with the Cashibos, who were launching a number of balsas and rafts with the evident intention of crossing to destroy us. They sent a flight of arrows after us, but as the river was here though somewhat shallow, yet very broad, by keeping over to the opposite bank, we escaped them. We had now paddles for all hands, and we plied them vigorously. Pedro and I found it at first very tiring work; but Manco, Ned, and the Indians were accustomed to it. The scenery we passed was often very fine, when the river ran between high rocks and ranges of hills. From the character of the country we felt sure that we should far outstrip any pursuers. To make certain, however, we paddled on the greater part of the night, the sharpest-eyed of the Indians being stationed at the bow to warn us of any danger we were approaching. Towards the morning we pulled into a little sandy bay, where we landed, and threw ourselves down wrapped in our cloaks, to obtain some rest. Scarcely was I asleep when I felt something pitch down upon my nose. I looked up, but no one was near me. I went to sleep again, when my head got a disagreeable thump, and so it went on. At last I shifted my position, but still the knocks continued, though I was too sleepy to heed them. Awaking at daylight I looked up, and in the trees overhead I discovered a large family of monkeys, who had, I doubt not, thus been amusing themselves at my expense. We were speedily again under weigh, and the stream running rapidly, we made, I dare say, from forty to fifty miles a day. We passed two or three rapids, down which we had to lower our canoe, and to carry her cargo by land. One was so dangerous that we judged it safer to haul her on shore, and to drag her over the ground to the lower side. This we did by means of rollers placed under her bottom, but the operation occupied us a whole day, and so weary were we, that we were very thankful the Indians did not think of attacking us that night. After this, the river became deep and free from obstructions of all kinds, so that we were able to allow the canoe to drop down the stream at night, two at a time only paddling, while the others slept. In this manner we made rapid progress. Sometimes, when there were no signs of natives, we landed, and built huts to rest in at night. We generally took these occasions to catch turtle, while our Indians went to hunt in the neighbourhood, and never failed to bring us back a supply of game. In about ten days after our escape from the Cashibos, we sighted a village built close to the banks of the river. It consisted of only eight or ten houses, but then each house was of great extent, with many divisions, and was the habitation of a considerable number of families. The sides were of cane, without any cement between the interstices, and the roofs were neatly formed of palm leaves. A turn of the river brought us upon it before we had time to pull to the opposite side, when a number of the inhabitants came forth with pacunas, their deadly blow-pipes, in their hands, prepared to shoot at us. Our Indians instantly hailed them, and informed them that a great chief was in the canoe, and entreated their hospitality. After a short consultation a friendly reply was given, and we pulled to the shore. As soon as we landed they came down and led us up to their houses.

There was something agreeable in their countenances, though their flowing hair and painted faces and legs and bodies gave them an extravagantly savage appearance, increased by their teeth being blackened, and by the bead ornaments which they wore round their necks, ankles, and wrists. The men wore a long loose robe, and the women one of shorter dimensions. There was little neatness in the internal economy of their dwellings. At the end farthest from the door was the fire-place, surrounded with pots and jars of many sizes. On each side were raised platforms for bed-places, and pieces of beaten bark for bedding, covered with musquito curtains. Bows, arrows, lances, pacunas or blow-pipes, were hung to the posts or rafters, an axe and a knife in some cases: bowls made from calabashes, earthen jars to hold chica, water and young turtles; a few blocks of wood for seats, a few baskets, a ladder to reach to the roof, a wooden trough in which masata is made, and a rude sort of loom, complete the furniture; from which list must not be omitted the lady’s dressing box which contains her paints and brushes, as well as her trinkets. The centre of the house is always left unoccupied, as beneath it are buried the members of the family who die, the living thus becoming the guardians of the dead. They gave us an abundant repast off vaca marina or manatee, called in English a sea-cow (a curious fish which I must describe), turtle, monkeys, and a variety of vegetables and fruits.

Our friends were great fishermen as well as sportsmen. The next morning I accompanied some of them in their canoes to catch a vaca marina. They watched for the animal till his snout appeared above water, when they killed it with their spears. In appearance it was something like a huge seal; but it has no power to leave the water. It was about twelve feet long, with a large muzzle armed with short bristles, and small eyes and ears. It had two thick fins and a longish thick tail; was very fat, and of a dark blue colour. To bring it home a canoe was sunk under its body; and when bailed out, it floated it up with perfect ease. The meat was in taste something between pork and beef. A large quantity of oil was extracted from the blubber.

Turtle flesh forms one of the principal articles of food of the people living on the banks of the rivers; and a very valuable oil is also extracted from the eggs, of which one female lays a hundred and fifty in a season. It is used instead of butter.

The fiercest inhabitants of the Amazon, and of its large and numerous tributaries, are the lagartos, caimanes, or alligators. In some parts they are seen basking in the sun, like logs of wood thrown up by the tide, with their enormous mouths kept open ready to catch the flies which settle on their lower jaw. Alligators lay eggs, and it is said that as soon as they are hatched the young ones try to run on to their mother’s back, and that the male alligator, who has come for no other purpose, eats all which fail to take refuge there, aided by the gallinasos and other birds of prey. Their natural food appears to be fish; and the Indians say that they will make a party of twelve or more, and that while one division blockades the entrance of a creek, the other will swim down, flapping their tails, and drive the fish into the jaws of their devourers. When they cannot procure fish, they will land and destroy calves and young foals, dragging them to the water’s edge to eat them. When once they have tasted human flesh, it is asserted that they will take great pains to obtain it, upsetting canoes, and seizing people asleep near the banks, or floating on their balsas. I have seen an Indian attack and kill an alligator in the water with a sharp knife. The Indian in one hand took a a fowl, and in the other his knife. He swam till it got opposite the alligator, when it made a spring at the fowl. On this he left the fowl floating, and diving below the surface, cut the belly of the monster open with his knife. I have seen one twenty feet long; and what with his enormous head, and horrid eyes almost projecting out of his head, the impenetrable armour which covers his body, the red colour of his jaws, his sharp teeth, and his huge paws and tail, make him certainly a very hideous monster.

The most deadly weapon the Indian of the Pampas uses is his pacuna or blow-pipe, out of which he sends his arrows, dipped in the fatal wourali poison. The poison takes its name from the wourali vine, the scraped wood of which, and some bitter roots, form the chief ingredients, boiled together. The rites and incantations employed, and the numerous other articles added to the poisonous cauldron, may remind one of the weird sisters’ concoction in Macbeth. The pacuna is composed of a very delicate thin reed, perfectly smooth inside and out, which is encased in a stouter one. The arrows are from nine to ten inches long, formed of the leaf of a species of palm, hard and brittle, and pointed as sharp as a needle. At the butt-end some wild cotton is twisted round, to fit the tube. About an inch of the pointed end is poisoned. Quivers are made to hold five or six hundred of these darts. The slightest wound causes certain death within a few minutes, as the poison mixes with the blood, and completely paralyses the system, causing, probably, little or no pain. The pacuna is very similar to the sumpitan, used by the inhabitants of Borneo and other people in the Eastern Archipelago, though the latter are not acquainted with the wourali poison.

I must hurry on, I find, with my adventures. For several days we proceeded down the Ucayali, till we arrived at a point where a small river, called the Shaunga, falls into it. The stream was broad and tranquil, and vast trees grew down to the water’s edge; while in the far distance, to the south and east, rose ranges of lofty mountains, reminding us of the distant Andes in miniature. Manco pointed them out to Nita.

“There,” he said, “is our future home, till the Spaniards have learned not to despise the Indian race. Then we will return, and once more endeavour to regain liberty for Peru, and to restore the dominion of the Incas.”

We here landed, and built some huts to last us a few days, while Manco sent one of our Indians as an ambassador to the chiefs of the villages, to crave the hospitality of the tribe. We employed the time till the return of the messenger in fishing and shooting, and in preparing the canoe for a longer voyage; for which purpose we fitted her with a mast and sail, a very patch-work affair, made out of our saddle-cloths and some bits of cotton stuff, which Manco had brought with him.

One day about noon, the sound of an Indian trumpet was heard; and soon afterwards, a dozen warriors appeared, their faces and bodies highly painted, and adorned with a profusion of beads. They were clothed in the usual loose tunics, and armed with shields and clubs, ornamented with the antlers of a stag and richly tinted feathers, one end being sharp, to use as a spear; as also with bows and arrows, and lances. They were, I found, of the Sencis tribe. These people live in good houses, cultivate the ground, and use canoes, and are a very intelligent and warlike people.

The present party came to welcome Manco to their country, and to express their willingness to afford him an asylum as long as he chose to remain among them, it was with deep regret that we parted from him and Nita and their child. He was too sensible to ask me to remain with him, feeling that, as a civilised man, I had my vocation elsewhere.

“I hope to be of some use to these poor people in improving their condition,” he observed with a sigh. “The employment will serve to soothe my weary exile.”

Manco, and Nita with her child in her arms, stood on the shore, as, hoisting our sail, we steered our course down the river. I watched them with aching eyes and a sad heart, till they faded from my sight. Many years since then have passed away, but I have never received any account of my brave and noble friend. He may have returned to Peru, when the War of Independence broke out, and the Creoles threw off the yoke of Spain. At that time a large number of Indians joined the liberal party, under the idea that if the Spaniards were driven out, their freedom and ancient institutions would be restored; but they found that under the new republic their condition was but little if at all improved. Many, I am told, however, still look forward to the time when Manco or his son shall appear, and the Inca and his race shall rule the land.

I wish that I had space to describe our very interesting voyage down the Amazon. I saw enough to convince me of the fertility of the soil, and the vast number of productions to be found in its neighbourhood, and on the banks of the many rivers which run into it.

After some weeks we reached the station of a Portuguese missionary priest, who received us most hospitably; and finding that he was about to despatch a vessel to Para, we were glad to abandon our canoe, and to embark in her. She was about thirty feet long and eight broad, the after part being decked with a house thatched with palm leaves, which served as the cabin for the passengers. In the fore part was a frame-work, covered also with palm leaves, under which the crew stood to paddle. In the centre was a mast, with a large square sail set on it. We had received as gifts several monkeys and parrots, and other birds and beasts, which now served to amuse us, as our own toils were over. Some parts of the Amazon, down which we sailed, were three miles wide, and appeared like large lakes. For many hundreds of miles steamboats might penetrate into the interior of that magnificent region; and I hope that the enterprise which is every day making new fields for its employment, may be directed ere long to that direction, to carry the advantages of civilisation among the numerous interesting tribes who inhabit its shores.

It was with much satisfaction that we reached the Portuguese city of Para, situated on the river of that name. From the sandy nature of the soil, and the steady trade-winds which blow from the east, the city, though but little above the level of the sea at high water, is perfectly healthy. There are a good many public buildings, and several largos or open spaces in the city; but the private residences have little pretension to beauty, though they are constructed with a due regard to afford as much shade and coolness as possible. We remained here but two days; for, finding a schooner sailing for Rio de Janeiro, and there being no chance of a vessel direct to England for many months, we resolved to go in her.

I shall never forget the intense delight with which Ned walked the deck as he once more found himself afloat on the open ocean.

“This is what I call life, mate—true life,” he exclaimed; “and it will be a long time before you find me out of sight of blue water again.”

Our schooner, the “Felicidade,” had a rapid passage to Rio de Janeiro. I cannot stop to describe that city, which has now become the capital of an empire. Indeed I saw very little of it. Nor can I picture its magnificent harbour, large enough to hold all the navies in the world. My first care, on going on shore, was to learn what ships were about to start for Europe. I found that one was sailing the very next morning. Ned, on hearing this, said he would go on board and look at the craft, while Pedro and I waited for him on the quay. He soon came back, and said that the “Susan” was a fine large brig; that he liked her appearance, and as she was short of hands he had engaged for the passage home at good wages. There was, he understood, an English family going home in her; but as she would have room for two more passengers, he advised me to return with him to secure berths for Pedro and myself. We, accordingly, forthwith went on board.

“Your name, sir,” said the master, when I told him my object.

“David Rexton,” I replied.

“Rexton! that is very extraordinary,” he replied. “Why, that is the name of my other passengers.”

Oh! how my heart beat with strange, wild, fearful, yet hopeful emotions at these words. I should have fallen on the deck, had not the kind-hearted man supported me.

“Where are they?” I at length found words to say.

“In the cabin at this moment,” he replied. “But stay, I have heard much about them, and suspect who you are. Do you go forward with my mate there, and stay quiet for a little time; while I go and prepare them for your appearance. By-and-by we will introduce your friend here, and he can tell them he has seen you alive and well.”

I put myself under the good master’s directions; and I need scarcely say that Heaven had mercifully preserved my beloved parents, and thought fit to re-unite me to them. The very night the village, where they had taken refuge, was attacked, the faithful Ithulpo had warned them in time to enable them to fly to the mountains, where they had concealed themselves in the hut of an aged Indian. Ithulpo had, unfortunately, quitted them, to look for some of their horses; and they had seen no more of him. From the hut of the Indian, after a detention of some weeks, they succeeded in reaching the coast, and getting on board a merchantman, engaged in smuggling. She directly afterwards sailed; and rounding Cape Horn, they put into the magnificent harbour of Rio de Janeiro, for water and provisions. Here my father found that the affairs of a branch of their house would much benefit by his presence. He accordingly had remained, till I so fortunately arrived.

We finally reached England in safety. Ned refused to touch any of the gold given to us by Manco; and I, feeling that I could do no less than follow the noble fellow’s generous example, devoted it to the service of Pedro, who was thus enabled to obtain the best education England could afford. Some years afterwards he went to Peru, and succeeded in recovering the larger portion of his father’s property. He fought in the War of Independence, when his native country threw off the yoke of Spain; but deeply disappointed in the result of that struggle, he lived in retirement on his estate, devoting himself to doing good to the surrounding population.

He wrote me word that he had made every inquiry for Manco, but could hear nothing of him. The Inca noble probably perceived that the War of Independence could do little to ameliorate the condition of his people, and refused to leave his retreat.

My tale is ended. Since the period of my adventures in Peru I have visited many countries, and witnessed many strange scenes; and this I can assert, that every event of my life has tended to confirm the lessons given me by my father, to increase my reliance on God, and to convince me more and more that He orders all things for the best; and that when He thinks fit to afflict His creatures, He has some wise object in view, even though we may not be able to discover it. Therefore, I say to my young friends, learn what is right to be done, and do it, fearless of consequences, and trusting in Heaven. Seek not for the reward of man, and be assured that God will care for you here, and more than amply repay you hereafter.

W.H.G. Kingston

"The Last Look"

Chapter One.

An Unwelcome Visitor.

The beauty of Seville is proverbial. “Who has not seen Seville, has not seen a wonder of loveliness,” say the Spaniards. They are proud indeed of Seville, as they are of everything else belonging to them, and of themselves especially, often with less reason. We must carry the reader back about three hundred years, to a beautiful mansion not far from the banks of the famed Guadalquiver. In the interior were two courts, open to the sky. Round the inner court were marble pillars richly carved and gilt, supporting two storeys of galleries; and in the centre a fountain threw up, as high as the topmost walls, a bright jet of water, which fell back in sparkling spray into an oval tank below, full of many-coloured fish. In the court, at a sufficient distance from the fountain to avoid its spray, which, falling around, increased the delicious coolness of the air, sat a group of ladies employed in working tapestry, the colours they used being of those bright dyes which the East alone could at that time supply. The only person who was moving was a young girl, who was frolicking round the court with a little dog, enticed to follow her by a coloured ball, which she kept jerking, now to one side, now to the other, laughing as she did so at the animal’s surprise, in all the joyousness of innocent youth. She had scarcely yet reached that age when a girl has become conscious of her charms and her power over the sterner sex. The ladies were conversing earnestly together, thinking, it was evident, very little of their work, when a servant appearing announced the approach of Don Gonzales Munebrega, Bishop of Tarragona. For the peculiar virtues he possessed in the eye of the supreme head of his Church, he was afterwards made Archbishop of the same see. Uneasy glances were exchanged among the ladies; but they had scarcely time to speak before a dignified-looking ecclesiastic entered the court, followed by two inferior priests.

One of the ladies, evidently the mistress of the house, advanced to meet him, and after the usual formal salutations had been exchanged, he seated himself on a chair which was placed for him by her side, at a distance from the rest of the party, who were joined, however, by the two priests. The young girl no sooner caught sight of the Bishop from the farther end of the hall, where the little dog had followed her among the orange trees, than all trace of her vivacity disappeared.

“Ah, Doña Mercia, your young daughter reminds me greatly of you at the same age,” observed the Bishop, with a sigh, turning to the lady, who still retained much of the beauty for which the young girl was conspicuous.

“You had not then entered the priesthood; and on entering it, and putting off the secular habit, I should have thought, my lord, that you would have put off all thoughts and feelings of the past,” answered Doña Mercia calmly.

“Not so easy a task,” replied the Bishop. “A scene like this conjures up the recollection of days gone by and never to return. You—you, Doña Mercia, might have saved me from what I now suffer.”

“You speak strangely, Don Gonzales,” said Doña Mercia. “Why address such words to me? Our feelings are not always under our own control. I know that you offered me your hand, and the cause of my rejecting your offer was that I could not give you what alone would have made my hand of value. I never deceived you, and as soon as I knew your feelings, strove to show you what were mine.”

“Indeed, you did!” exclaimed the Bishop, in a tone of bitterness. “You say truly, too, that we cannot always control our feelings. My rival is no more; and did not the office into which I rashly plunged cut me off from the domestic life I once hoped to enjoy, what happiness might yet be mine!”

“Oh, my lord, let me beg you not to utter such remarks,” said Doña Mercia, in a voice of entreaty. “The past cannot be recalled. God chasteneth whom He loveth. He may have reserved for you more happiness than any earthly prosperity can give.”

A frown passed over the brow of the priest of Rome.

The lady of the mansion, anxious to turn the current of the Bishop’s thoughts, and to put a stop to a conversation which was annoying her—fearing, indeed, from her knowledge of the man, that it might lead to some proposal still more painful and disagreeable—called her young daughter, Leonor de Cisneros, to her. Doña Leonor approached the Bishop with downcast looks.

“You are wonderfully demure now, my pretty maiden,” he remarked in a bantering tone, his countenance brightening, however, for an instant as he spoke to her; “but you were gay and frolicking enough just now, when I entered. How is that?”

“It becomes me to be grave in your presence, my lord,” was the answer.

“But you are generally happy and joyous, are you not?” asked the Bishop.

“Yes, especially when I think of the good and loving Master I desire to serve,” answered the young girl, innocently.

“Who is that?” asked the Romish priest, not guessing whom she could mean.

“The Lord Jesus Christ, who died on Calvary that I might be washed from my sins by His precious blood there shed for me,” answered the young girl, promptly.

“Ah! but you love the Holy Virgin, the immaculate Mother of God, too, do you not?” asked the priest.

“Yes, indeed, I do love the Holy Virgin, for she was blessed among women, and nurtured and brought up the dear Jesus, who died for me and for her too, that we might be saved,” said Doña Leonor, without hesitation.

“Ah! what! do not you pray to the Holy Virgin, little maiden?” asked the priest, looking at her sternly. “This must be looked to,” he muttered to himself.

“Why should I pray to her, when I have the gentle loving Jesus, to whom I may go in prayer at all times and in all places?” she asked with simplicity, and with a tone of surprise that the priest should not agree with her.

“And you do not pray to the saints either, then, perhaps?” he asked, before the girl had finished the last sentence.

“Oh, no! they are dead and cannot hear me. I pray only to the good Jesus, who always is ready to hear me; for He loves me more than my dear father did, or even than my mother can,” answered Doña Leonor.

“These are not Catholic doctrines, young lady,” said the Bishop in a tone of harshness he had not yet used. “Who taught them to you? They smack strongly of heresy.”

“I do not know what heresy means,” answered Doña Leonor, in an artless tone. “My dear father taught me what I know about the loving Jesus—that He is the only friend in whom human beings can really trust. It was the sure knowledge of this which comforted him through his illness, and made his deathbed so happy and glorious. He told us to meet him in heaven, and I do hope to meet him there some day. The thought of that makes me extremely happy, whenever it comes to my mind.”

“You hold very strange doctrines, child,” said the Bishop, sharply. “Has your mother embraced them?”

“I know nothing about doctrines, my lord,” answered Doña Leonor. “I think that my mother must hope to meet our dear father in heaven, or she would be very miserable; and I am sure she cannot hope to get there except through her trust in the blood of Jesus. I hope, my lord Bishop, that you expect to go there by that sure and only way.”

“I cannot expect to go there except by the way the Church points out, and I cannot even know that there is a heaven except through what the Church teaches,” answered the Bishop, in a voice that sounded somewhat husky. “That is the true Catholic doctrine, maiden, which it behoves all Spaniards to believe, and which they must be compelled to believe. You understand, maiden. Tell your mother what I say. But here she comes.”

Doña Mercia, wishing to escape from the remarks of her former admirer, had joined the rest of her guests, and afterwards retired to give some direction for their entertainment, little dreaming of the dangerous turn the conversation between her daughter and the Bishop would take.

“Ah, Doña Mercia, I find that your daughter is a little heretic, and holds in but slight respect the doctrines of the Church. As she tells me she was instructed in them by her late father, and as he must have imbibed such abominable principles during his visits to Germany from that arch-heretic Luther, I trust that they have proceeded no farther. But let me advise you to be cautious, Doña Mercia, and to inculcate Catholic principles into the mind of your daughter. Remember that from henceforth the eyes of the Inquisition will be upon you.”

“My lord Bishop, I have ever endeavoured to do my duty to my God, to my child, and to all around me,” answered Doña Mercia, meekly, unconsciously placing her hands across her bosom. “I trust that I have no cause to tremble, should the eyes of the whole world be upon me.”

“The eyes of the Inquisition are more piercing than those of the whole world combined,” answered Don Gonzales, in a low voice, which came hissing forth from between his almost clenched lips, in a tone which was calculated to produce more effect on the mind of the hearer than the loudest outburst of passion.

When the Bishop rose from his seat, he approached the rest of the company with a smiling aspect, and addressed them with that dignified courtesy for which Spaniards have ever been celebrated. Few would have guessed the feelings which were even then agitating his bosom; still, the party felt relieved when he and his softly-spoken, keen-eyed attendants took their departure.

Chapter Two.

The Inquisition.

At the time our story commences, the inquisitors scarcely suspected how far the opinions they so much dreaded had extended. They had satisfied themselves hitherto with burning Jews, Moors, and the poorer class of Christians, whose opinions did not agree with those of the Roman Catholic Church. Thus, when Don Gonzales Munebrega, soon after his arrival at Seville on ecclesiastical business, paid the visit which has been described to Doña Mercia de Cisneros, he was considerably startled at hearing her young daughter utter expressions which showed that she had been taught doctrines of a heretical character. The whole family were in his power. He had once loved Doña Mercia; she had rejected him. How should he now use that power? Tumultuous feelings agitated his bosom as he mounted the richly-caparisoned mule which stood ready to convey him to the convent where he lodged.

This was not the only visit he paid to Doña Mercia; but, though courteous to her guest, she was ever on her guard, and carefully kept Leonor out of his way. For once in his life he was baffled. Whenever he paid his visits the same caution was observed. At length he was compelled to take his departure from Seville. Years rolled on, but he never forgot the remarks made to him by the young Leonor de Cisneros. He had hated her father, he had been rejected by her mother. It is difficult to describe the feelings with which he regarded the daughter, still less those which he had entertained for the mother. Were they holy and pure? The lives of thousands of cardinals, bishops, and priests of all degrees, is the best answer to the question.

Don Gonzales Munebrega was rising in the Church. He had become Archbishop of Tarragona. His heart had become harder and harder; in reality an infidel—an alien from God—a hater of all that was pure and holy, he thought that he was becoming devout. He was resolved that if he was not on the right way to heaven, no one else should get there by any other. The war was now to begin against heresy and schism—terms abused, especially the latter, at the present day almost as much as in the darker days of Popish supremacy. There are to be found clergymen of the Church of England who can, unconcernedly, see many of their flock going over to the Church of Rome, whom they have possibly led half-way there; and yet should any of the rest of their congregation, disgusted with their Ritualistic practices, or fearing the effect of their false teaching on their children, strive to set up an independent place of worship, or to join any already established body of Christians, anathemas are hurled at their heads, and they are told that they are guilty of the heinous crime of schism—schism, in the sense they give it, a figment of sacerdotalism, priestcraft, and imposture. But does the crime of schism not exist? Ay, it does; but it is schism from the true Church of Christ, the Church of which He is the head corner-stone, the beautified in Heaven, the sanctified on earth; from God’s people, who are with Him in glory, who are with us here below, who are yet to be born; from the glorious company of the redeemed; from Jesus Christ, the Lamb of God, slain for the sins of the whole world, the risen Saviour, the one Intercessor between God and man. Those are guilty of trying to create schism who tell God’s people—trusting to the same precious blood shed on Calvary—that it is a crime to worship together, to commemorate the Lord’s death together, to put out the right hand of fellowship, to call each other brethren; ay, those are the causers of schism, against whose evil machinations Christian men have cause to pray.

But we must return to Spain. The year 1552 arrived. During it an auto-da-fé was celebrated at Seville, but as only a few poor Moors and Jews were burnt, it did not create much sensation; still there was no lack of spectators to see the burning. Several criminals were condemned to do penance on the occasion, and among them was the once celebrated preacher, Dr Egidius, whose crime was being true to his Lord and Master. The high conical cap and yellow robe in which he appeared could not make him ridiculous in the eyes of many of his fellow-citizens, even of those who did not sympathise with his opinions. At length he was liberated, and once more mixed with his friends at Seville. It was necessary, however, for him to be very cautious, lest, as his movements were watched, he should draw suspicion on them. Soon after he was released, he set out for Valladolid, where his wounded spirit was much refreshed by finding the progress the Gospel had made in that city and its neighbourhood. Over-fatigued by his return journey, he died shortly after his arrival in Seville. God, however, did not leave His Church in Seville without a minister. Constantine Ponce de la Fuente, on the death of Egidius, obtained the post of Canon-Magistrate in the Cathedral of Seville, previously held by him. This made him the principal preacher in the place, and gave him great influence, which he used in spreading the truth of the Gospel. He published numerous evangelical works suited to the understanding of the least educated of his countrymen. His system was not so much to attack the errors of Rome, as to bring the light of the Gospel to shine on their minds through his addresses and writings. In Valladolid and the surrounding towns and villages, men of talent and eminence were equally zealous in spreading Protestant opinions. They were embraced by the greater part of the nuns of Santa Clara and of the Sistercian order of San Belem, and converts were found among the class of devout women, called in Spain beatas, who are bound by no particular rule, but addict themselves to works of charity. One of the most active propagators of the reformed doctrines in the surrounding country was Don Carlos de Seso, who had for important services been held in high honour by Charles the Fifth, and had married Doña Isabella de Castilla, a descendant of the royal family of Castile and Leon. These few examples are sufficient to show the progress made by the Reformation at that time among the highest and most intelligent classes of the community in Spain—made, too, in spite of the ever-watchful eyes of the officers of the Inquisition, and notwithstanding the almost certain death with torture, and by fire, which would be the lot of any denounced by its familiars.

In Spain, in those days, as at present, it was the custom for ladies of rank to receive guests at their houses on certain days of the week. Doña Mercia de Cisneros was holding such a reception one evening. Guests of all opinions came. There were a large number of Protestants; they knew each other to be Protestants, but to the rest of the guests their opinions were unknown. Among the guests were two young men who, though apparently strangers to each other, were attracted by the same object—admiration for Doña Leonor, the youthful daughter of the house. Don Francisco de Vivers, the elder of the two, was an inhabitant of Seville, of considerable wealth and excellent family. He was considered amiable and generous; and was, moreover, handsome and agreeable in his manners, dressed well, and possessed a house and equipages surpassed by few. He was not at all insensible of his own qualifications for winning a young lady’s heart, and was, therefore, greatly puzzled at discovering that Doña Leonor seemed insensible to them. Don Francisco loved the world and his wealth far too much to give his heart to God; and Doña Leonor had resolved not to marry any one who would not make up his mind to do so. Possibly too, he might scarcely have heard of the reformed doctrines; he was a firm Roman Catholic. It was a faith which exactly suited him. He found it so easy for a person of his wealth to clear off any sins which might trouble his conscience.

The other young man who has been spoken of seemed to be a stranger in the place, though several affectionate greetings which he received showed that he was not so altogether. He was dressed in black, the usual costume of a lawyer in those days, and though not so handsome as Don Francisco, his broad forehead, clear eye, and firm mouth, showed that he was far his superior in intellect. Doña Leonor no longer turned away her head when he approached her, as she had done when Don Francisco drew near, but received him with a friendly smile, while an acute observer might have discovered that a blush suffused her cheek while he spoke. Don Francisco watched him at a distance, and an expression denoting angry jealousy came over his countenance as he saw the intimate terms which existed between the two. He little dreamed, however, of the cause of the earnest love which one felt for the other: it was the pure holy faith which both enjoyed, the same common trust, the same hope, the same confidence in the one ever-loving Saviour. They believed that they were to be united, not only for a time, but for eternity. Their acquaintance had commenced during a visit Doña Leonor had paid to some relatives residing in the town of Toro, of which place Antonio Herezuelo, the young man who has been described, was an advocate. It soon ripened into affection. No barrier existed between them, for the acute lawyer had already been converted to the truth, and, head and heart alike convinced, held firmly to it as the anchor of his soul. Doña Mercia did not oppose their union, for she perceived that Antonio Herezuelo possessed courage, determination, and a superior intellect, beside a gentle and loving disposition—qualities calculated to secure her daughter’s happiness, and which would enable him to protect her during the troublous times which she feared might be coming on Spain. She knew well what had happened, and what was occurring in the Netherlands, as did all the educated persons in Spain; but that did not prevent those who had the Gospel offered to them from accepting its truths, or from endeavouring to make them known among their companions. Those who were in the Church, and whose position enabled them to preach, promulgated Gospel truth openly, while laymen spoke of it to their friends in private, or addressed small assemblies of persons who appeared disposed to receive it.

Chapter Three.

A Narrow Escape.

The young couple, now formally betrothed, appeared everywhere together in public, and it was understood that before long their marriage would be solemnised. Many of the places, however, frequented by people of their rank, they avoided—the bull-fights and the religious spectacles—the one tending to brutalise the people, the other to foster the grossest superstition. Among the houses at which they visited at Seville was that of the widow Doña Isabel de Baena. Her guests, however, it was understood, only came by invitation. Most of them approached her house cautiously—sometimes alone, or only two or three together—generally when it grew dusk, and muffled in their cloaks so that their features could not be discerned. Often there was a large assemblage of persons at Doña Isabel’s house thus collected, though the spies of the Inquisition had not observed them assembling. Though sedate and generally serious in their manner, they were neither sad nor cast down; indeed, a cheerfulness prevailed among the company not often seen in a Spanish assembly. Doña Leonor was there with her mother. Don Antonio Herezuelo set out from his lodgings with the purpose of going there also. He had not gone far when, suddenly turning his head, he found that he was closely followed. Under ordinary circumstances this would have caused him little concern, but at present he knew the importance of being cautious. He remembered that by going down a lane near at hand he might return home again. This he did, and walking on rapidly, got rid, as he supposed, of his pursuer. After remaining a short time he again sallied forth, and taking a circuitous way to Doña Isabel’s house, arrived there safely, and, as he hoped, without being observed. Leonor had become anxious about him. She told him so when he arrived.

“Do not on similar occasions fear, my beloved,” he answered, with that brave smile which frequently lighted up his countenance. “God protects those who put their whole trust in Him—not a half trust, but the whole entire trust.”

“Yes, I know, and yet surely many of those who were tortured and suffered in the flames in the Low Countries put their trust in Him,” answered Leonor. “I shudder when I think of the agonies those poor people must have endured.”

Again that smile came over Herezuelo’s countenance. “Sometimes He requires those whom He loves best, and who love Him, to suffer for Him here, that He may give them a brighter crown, eternal in the heavens—the martyr’s crown of glory,” he answered.

“Ah, yes, I know that thought should sustain a person,” she remarked; “yet all tortures must be hard for poor, frail human bodies to bear.”

“Yes, if people trust to their own strength and courage they will mostly shrink at the time of trial, but if they trust to the strength God gives them, they will as surely bear with fortitude whatever He may allow to be layed on them,” was the answer. “Not one, but a hundred such assurances He gives us in His holy Word. ‘My grace is sufficient for thee,’ He says to all who trust in Him, as He said to the Apostle Paul. It is not moral, nor is it physical courage which will sustain a person under such circumstances. No, dear one, it is only courage which firm faith, or rather, the Holy Spirit of God, can give.”

“I know that—I feel that; yet it is very dreadful to think that those we love and honour may be brought to undergo such suffering.”

“Not if we remember that they may thus be enabled to honour and glorify their loving Lord and Master,” answered Herezuelo. “But see, here comes Don Carlos de Seso, one of the noblest of our band of evangelists. I heard that he was about to visit Seville. To him I owe my knowledge of the truth. He has, since his marriage with Doña Isabella de Castilla, who is, you know, a descendant of the royal family of Castile and Leon, settled at Villamediana, near Logrono. His evangelistic efforts at that place have been as greatly blessed as they were at Valladolid; and among many others, the parish priest of his own village has been converted to the truth. At Pedroso also, the parish priest, Pedro de Cazalla, has been brought to a knowledge of the truth, and now preaches it freely in his own and the neighbouring villages. Oh, it is glorious work; would that this whole nation might receive the Gospel!”

“Say rather the whole earth,” said Leonor. “If Spain becomes the mistress of the world, she will spread everywhere the glorious light of truth.”

“But if she puts out that light, she will as surely spread darkness and error,” observed Antonio, with a sigh. “See, De Seso is about to address us. Let us pray that, whatever God in His wisdom orders, we may believe in His justice, and submit to His will.”

A large number of persons had by this time assembled in Doña Isabel de Baena’s rooms. Among them, strange as it may seem, were a considerable number of monks, and even several nuns, though such rather in their outward garb than in reality. The latter belonged to the nunnery of Saint Elizabeth, while the monks had come from the Hieronomite convent of San Isidoro del Campo, situated about two miles from Seville. There was also present Domingo de Guzman, a son of the Duke of Medina Sidonia, and preacher of the Dominican monastery of Saint Paul. As soon as he had embraced the reformed principles, he became more zealous in propagating them. Such, indeed, was generally the case with all those in prominent positions who embraced the Gospel. They were in earnest. They had counted the cost, and well knew that should the Inquisition discover their proceedings, the stake would be their doom. Both Don Carlos de Seso and Don Domingo de Guzman addressed the congregation of earnest believers on this occasion. They prayed also with all the fervour of true believers, and hymns were sung of praise to Him who had called them out of darkness into His marvellous light. Don Carlos had deplored the want of books, and of Bibles especially, by which the truth might the more rapidly be made known, and had prayed that God would supply that want. Scarcely was the service concluded, when there was a commotion among the guests, and it was announced that a brave Christian friend, Julian Hernandez, after undergoing many dangers and difficulties, and great fatigue, had arrived with a supply of the books which were so much required.

A short time afterwards there was a cry of Julianillo, or little Julian, and a remarkably small but stoutly built man, dressed as a muleteer, entered the room. The guests crowded eagerly around him to hear his adventures. He had many to relate. How often he had narrowly escaped capture with his precious burden! but the Lord had preserved him. Had he been taken, he and his books together would have been committed to the flames. God had determined that the seed of those books should take root in the hearts of many natives of Spain, to bring forth fruit to His glory. Julianillo’s success made him resolve to set forth again to bring a fresh supply across the Pyrenees. Some of the more timid of his friends advised him not to make the attempt. “Satan and his priests will not like me to bring them,” he answered laughingly. “Those Testaments and Luther’s writings are the arms they dread more than anything else. That makes me feel sure that I am doing God’s work in bringing them, and that He will take care of me while I am so employed.” A brave and faithful answer, little Julian. Oh, what noble, true hearts there were in Spain in those days! and though many were crushed and destroyed, still some survived, and their descendants at the present day may yet become the salt of their native land—lights set on a hill to enlighten their long benighted countrymen.

Before the guests separated another short prayer was offered up, and a Gospel hymn was sung. Scarcely had the notes of the last verse died away, when a servant who had been sent out on a message hurried into the room. “Bad news! bad news!” he exclaimed. “We are all lost; the cause of the pure faith is lost; the inquisitors will have their way.”

The guests gathered round the man with anxious looks, for they knew well that at any moment they might be placed in the perilous position he announced.

“The widow Doña Maria Gomez is the cause of it all,” the man answered, to the eager questions put to him. “She is acquainted with every one of us, and we all thought her a true Christian. Every one here is also acquainted with the learned Doctor Francisco Zafra. The poor lady had, it appears, gone mad, and had been placed by her friends under Doctor Francisco’s care. As he is with us, this would not have been of much consequence, had not Doña Maria managed to escape from his custody. Now, horrible to relate, she has made her way to the Inquisition at Triana, and has denounced all the Protestants in Seville. As she was making her way to the Inquisition, she cried out what she was going to do, accusing all her former friends, and declaring that she should have no rest till she had seen every one of them committed to the flames. Doctor Zafra has never even been suspected by the inquisitors of favouring the Lutherans. Now, as he will be among the first denounced by the wretched widow, he has no chance of escaping. What shall we do? what shall we do?”

“Do!” exclaimed a voice; “put our trust in God, and act like men! Do! pardon me for speaking, señors—keep together and defy our enemies!”

It was Julianillo who uttered these brave words.

“But then we may all be captured together like fish by one net,” observed a gentleman.

“Let us pray, friends, for guidance and protection to the loving Saviour whom we serve,” said Don Carlos de Seso. “He will direct us, and enable us to undergo whatever He may think right for His own honour and glory.”

Don Carlos setting the example, the whole party sank on their knees, while he offered up a deeply fervent, though short, prayer for the assistance all needed. Refreshed, the company arose.

“I cannot agree with our friend Julianillo that it will be wise to keep together,” observed the lawyer Herezuelo. “Should the unhappy widow bring the accusation she threatened, and the officers of the Inquisition find us all together, they will naturally suspect that the information is well founded. No; let us retire each one to his own house, avoiding observation as much as we can. There let us be together in spirit, praying for each other. We should fear no harm when God is with us.”

Another short prayer was offered up and the Christian friends left the house as they had come—two and three together, in different directions, hoping thus to avoid observation. The monks returned to their convent, not, however, without having first been supplied with books from the rich stores which Julianillo had brought, and for which their brethren within its walls were eagerly looking. All the other guests went laden in the same way, and thus the Holy Bible and the works of Luther and others were quietly and secretly distributed throughout the surrounding towns and villages. Herezuelo begged that he might accompany Doña Mercia and her daughter to their home, for it was fearfully possible that even on their way they might be seized by the officers of the Inquisition and carried off to its dungeons. The last to leave the house was Julianillo. The lady of the house inquired where he was going.

“To bring to my famishing countrymen a fresh supply of food for the soul,” he answered.

“But surely you have done enough, Julianillo. You run a fearful risk of losing your life,” observed the lady.

“Enough, Signora! enough service to our loving Lord and Master!” exclaimed the little muleteer. “Oh, no, no! As long as there are persons in Spain desiring to learn about the blessed Jesus, so long will I try to bring them books which tell them about Him. And as to fearing the dangers which may overtake me, I am in the hands of One who can protect me through far greater than are in my path at present; and should He ever require me to witness to the truth of His gospel, I know that He will give me strength to undergo all the trials and torments with which its foes may seek to afflict me.”

Brave Julianillo! He went along the street singing a joyous air. To the words, however, he wisely did not give utterance. He took the way to the lodgings of the advocate, Herezuelo. Don Antonio had not arrived. After waiting some time, Julian became anxious. Could he have been seized by the officers of the Inquisition? It was too likely. Herezuelo had, he knew, openly preached the doctrines of the Reformation in his part of the country. At last, Julian thought that he might possibly be at Doña Mercia’s. “Why did not that occur to me before?” he said to himself. “Of course, if I knew that there was danger, I should stay by the side of my intended wife.”

He hurried off to Doña Mercia’s abode. He was at once admitted. He found the family in some consternation, for it was reported that Doctor Zafra had himself been seized, and, if so, there could be little doubt that he would be put to the torture and made to confess that the persons denounced by the poor mad woman were really guilty of entertaining Lutheran opinions. Herezuelo was endeavouring to comfort his friends. He could not but feel that the reports were possibly true. Of human help, therefore, he could not speak. An attempt to flee from the country would be hopeless, but he could point to Jesus Christ, to the God of mercy and love.

“Ah, my dear friends,” observed Don Antonio, “never let us forget that He has redeemed us and washed our sins away; and if He thinks fit to call us to Himself, even through fiery trials, He will give us strength to endure all that we may be called on to suffer, that we may glorify His name.”

“Just the remark I lately made, señors,” observed Julianillo, who at that moment entered the room. “Satan tries to frighten us, and to make us believe that He is stronger than our Master; but praised be God, we know that we serve One all-powerful to save, and who can, if He will, crush Satan under His foot.”

“The truth, brave Julianillo,” exclaimed Herezuelo, who in the volunteer muleteer found one whose heart sympathised cordially with his own. “And what do you propose doing?”

“Wait till daylight, and see what comes of this matter,” answered Julianillo. “Those who fly will be the first suspected. Doctor Zafra is a wise man. Sense may be given to him to outwit the inquisitors, or should he fail to do that, he will, I have hopes, suffer torture rather than betray his friends. In the meantime, cavalheros, let us be wise, and seek for strength and endurance from the Giver of all power and might.”

Following the advice of the muleteer, or rather the example of the apostles of old, those assembled knelt down in prayer, thus gaining strength and courage for what they might have to undergo. Oh, that Christians at the present day would remember that by earnest, frequent, persevering prayer, mountains will be removed, guidance obtained, difficulties overcome!

The greater part of the night was thus spent in prayer. As soon as the morning dawned, and people were once more passing to and fro in the streets, Herezuelo and Julianillo went forth to try and ascertain the fate of Doctor Zafra, on which apparently their own and that of so many of their friends depended. Should the mad widow’s story be believed, there could be no doubt that such an auto-da-fé would take place as had seldom been witnessed in Spain. They kept at a distance from each other, lest being seen together they might be suspected; thus, though fearless for themselves, wisely taking every precaution to avoid danger.

Herezuelo, as he walked along, thought of his beloved Leonor, so delicate, so gentle, so faithful. He himself was ready to undergo any torture the cruel inquisitors might think fit to inflict on him, but how would she be able to endure their barbarities? His heart rose in his bosom as he thought of this, and he could not help praying that a power might arise by which the foes of freedom would be driven from the land. At first he thought of an arm of flesh, carnal weapons—that some hero might arise who would liberate long-enslaved Spain; but, by degrees, a better spirit exerted its influence. “Through the sword of the Spirit, the Word of God, can error, superstition, tyranny alone be conquered.” He said to himself, “Ah! Julianillo is a greater hero than I am or can ever become, inasmuch as he does more to spread the Holy Bible throughout Spain than any other man.”

Hour after hour the friends waited in the neighbourhood of the Inquisition, in vain endeavouring to ascertain what had become of the widow and Doctor Zafra. In despair, they were about returning, when a calèche appeared, in which sat the doctor, with the widow by his side. He seemed calm and unconcerned, his attention being apparently wholly occupied in calming the agitation of the poor woman. Not a glance did he bestow on either the advocate or Julianillo. They had good hopes that the inquisitors had been satisfied; or, thought Herezuelo, “Can the doctor have become a traitor; and is he allowed by the inquisitors to go free that he may the more readily entrap others into their toils?” It was too probable that such an idea was correct; but Herezuelo quickly banished it as ungenerous from his mind, and hurried back to Doña Mercia’s house with the satisfactory information that Doctor Zafra was free. Julianillo arrived soon after, and expressing his belief that all were safe, stated that he intended to re-commence his perilous expedition to Germany. Still some hours must elapse before the truth could be ascertained for a certainty, as it would not be safe to visit Doctor Zafra’s house till dark. Much of the interval was spent in reading the Scriptures and in prayer. At length the truth was known. The sagacious Zafra, on being summoned, went boldly to the inquisitors, with a fearless, self-satisfied countenance. He laughed when the names of those denounced by the widow were read over to him.

“She has been mad for many a day, and a strong proof of her madness is that she should have picked out persons the most unlikely in Spain to be guilty of such heresies,” he replied. “Devout and exemplary I know they are; and those among them with whom I am acquainted are especially lovers of the true faith, and are persons in whom I have unbounded confidence.” The inquisitors, on hearing this, were so fully convinced that the poor widow’s representations had no other foundation than the visionary workings of a disordered brain, that they allowed the learned doctor to depart with her under his charge. Thus was the danger to the infant Church at Seville for the time mercifully removed, and while it gained strength to endure the coming persecutions, the number of Christ’s true disciples was much increased.

Chapter Four.

Signs of Danger.

Two years had passed away. Leonor de Cisneros had become the wife of Antonio Herezuelo, the advocate; they had settled at Toro, but occasionally made visits to Seville and to Valladolid, where they enjoyed the society of other Protestants—many of them illustrious, both by birth and talents, among the nobles of Spain.

The year 1558, fearfully memorable in Spain, at length commenced. Philip was about to return to his paternal dominions. Charles the Fifth was in his retirement in the convent of Saint Juste. The Inquisitor-general, Valdes, became more than ever certain that heresy was extending. Herezuelo and Doña Leonor were at Valladolid. They were at their lodgings in that city when a certain Juan Garcia, a goldsmith, was announced. He was well-known there as a sincere Protestant. It was his office to summon the brethren to meet together for prayer and sermon. The advocate, who knew him to be a true man, welcomed him cordially, and promised to attend the meeting. It was to be held at the house once occupied by Doña Leonor de Vibero, the mother of Doctor Cazalla. She herself had been dead for some few years, as were several of her children; but her house had been continued to be used, as it now was, as a meeting place for Protestants. Juan Garcia had a good deal of information to communicate with regard to the progress made by Protestant principles. He was very sanguine as to the success of the cause; and as the members of the Church had so long evaded the lynx eye of the inquisitors, he had every reason to hope that they would continue to do so. In his rounds he encountered Julian Hernandez, the persevering Bible importer. A warm greeting passed between the two friends. Julianillo was on the point of starting on another expedition, and could not attend the meeting that night. His heart would be with his co-religionists, and his prayers would ascend with theirs as he followed his mules over the sierra.

“The time may come, ere long, when we may worship together in public, and the books which I now bring in small numbers with difficulty and danger, may arrive in shiploads and be sold openly,” he added, as he shook his friend’s hand.

The goldsmith shook his head.

“That time is, I fear, a long way off,” he answered; “yet it behoves us, nevertheless, to pray for it.”

Juan Garcia, having performed his duties, returned to his home. He was not happy there. His wife, Maria Vallanegra, did not entertain his opinions. Now, it could have mattered very little what Maria thought on the subject, had she not gone to confession, where, not content with confessing her own sins, she took upon herself, at the instigation of the priest, to confess her husband’s also. What the priest said to her it is not necessary to repeat. She had had the same sort of things said before, and had not been shocked. He now, however, before he allowed her to depart, brought the enormity of her conduct fully before her, and told her that he could not afford her absolution, because she was married to one who held heretical notions, unless she could manage to get him duly punished. She had made her confession; but, after all, she had to go home without receiving absolution. She had observed that her husband was away from home occasionally for some hours, and not engaged in business; also, he occasionally remained out at night for a considerable time, and declined telling her where he had been. She had made a statement to that effect to the priest, together with her suspicions that Lutheranism had something to do with the matter.

“Then obtain all the information you can; and if you discover anything of importance, not only shall you receive absolution for all your yet unpardoned sins, but you shall receive a handsome reward, and a plenary indulgence for the future,” answered the confessor. “Exert your woman’s wit. Think of the indulgence you will obtain, and if your husband is, as you suspect, a heretic, he is utterly unworthy of your consideration. You cannot wish to associate with him in this world; and in the next, if you go to heaven, you must be ever separated from him.”

Thus exhorted, the wretched Maria returned to her home. She knew that her husband had a secret, and she resolved to discover it. If he should prove to be a Lutheran, it would be a pious act for her to deliver him up to justice. She procured a mantilla, such as is worn occasionally by tradesmen’s wives, and even ladies when going to confession, of a manufacture different from that which her husband was accustomed to see her wear. To throw him off his guard, she lavished on him far more affection than was her custom, and pretended to forget that she had ever complained of his leaving home without telling her where he was going. More than once she put on her mantilla to follow him, but before he had got far she lost sight of him in the crowd. At length, one evening, when the weather was rainy, and there were fewer people abroad than usual, she saw he was preparing to go out; and managing to leave the house before him, she concealed herself within an archway, whence she could watch which way he went. He came out; she followed him stealthily, but quickly. He called at several houses, she noted them carefully; then he went on till he came to the mansion of the Cazalla family. He was admitted at a side door. She took up her post at a spot whence she could watch the door. Her labours were to be rewarded. Scarcely had her husband entered than several other persons arrived, and then more and more, by twos and threes. Many of them she saw by their dress and carriage, as the lights their servants carried fell on them, were evidently persons of rank. She wished that she could venture to follow them into the house, to learn more about the matter. Still, the information she had gained might prove of the greatest value. The next morning she hurried off to inform her father confessor of her discovery. He told her to keep secret what she had seen; and the next time her husband went out at that hour, to come instantly and let him know.

The next prayer-meeting took place, and Maria gave timely notice of it to her father confessor, Fre Antonio Lobo. Had he been addicted to giving expression to his feelings, he would have rubbed his hands with satisfaction; he merely cautioned Maria to be silent as the grave as to what she had told him, and immediately set off to give the long wished-for information to his superiors. The Chief Inquisitor, the stern Archbishop, three other dignitaries appointed by the Holy Father the Pope to assist him in the extirpation of heresy by the destruction of heretics with fire and sword, and several other high officers, were seated in the council hall of the Inquisition when Father Antonio Lobo appeared among them. Some of them, like anglers, who, having been long unsuccessful in their attempts to hook their finny prey, declare that there are no fish in the lake, had inclined to the opinion that their countrymen were too staunch adherents of the Pope ever to be led astray by the doctrines of Luther.

“It may be as you suppose, Fre Ignacio,” observed the Grand Inquisitor to one of his assistants, who had made a remark to that effect. “But remember that it is our duty to seek diligently for all who may be opposed to our order and system, and to destroy them without compunction, with their wives and children, so that none of the viper’s brood remains to sting us.”

The stern expression visible on the countenances of those he addressed, as the light from the brass lamp which hung from the vaulted roof fell on them, showed that they were fully ready to carry out his advice to the extreme. A grim smile played over their features when Fre Antonio made his report.

“I knew that before long we should gain the tidings we desired,” observed the Chief Inquisitor. “In capturing a few we must take care that the rest do not escape us. Officers must be placed to watch all those who come forth from the Cazalla palace, and they must be followed to their homes and never again lost sight of. Meantime, messengers must be despatched forthwith throughout the kingdom, and all the ramifications of this most accursed heresy traced out, so that on a given day all the heretics which exist in it may be seized together and brought to punishment. We must surround the whole brood with our nets, and let not one escape.”

The proposal was thoroughly in accordance with the wishes of most of the council. No time was lost in carrying out the proposed plan. Through the assistance of the artful Maria, who continued, in spite of his caution, to worm out some important secrets from Juan Garcia, every Protestant in Valladolid was discovered and marked for destruction. Officers and familiars of the Inquisition were also placed on the highways leading to the frontiers, so that any suspected person attempting to escape from the country might be captured.

The Protestants, meantime, continued to preach the truth, and hold their meetings as before, not, however, without a sense of the danger in which they were placed. How the feeling came on them they were not aware. Still it did not make even the most timid wish to abandon their principles, but rather drew them nearer to God, and made them more and more sensible of their entire dependence on Him. The difficulties encountered by those attempting to escape from the country were very great. Few persons experienced greater than did the monks of San Isidoro, near Seville. Nearly all the convents in its neighbourhood had been leavened with the reforming principles. They had been originally introduced into that of San Isidoro by the celebrated Doctor Blanco, who afterwards for a time abandoned them, or rather, it may be said that a timid disposition made him conceal them. He taught his brethren that true religion was very different from what it was vulgarly supposed to be; that it did not consist in chanting matins and vespers, or in performing any of those acts of bodily service in which their time was occupied, and that if they desired to have the approbation of God, it behoved them to have recourse to the Scriptures to know His mind. After a few years a still more decided change took place in the internal state of the monastery. An ample supply of copies of the Scriptures, and of Protestant books in the Spanish language having been received, they were read with avidity by the monks, and contributed at once to confirm those who had been enlightened, and to extricate others from the prejudices by which they were enthralled. In consequence of this, they and their Prior agreed to reform their religious institute. Their hours of prayer, as they were called, which had been spent in solemn mummeries, were appointed for hearing prelections on the Scriptures; prayers for the dead were omitted, or converted into lessons for the living; papal indulgences and pardons, which had formed a lucrative and engrossing traffic, were entirely abolished; images were allowed to remain, as they could not have been removed without attracting notice, though they received no homage; habitual temperance was substituted in the room of superstitious fasting; and novices were instructed in the principles of true piety, instead of being initiated into the idle and debasing habits of monachism. By their conversation also abroad, and by the circulation of books, these zealous monks diffused the knowledge of the truth through the adjacent country, and imparted it to many individuals who resided in towns at a considerable distance from Seville.

Chapter Five.

The Storm Breaks.

The advocate Herezuelo returned one afternoon to his lodgings in good spirits. He had been pleading an important cause, which he had gained—right against wrong—the cause of a widow and her children; on one side helplessness and poverty, on the other power and wealth. It had been held that the widow had no prospect of success till the young advocate undertook her cause.

Leonor rejoiced with her husband. He had been prompted by no expectation of fee or reward; but simply from a desire, through love of his blessed Master, to assist the distressed. It was a happy evening to both of them. They sat in a balcony overlooking an orange-grove, the soft air they breathed made fragrant by the sweet-scented flowers. The stars shone brilliantly in the clear sky; and as, their hands clasped together, they gazed upwards into the immeasurable space, they felt what happiness would be theirs, could they be allowed to wing their flight in company to that blessed region where all is peace, and quiet, and joy.

“But we may yet have work to do on earth in our Master’s service, dear one,” observed Antonio. “Let us be content to remain till He calls us, and let our earnest prayer be that He will then, in His loving mercy, summon us together. It would be grievous to be parted from you, my beloved Leonor, even for a brief season.”

“I pray that, through God’s mercy, that day may never come,” said Leonor, looking with deep affection at her husband. “Oh, let us not think even such an event possible.”

They were interrupted by the arrival of a visitor. Several other friends had called to congratulate Herezuelo on his success. The fresh visitor was in the garb of a laic; but when he threw back the cloak which concealed his features, the advocate and Doña Leonor saw before them their friend Don Domingo de Roxas, the well-known prior and preacher, a son of the Marquis de Poza.

“I have come to bid you farewell, dear friends,” he said. “It may be for a short time—it may be for ever. This is no safe country for one who has preached the truth openly as I have done, and I have, therefore, resolved to escape to Geneva, where I hope to remain till happier times come for our poor benighted Spain. On my way I must visit our beloved brother, Don Carlos de Seso, and, it may be, induce him to accompany me, for I fear that neither is he safe while the inquisitors are seeking for victims to satisfy their thirst for blood.”

“We may say, rather, that while those miserable slaves to the tyranny and superstition of Rome think that any remain who have been freed from that hideous system they will endeavour, by every cruelty they can devise, to destroy them, if they cannot bring them back to slavery,” observed Herezuelo. “Of all the men in existence, I pity the officials of the papal system, and more especially the inquisitors and their families, be they cardinals, bishops, or other ecclesiastics, however wealthy and powerful. While we endeavour to counteract their designs, and to escape from their power, let us pray that their hearts may be turned from darkness to light, and that they may learn to know, love, and imitate that same Jesus whom they now persecute.”

“Amen! I pray for them likewise,” said Don Domingo. “But I must not delay. I came to advise you, my friend, to quit Valladolid. It is no longer a safe place for you, for even were your religious opinions not suspected, you have made mortal enemies of those whom you so signally defeated at law this morning.”

“You are right, my friend; and we purpose, God willing, leaving this city for Toro to-morrow morning by daybreak,” answered Herezuelo. “We shall not be out of danger even there; but I have duties to perform at that place, and I shall at all events be at my post.”

“I wish you had arranged to start to-night,” said Don Domingo. “The delay of a few hours is dangerous. If, indeed, you can discover an excuse for leaving the country altogether, let me entreat you to do so. The storm I see coming may blow over; but you are a man of note, and as the tallest trees are the most quickly blown down, you would be the first assailed.”

“I have no fancy for fleeing from danger, and feel disposed rather to face my enemies, and argue the case with them,” observed the advocate.

“The only arguments they trust to are the rack and the stake,” answered Don Domingo. “Against them your eloquence will avail you nothing. Trust not to any one of the Romish priesthood, nor to those under their influence; they are sworn foes of true religion and liberty, and the more enlightened they believe you to be the more eager they will be for your destruction.”

These and other arguments used by Don Domingo at length induced Herezuelo to agree to set forth on his journey immediately that he could procure a conveyance for his wife and her attendant. Don Domingo himself offered, indeed, to remain and assist them; but of this the advocate would not hear, and the friends departed, the former taking the road for Calahora, where he hoped to meet with De Seso.

Don Domingo, who was dressed as a Spanish cavalier of rank, attended by a servant, pushed on at a rapid rate. He was no coward, but he knew full well what the Inquisition had in store for him should he be taken, and he wished to escape their treatment. He avoided as much as possible all inns and places resorted to by the public, and kept, when he could, out of the high road. He hoped thus to reach De Seso, and to persuade him to bear him company in his flight.

Calahora was reached without interruption. The noble De Seso was very unwilling to believe the reports which Don Domingo brought him.

“You go, my friend; but I cannot carry my wife and young children, and will not desert them,” he answered.

No arguments would move him. He did not even think that the inquisitors would venture to interfere with persons in his position.

Reluctantly Don Domingo left his friends to proceed on his journey. Hoping to avoid observation, he turned out of the high road, with the intention of continuing his journey during the moonlit hours of the night. He had not gone far when he saw approaching him a man riding a tall mule, and leading a string of five or six pack mules.

The muleteer was jogging on, to all appearance, carelessly singing what sounded like one of the plaintive ditties then become common in Spain, though learned from the Moors. There was something, however, in the tone, and in a few of the words that reached the ear of Don Domingo, which made him look hard at the muleteer.

“My friend, if I mistake not, Julianillo!” he exclaimed. “What brings you this way?”

“Evil times, Don Domingo; for I know you in spite of your disguise,” answered Julianillo. “I received notice from a trusty friend that all the passes are guarded, and that I shall not have a chance of escaping, nor will you. For the present, if we would be safe, we must lie concealed. Come with me; we shall not be the first Christians compelled, for the truth’s sake, to take shelter in the caves of the earth; nor shall we be the last. I wish that we could give notice to more of our brethren, who might join us.”

The arrangements proposed by Julianillo were now concluded; and, followed by Don Domingo, he led the way down a road, or bridle path rather, which branched off to the right. Scarcely had he turned aside when the noise of horses’ feet coming rapidly along the road was heard. Don Domingo’s servant, who was some little way behind, came spurring on crying out, “Flee, master, flee! They are officers of justice! They are in pursuit of us!”

The advice was followed, but the path was rough. Don Domingo’s horse stumbled, and in another instant he and his servant found themselves in the power of the officers of the Inquisition. Their mouths were instantly gagged, and a dark cloak and hood were thrown over their heads, completely concealing their figures and features. Some of the horsemen pushed on, but after a short time returned, and Don Domingo had the satisfaction of believing, from some of the expressions they let fall, that Julianillo had escaped. As far as he could judge, his steps were retraced till the party reached the neighbourhood of Calahora; they were then joined by another band of horsemen escorting prisoners. He had too much reason to fear that his friend De Seso was one of them. Among the prisoners were several females—of that he was certain. He longed to ascertain if his suspicions were correct. So strictly, however, was each individual prisoner guarded, that he might never have ascertained the truth, had not a storm suddenly burst on the heads of the escort. Shelter was not far off, and while the horsemen were pushing on to gain it, one of the party made a bold attempt to escape. He had grasped the rein of one of the female’s horses, when a flash of lightning made it rear, and he had great difficulty in saving the rider from being thrown to the ground. In doing so, his hood became disarranged, and the features of De Seso were revealed. The officers of the Inquisition immediately seized him and secured him more carefully, while he and the lady were separated.

“Alas! my noble friend is in the same condition as myself,” thought Domingo. “May God in His mercy support him; but he suffers not alone. He will feel the sufferings of his beloved wife even more than his own. And we, alas! alas! are but a few, perhaps, out of many hundred Christians now in the power of these monsters of the Inquisition.”

The unfortunate prisoners were allowed no rest, were permitted to communicate with no one, but were hurried on till they reached the portals of that mansion of horror and despair—the Inquisition. But was it to them an abode of despair? No! A power more than human supported them. That strength which never fails those who put their faith in God held them up; for God has promised that His Holy Spirit, the Comforter, will be with them who trust in Him in all their troubles and afflictions.

As soon as they passed through the gates, each of the prisoners was conducted blindfolded to separate cells. Into these dark and foul holes delicate women and men, accustomed to all the refinements the age afforded, were thrust indiscriminately. No couch, no chairs, even, were allowed them; when weary of standing, they were compelled to sit down on the hard, cold and damp flag-stones. Scarcely a ray of light was admitted into their dens; the only sounds which ever reached their ears being occasionally the groans and cries of their companions in suffering. The system pursued by the inquisitors was too generally known to allow them a ray of hope that they would escape without the most fearful torture, or the alternative of giving evidence to condemn those nearest and dearest to them.

Chapter Six.

The Arrest.

Antonio Herezuelo and his wife Leonor knelt in prayer after their friend had left them. On rising from their knees, they decided not to make the attempt to escape.

“We cannot flee from the country, and the alguazils of the Inquisition can as easily find us at our house as in the city of Valladolid, should they suspect us of holding to the true faith,” said Antonio, calmly. “Our Heavenly Father knows what is best, and He may require us to testify to the truth of the doctrine we have learned of Him through the teaching of the Holy Spirit, and let us rejoice rather than grieve if we are so honoured. Oh, my beloved Leonor, be firm, whatever happens; cling to the truth as it is in Christ Jesus. Never allow that saint in heaven or priest on earth has the power to come between us and our one great loving Mediator, who stands at the right hand of God, pleading that He paid once and for all a full and complete ransom for us. Never acknowledge that by the word of a man bread and wine can be changed into the body and blood of our Lord Jesus Christ, of that Lord who is now in heaven, standing at the right hand of God, pleading that body broken, that blood flowing freely for all of us; pleading that all-sufficient, all-perfect, all-complete sacrifice made once, and never to be repeated, on Calvary. Never dishonour that Saviour, that precious blood-shedding, by acknowledging that it was insufficient to wash away all stains of sin, and that the fires of purgatory are required to cleanse the soul from sin, and to make it pure and holy, and fit to enter the presence of God. Oh, never acknowledge that any being in heaven or in earth has a heart more loving, more gentle, more merciful than the heart of Jesus, or that there exists a being, create or uncreate, who will more willingly hear our prayers, and bear them to the throne of grace—not even His mortal mother, who, though blessed among women, herself required, as being a daughter of Adam, to be sprinkled by His blood to obtain salvation. Do not own that sinful man, though he be called a priest, can absolve his fellow-sinner from sin, or that prayers can avail for those who have passed away without accepting the perfect salvation offered them here on earth. Die rather than be guilty of that gross idolatry of worshipping the elements of bread and wine, unchanged and unchangeable as they must ever be; and above all things hold fast to God’s blessed testament to fallen man, and refuse to acknowledge any doctrine which cannot be clearly proved from its whole and entire tenor.”

“Husband, dear husband, I will,” answered Leonor, solemnly. “Set me the example, and I shall be firm.”

“Dear wife, trust not to my example, but seek strength from the Holy Spirit. He will guide and support you. Your husband is but a frail man. Dearly as I love you, there is One who loves you more; trust Him.”

Much more passed between them. How solemn was that conversation! What deep, earnest, true love did Herezuelo exhibit to his young wife! It was interrupted by a sound which a quick ear only could have detected. It was that of footsteps stealthily ascending the stairs. Herezuelo arose, and unconsciously placed his hand on his sword, as the door burst open, and several dark and masked figures entered the room.

“Antonio Herezuelo and Leonor de Cisneros, you are our prisoners,” said one who appeared to be in command of the rest; “you are summoned to appear before the tribunal of the Holy Office to answer to certain charges which will there be made known to you.”

Antonio, though brave as a lion, saw that resistance was useless. “If you will allow my wife time to put on her walking dress, we shall be ready to accompany you,” he answered, with as firm a voice as he could command; but when he turned round to speak to Leonor, she was not to be seen, though he caught sight of a figure closely enveloped in a dark cloak, borne rapidly along a passage leading from the room by two of the alguazils. He attempted to follow, being sure that it was his wife thus forcibly carried off; but the moment he moved he found himself seized, and his arms pinioned behind him, while two men stood on either side of him with pistols presented at his head. In vain he struggled; in vain he attempted to free himself. The cords which bound him were drawn tighter and tighter. He was in the hands of those who had long utterly disregarded human misery and suffering.

In vain he pleaded, in vain he petitioned that he might see his beloved wife, even for a few moments, that he might have some parting words with her. He spoke as to men who were deaf. Not the slightest answer by word or sign did they give him, but immediately proceeded to examine all the cases and drawers and boxes in the room. They then went to the sleeping apartment, searching it throughout, and taking possession of every scrap of written paper, as well as of all the books they could find. There were gestures of triumph and satisfaction exhibited when a Bible and hymn-book were drawn forth. Antonio fancied that he could see the dark eyes of the familiars flashing under their hoods as they handed the books to each other. The advocate knew well the language those eyes spoke. “Here we have evidence which will convict him without doubt; no hope for him, no prospect of escape.” Yet he stood calm and motionless, striving by a mighty effort to quell the agitated feelings of his bosom, and to seek strength from the only Source whence it could be obtained. He seemed as though he had succeeded, when a faint cry reached his ear. He knew the voice; it was that of his wife. In an instant he had torn asunder the bonds which held him; he had dashed on either side the cowled alguazils who crowded round, and at a bound dashed through the doorway, down the passage whence the sound proceeded.

“Leonor! Leonor! I come to you,” he cried out; but as he uttered the words, a blow from a heavy staff on the forehead laid him senseless on the ground. When he returned to consciousness, it was to find himself in a narrow, dark, and noisome cell, which he well knew must be one of the secret prisons of that fearful institution, the Inquisition. He had often heard of the horrors those gloomy walls could reveal. He knew that thousands of his fellow-creatures had been confined within them; that very many had never again seen the light of day; that others had been brought forth as spectacles to be mocked at, dressed in fantastic costumes, and thus had been committed to the flames.

On the hard flag-stones he knelt down, and then, in close communion with his God, he obtained a strength and courage which no human power could have given him. Hour after hour, and day after day, passed away, and he remained alone in darkness, a cowled figure entering occasionally, and as quickly retiring, without uttering a word or making a sign. When not engaged in prayer, his thoughts were with Leonor; and even when thus engaged, they often turned to her, and she became their chief and absorbing subject, that she might have strength, that she might have courage to hold to the truth.

At length the moment arrived when his powers of endurance were to be put to the test—his faith, his courage. The door opened, and six familiars, with their countenances masked, and their figures concealed by dark robes, entered his cell. His eyes, long accustomed to darkness, could scarcely endure the light from a torch which one of them carried, but he saw that they made signs to him to rise and accompany them. He knew that to disobey would be useless. Rising from the ground on which he had been resting, he endeavoured by earnest prayer to nerve himself for the fearful ordeal through which he might have to go.

Chapter Seven.

The Torture.

Antonio Herezuelo was only one of many who on that unhappy night were seized by the officers of the Inquisition and dragged off to prison. In consequence of the information given by the wife of Juan Garcia, eighty persons were immediately apprehended in Valladolid, among those who had been present at the meetings; and in Seville and its neighbourhood two hundred were betrayed into the hands of the inquisitors by the treachery of a pretended member of the Protestant Church, and the superstitious fears of another. The first, suspecting that some of his acquaintances entertained Lutheran opinions, insinuated himself into their confidence for the express purpose of learning their secrets and of betraying them. The latter, hearing Lutheran principles denounced in the most fearful language, as the only means of saving himself from the results of the anathemas, hurried off and informed against all those he knew to be Protestants. Dismay seized upon large numbers of the most timid of the Protestants; and as people are often panic-struck when a ship strikes the rocks, and leap overboard into the raging surf, so some of them hurried off to the Triana, and accused themselves to the inquisitors of entertaining doctrines for which the stake was the sure punishment. Others, who had been before unsuspected, betrayed themselves by the hurried manner of their flight. Thus in a few days the chief members of all the Protestant Churches throughout Spain were either in prison, or fugitives, or hiding in the caves of the earth, among mountains and forests. In no place, however, were they safe, and many even of those abroad were betrayed into the hands of the emissaries of the Inquisition, and dragged back to Spain to suffer death at the stake. The inquisitors were not content with those who denounced themselves. Every possible means was employed to discover heretics, and to assist the object Philip renewed a royal ordinance—fallen into desuetude—allowing to informers the fourth part of the property of those guilty of heresy. This abominable edict greatly increased the zeal and activity of the vile tribe. Pope Paul the Fourth also assisted with eagerness in the object, and issued a bull enjoining all confessors to examine their penitents, from the highest to the lowest, and to charge them to denounce all whom they knew to be guilty of buying, selling, reading, or possessing any book prohibited by the Holy Office, the punishment being death. The great aim of the papists was to strike terror into the minds of the whole nation; and while they had not the most distant intention of extending mercy to those who professed themselves penitent, they were nevertheless anxious to secure a triumph to the Catholic faith (as they called their system of idolatry and tyranny), by having in it their power to read, in the public auto-da-fé, the forced retractions of those who had embraced the truth.

Antonio Herezuelo stood before the council of inquisitors. So well-known is the scene that it scarcely requires description. It is too true a picture—an exhibition of devilish ingenuity of man when he desires to tyrannise over his fellow-creatures, unsurpassed in cruelty by the heathen or most barbarous nations of ancient or modern days. There sat the inquisitors in a gloomy vaulted chamber—on one side the fearful rack, with grim, savage executioners ready to perform their office, a black curtain only partly concealing other instruments of torture, with hooded familiars standing silently round; while at the table sat two secretaries, ready to note every word uttered by the prisoner, to be wrested, if possible, to his destruction. The only person whose countenance could have been regarded with satisfaction was the prisoner. He stood calm and undaunted amidst those cruel men, who had resolved on his death. Hark! the president addresses him in a harsh, pitiless voice:

“Antonio Herezuelo, you have been accused by most credible witnesses of holding in disrespect many of the principal articles of our most holy faith. What have you to answer for yourself?”

“That I hold most sincerely and truly all the doctrines necessary for my eternal salvation, and all other doctrines which I find clearly set forth in God’s blessed Word, sent in His mercy and love as a sure guide to perishing man,” answered Antonio, boldly.

“Then you consider the Bible, by which so many are misled, as the only guide and rule of faith?” said the Chief Inquisitor. “You set at nought the authority of the Church?”

“I bow with all submission to the authority of the Church in all points in which she is clearly guided by Holy Scripture,” answered Herezuelo, who still clung, as did many of the Protestants of those days, to the false idea that there exists only one sole visible Church on earth; and believing that such a Church does exist, supposed it to be, in spite of all its errors, the Church of Rome.

“Then, heretic, you dare to say that the Bible is above the Church?” exclaimed the Inquisitor. “Why, fool, it is through the Church that you have a Bible; but it is not fit that the laity should possess it, for they can only, as we have evidence that you and others have done, make a most improper use of it. Therefore it is a prohibited book, and yet you dare to acknowledge that you have both possessed one and studied it. Ay, you have done so, and to your own utter destruction of body and soul.”

“To the salvation of my soul,” said Antonio, boldly. “Our blessed Lord Himself appealed to Scripture on many occasions, and to Scripture I appeal and trust.”

“Then you reject the traditions of the Church?” said the Inquisitor, looking towards the secretary, who was busily noting down all the questions he put, and the answers made by the prisoner.

“By tradition we may be deceived. Scripture is a sure guide, which, through the teaching of the Holy Spirit, will lead us infallibly aright,” answered Herezuelo.

“Oh, what abominable—what terrible heresy!” exclaimed the Inquisitor. “You deny, too, that the Blessed Virgin should be adored and honoured above Christ, as, being His mother, and, from being a woman, more ready to hear the prayers of the faithful than He can be?”

“The Virgin Mary was blessed in that she became the earthly mother of Jesus, and thus she was peculiarly honoured among women; but I find nowhere in Scripture that prayers should be made to her; on the contrary, at the marriage feast of Cana of Galilee, our Lord says, ‘Woman, what have I to do with thee?’ when she ventured to interfere in a matter she was incapable of understanding. Saint Mark tells us of the remark made by our Lord when told that His mother and His brethren waited without: ‘Who is My mother or My brethren? Whosoever shall do the will of God, the same is My brother, and My sister, and mother.’ When hanging on the cross, too, and looking down on Mary and His beloved disciple John, He said, ‘Woman, behold thy son!’ and then, addressing His disciple, He said, ‘Behold thy mother!’ ‘And from that hour that disciple took her to his own home.’ Not a word more does the Holy Spirit reveal to us of the history of the mortal mother of Jesus. All we know is, that, as a mortal child of Adam, she must have been saved by His precious blood shed on Calvary, for without that blood shed there is no remission of sins.”

The Inquisitor rose from his seat as if he would tear off his clothes, and sat down again, exclaiming, “Blasphemy! blasphemy! You deny, too, I hear, the necessity of confession and of priestly absolution?”

“I nowhere find it written that we are to confess our sins to man, but always to God. ‘A broken and a contrite heart, O Lord, Thou wilt not despise.’ In the Epistle of James (chapter verse 16), he says, ‘Confess your faults to one another, and pray for one another, that ye may be healed’; that is to say, if you have trespassed one against another, or if one brother has offended another. Nowhere do I find, however, that on sinners coming in faith to our blessed Lord, does He require them to confess their sins to Him before He will hear them. He says, simply, ‘Thy faith hath made thee whole; go, and sin no more.’ I find it also written, ‘Neither is there salvation in any other; for there is none other name given among men whereby we may be saved!’ When our Lord sent out His disciples, He said to them that all those who would accept the offers of the Gospel would be forgiven, or would have their sins remitted through them, or rather through their preaching; and those who, in spite of the preaching, refused to accept the offer, would have their sins retained. Through faith in Jesus Christ only can a person obtain forgiveness of sins; and John says, ‘He that believeth on the Son hath everlasting life, and he that believeth not the Son shall not see life; but the wrath of God abideth on him.’ This great truth a minister has the power to declare, but in no other way has he, according to the Scriptures, the right to absolve any persons from their sins. I hold that when our Lord said to His disciples, ‘Whose soever sins ye remit, they are remitted unto them; and whose soever sins ye retain, they are retained,’ He said it not only to all the ministers of the Gospel, but to all Christian men who go forth with the Bible in their hands, that they should declare the glorious Gospel truth that all who trust in Him, Jesus Christ, are forgiven; but that all who refuse to trust in Him still remain in their sins—their sins are retained.”

“Oh, what hideous blasphemy!” exclaimed the Inquisitor, he and his associates lifting up their hands as if in horror at what Antonio had said. “But go on, go on, fill up the measure of your iniquities. How do you interpret, ‘Whatsoever ye shall bind on earth shall be bound in heaven; and whatsoever ye shall loose on earth shall be loosed in heaven’?”

“Much in the simple way that I interpret the previous passage. The apostles, as employed in preaching the Christian doctrine among the Jews, were to release or loose them from certain obligations of the Mosaic law; but as they were not to release them from them all, they were to pronounce what were to be retained, or by what they were still to be bound; in other words, when a thing might lawfully be done among the Jews, it was a common mode of expression to say that that thing was loosed to them, and that if anything was unlawful for them to do, it was bound to them. The meaning of the expression was thus very clear to the Jews who heard Him. So Peter understood the same expression, and he knew perfectly well that he was simply to declare, both to Jew and Gentile, what was to be believed, and what was not to be believed, thus unlocking to them the doors of the kingdom of heaven, inviting them to come in, to become subjects of Christ. Such are his keys. On the great truth which he had confessed, ‘Thou art the Christ, the Son of the living God,’ was Christ’s spiritual Church to be founded, as on a rock against which the powers of hell are never to prevail.”

“Most horrible! most horrible!” cried the Inquisitor. “Then you do not acknowledge the authority of the Church, that his Holiness the Pope is the successor of Saint Peter, that the priesthood have power to forgive sins?”

“The Scriptures speak nowhere of Saint Peter having a successor, nor does our Lord give authority to him to appoint one,” said Herezuelo, boldly. “No Church can have authority with regard to spiritual matters except such as is clearly derived from the Bible, which is equally open to all men, while the only priest a Christian can acknowledge is the one great High Priest standing at the right hand of God, ever making intercession for us.”

“Horrible! horrible!” again cried the Inquisitor. “Then, if you do not acknowledge the priesthood, you deny the doctrine of transubstantiation, the great work performed at the Mass, the chief glory of the Church?”

“Certainly, I deny that the bread and wine at the Mass are changed in any way into the body and blood of Christ, with the soul and deity, the bones and sinews,” answered Herezuelo, solemnly. “I deny that when Jesus said, ‘I am the living bread which came down from heaven,’ He was even speaking of the Last Supper, or that He intended that it should be supposed that He was to become literally bread and wine, or rather that bread and wine should become Him, any more than that He should become a door, or a shepherd, or a rock, to all of which He likens Himself. He says, ‘The words that I speak unto you they are spirit, and they are life’; and then He continues, as if he would say, ‘Come to Me, and believe on Me, for that is what I mean by eating My flesh and drinking My blood; He that cometh to Me shall never hunger, and he that believeth on Me shall never thirst. As by eating bread and drinking wine your physical body is sustained, so by believing that My body was broken for you on the accursed tree, and that My blood was shed for you, will your spiritual life be sustained; and I enjoin you to meet together occasionally to break bread and to drink wine in remembrance of Me. Moreover, I promise you that as oft as you do this in My name, through love of Me, I will be spiritually in the midst of you.’ No other construction can I put on these words of our Lord, and in that faith I am prepared to die.”

“And die you shall, audacious heretic!” exclaimed the Inquisitor, who was no other than the infamous Munebrega, Archbishop of Tarragona, who had come over from Seville in consequence of the illness of his colleague. His eyes rolled; he gnashed with his teeth in fury at finding himself unable to intimidate the prisoner—he, before whom so many men of rank and condition had been compelled to humble themselves. He remembered, too, whose husband the prisoner was—the daughter of one who had despised and rejected him. “To the rack with him! to the rack! We must learn from him what other persons hold these abominable opinions, while we teach him to abandon them himself. Spare him not: for his soul’s good his body must be afflicted.”

Antonio Herezuelo cast his eyes to heaven, and from the depths of his heart there came up a prayer, earnest, solemn, of mighty power. Not for himself he prayed—not even for the beloved wife of his bosom; but he prayed that in the fiery trial he was to undergo he might not dishonour his holy faith; that he might hold fast to the truth; that the love of Christ, by which He keeps His own, might be exhibited through him. To resist would have been useless; and yet it cost him a hard struggle to submit to the indignities to which he was subjected by the brutal executioners ordered to carry out the Inquisitor’s sentence. There he stood, full of life and strength and energy, capable of enjoying to the full all the blessings that God has bestowed in this life on man. Even the confinement to which he had been subjected had not been able sensibly to diminish the strength of his well-knit frame. In another instant he was thrown, naked, and bound hand and foot, on to the cruel rack, every sinew and muscle of his body extended to the utmost, whilst agonising wrenches were given of the most fearful character, as the screws and ropes of the horrid instrument were set in motion. Not a word did he utter; scarcely a groan escaped from his bosom, though every limb was suffering the most excruciating torture; the blood gushed from his nostrils and mouth, his eyes well nigh started from their sockets. His physical nature at length gave way, though his courage did not fail him. He fainted. Death would have been a happy release, but his torturers took pains not to allow him that boon; restoratives were administered, and consciousness again returned. The surgeon who stood by, however, gave notice that he must not be subjected, for a time, to equal torture, or he would sink under it. He was therefore removed on a blood-besprinkled stretcher to another chamber, and the inquisitors proceeded with callous indifference to examine a fresh prisoner who was now brought forward.

The person who was next led before the inquisitors was of a character very different from that of Herezuelo. A glance at the rack made him tremble in every limb. The inquisitors saw immediately that he would afford them but little trouble, though, at the same time, that he might be made useful by his giving information regarding others. He might have passed in the world in quiet times as an earnest true Christian, but now alarm for his personal safety overcame every other consideration. He at once incriminated himself, and was soon induced to bring damnatory accusations against his friends. When all the information which could thus be obtained from him was secured, he was dismissed, though still ignorant of the fate which awaited him—it might be, if victims were required, to be consigned to the flames, or perhaps to add to the sad band of penitents supposed to have recanted their errors. Such was the character of several of those accused of heresy, though by far the larger number of persons seized by the Inquisition gladly suffered death rather than deny the truth. And now another prisoner appears—a female. She is clothed in black from head to foot. As the light from the lamp which hangs from the roof falls on her countenance, it is seen to be very pale, but not enough so to detract from the beauty of those young and fair features.

“Leonor de Cisneros, you are brought here accused of holding opinions which, if generally entertained, would be subversive of the opinions of our holy faith,” said the Inquisitor, in a peculiarly harsh voice. “Have you become sensible of your errors? and are you prepared to recant them?”

“I hold to the doctrines which I have been taught from my earliest days, and which I find clearly set forth in the blessed Word of God. I am, therefore, not aware that I hold any errors,” answered Leonor, calmly.

“What do you mean by God’s holy Word?” asked the Inquisitor.

“The Bible,” said Leonor, firmly.

“Are you aware that the Bible is prohibited to the laity, and that, were it not so, it is not susceptible of any private interpretation?” asked the Inquisitor.

“I am aware that without the aid of God’s Holy Spirit, which when Christ ascended up on High, He promised to us as our Instructor and Enlightener, we cannot expect to read aright this blessed Gospel,” said Leonor. “I am aware that in the Second Epistle of Saint Peter, 1st chapter, 20th verse, there is this expression—‘Knowing this first, that no prophecy of the Scripture is of any private interpretation.’ 21st, ‘For the prophecy came not in old time by the will of man; but holy men of God spake as they were moved by the Holy Ghost.’ I am aware, however, that the Greek word epilusis, which has been translated interpretation, means rather impetus, impulse; and therefore that the clear meaning is that no writer of the Scripture wrote according to his own mind or thoughts, but entirely as he was moved or impelled by the Holy Spirit. Therefore Peter in no respect contradicts his Lord, who says, addressing the people, ‘Search the Scriptures; for in them ye think ye have eternal life: and they are they which speak of me.’ Oh, my lords, what I have done—what thousands have done in Spain—has simply been to obey our loving Saviour in reading His holy Word, in striving to carry out His precepts by assembling ourselves together in prayer, by exhorting and comforting one another. If this be a crime, I am a criminal; but if not, why imprison us? why torture us? why kill us?”

She stretched out her hand as she spoke. Her youth and beauty, her pathetic look, the truth which came from her lips, might have moved hearts of stone, but nothing could move the demon-inspired minds of the Inquisitors of Spain—the base instruments of the Pope and his supporters, Valdes and Philip. They compressed their lips as Leonor spoke.

“You have disobeyed the Church,” answered the Inquisitor, with an unmoved countenance. “Unless you recant your errors, your punishment is certain. It may be that you will see the wisdom of so doing, and follow the example of those you love best. Remove the woman.”

So ended the first trial of Leonor de Cisneros. The inquisitors consulted together how she should be treated. She was evidently not likely to change her opinions by argument; the Archbishop was unwilling to have her subjected to torture. He had made up his mind that her husband must die. He was too clever a heretic, even should he recant, to be allowed to live. He was not likely ever to recant. But Leonor, she must be won over; her life must be saved. Notwithstanding her knowledge of Scripture, the clear declaration she had made of Protestant principles, the Archbishop did not despair. He had seen many who, firm at first, had, after a few weeks’ solitary confinement and scanty food, with occasional visits from friends desirous of saving them, completely recanted, and acknowledged their errors. He knew, too, the subtle arguments, the system of deception, the threats, the promises, the various artful methods of proceeding which could be brought to bear on a prisoner. Should these fail, he had other means in store by which he hoped to make her give up what he honestly thought her folly. How could a weak woman venture to set herself up in opposition to the Church? Many others, to be sure, had ventured to do the same, but few had spoken as she had done, and several had at sight of the rack recanted, and given all the information required of them.

Chapter Eight.

The Stake.

It was midnight. Eighteen days had passed since Antonio Herezuelo had been stretched on the rack. His lacerated flesh had healed, his stretched sinews had recovered somewhat of their original strength. His cheeks were still pale, his voice, when he spoke to himself, was hollow, his eye had lost its brightness, yet his mind retained much of its usual vigour; his spiritual life had never flagged nor had his faith grown dim. He was pacing slowly and still painfully up and down his cell, when the door silently opened, and a friar stood before him.

A harsh voice uttered these words: “Antonio Herezuelo, I have come to announce to you that unless you renounce your errors, and are forthwith reconciled to the Church, you will to-morrow suffer the just punishment of your infidelity, your blasphemies, your crimes.”

“I have confessed myself to God, who can alone forgive sins, as a lost, undone sinner, though washed in the precious blood of Jesus, and redeemed through faith in His perfect and complete sacrifice. I have, therefore, become one of the Church of the first-born. I am reconciled to God, from whom I was once separated,” answered Herezuelo. “What more would you have me do?”

“The Church knows nothing of the expressions you utter. Be reconciled to her; that is what you have to do, or you and your errors will be burnt together.”

“I cannot abandon the faith I hold, even to escape the cruel death you threaten,” answered the advocate.

“Prepare, then, obstinate heretic, to meet it!” answered the friar, savagely. “Be assured that there will be no mitigation of your sentence unless you recant; and then, in her loving mercy and kindness, if you are reconciled and confess, you will enjoy the privilege of being strangled before the flames reach your body.”

A scornful smile came over the features of the prisoner.

“A gracious boon, forsooth! And this Church calls itself after the name of the gentle, loving Saviour, who went about doing acts of kindness and mercy, and saving from physical suffering all who came to Him desiring to be cured!”

“I came not to bandy words with you,” cried the monk; “the flames which you will feel to-morrow will give you a foretaste of those you will have to endure throughout eternity as the consequence of your obduracy.”

“Our blessed Lord says, ‘I say unto you, My friends, be not afraid of them which kill the body, and after that have no more than that they can do. But I will forewarn you whom ye shall fear: Fear Him, which after He hath killed hath power to cast into hell; yea, I say unto you, fear Him.’” Herezuelo spoke these words calmly, and added, “Now, friar, I own that you and those you serve can kill my body, but you can do no more: my soul is in the keeping of my loving Saviour; neither the powers of earth nor hell can prevail against it; therefore I am fearless.”

With a curse, the friar turned and left the cell. Herezuelo sought strength in prayer for the fiery trial he was to go through. “It will endure but for a few minutes, and oh, then the eternity of bliss which will follow!” he ejaculated. “Why should I fear? why should I tremble? My trust is in God.”

Ere the sun, rising in a cloudless sky, gilded the spires of the numerous churches of Valladolid, on the 21st of May, 1559, their bells began to toll solemnly, and crowds to assemble in vast numbers in the streets. It was Trinity Sunday; but it was not because it was the Sabbath that the citizens were so early afoot, but there was to be a grand spectacle, looked for with almost the same eagerness as a bull-fight. The first grand auto-da-fé of Protestants was to take place that day, and all the people were eager to gaze at it—most of them for the sake of seeing so many lost and abandoned monsters put out of the world.

For this it was that the people came from all parts of the city and surrounding country into the grand square of Valladolid to witness the spectacle which had been prepared for them by those who impiously called themselves ministers of the loving Jesus. In a short time the whole of the grand square was filled with impatient spectators, except that space occupied by two large platforms between the church of Saint Francis and the house of the Consistory. In front of the town-house, and close to the platform intended for the inquisitors, a large box or deep-covered balcony had been erected for the use of the Royal Family, which they could enter without interruption from the crowd, and from whence they could enjoy a full view of the prisoners. Near it was a high altar, with the usual crucifixes, candlesticks, vases, and other ornaments of the Romish worship, made on this occasion as imposing as possible. In the box sat Doña Juana, Queen-Dowager of Portugal, and governess of the kingdom during the absence of her brother, Philip the Second, in the Netherlands. She was accompanied by her unhappy nephew, Don Carlos, heir-apparent to the throne, then a lad only of fourteen. It is said that on that occasion he vowed an implacable hatred to the Inquisition. To that fell tribunal, there can be little doubt, he became a helpless victim. Intimation of the intended festival had publicly been made in all the churches and religious houses in the neighbourhood. The attendance of the civil authorities and of the clergy was requested; and that the multitude might be encouraged to come, an indulgence of forty days was proclaimed to all who should witness the ceremonies of the act.

While outside preparations were going forward, the officials of the Inquisition were busy within the walls of the prison. The prisoners, being assembled, were clothed in the several dresses in which they were to make their appearance in public. Those who had erred only in a slight degree were clothed simply in black. The other prisoners wore a san-benito, a loose garment of yellow cloth, called in Spanish zamara, and on their heads was placed a high conical pasteboard cap, called coroza. On the dresses of those who were to be strangled were painted flames burning downwards, called fuego revolto, to intimate that they had escaped the fire; while the san-benito and coroza of those doomed to be burnt alive were covered with flames burning upwards, around which were painted devils carrying the faggots or fanning the fire.

Now, on that bright May morning, a procession was to be seen moving forth from the Inquisition of Valladolid. First marched a band of soldiers to clear the way, and then came a number of priests in their gaudy robes—alb, chasuble, tunic, and other garments, the names of which are familiar to modern ears. They were attended by acolytes and boys of various theological colleges, chanting the Litany in alternate choruses. Then came the mournful band of prisoners—those in black first, those marked with the fuego revolto following, and those destined to the flames walking last. Each prisoner was attended by two familiars of the Inquisition, and each of those destined to die, in addition, was accompanied by two friars, who employed all the arguments they could bring forward, all the eloquence they could command, in endeavouring to induce the prisoners to recant and confess their errors. Among the last of the sad band came Antonio Herezuelo. Though his face was pale, he walked with a firm step, and he replied now with a smile, now with a few gentle words, to the exhortations of the two friars. He, as was the case with his companions, had a halter round his neck, and in his hand he carried an extinguished torch, while his companions destined to the stake also carried extinguished torches or crosses. Many trembled and tottered as they moved along; indeed, no one bore himself more bravely than the young advocate. After the prisoners came the local magistrates, the judges, and officers of state, accompanied by a train of nobility on horseback. Then came the secular and monastic clergy; and at some distance, as if they were too great and important to mingle with ordinary people, rode in slow and solemn pomp the members of the Holy Office, preceded by their fiscal, bearing the standard of the Inquisition. That accursed bloodstained banner was composed of red silk damask, on which the names and insignia of Pope Sextus the Fourth, and Ferdinand the Catholic, the founders of the hellish tribunal, were conspicuous; and it was surmounted by a crucifix of massive silver overlaid with gold, which the ignorant populace had been taught to hold in the highest veneration. These were the persons who were to take the chief part in the performances of the day; they were followed by their familiars on horseback, who, with many of the principal gentry of the country, formed their body-guard.

With a few years’ judicious educating by the Jesuits, and a continuance of supineness and incredulity as to Rome’s designs on the part of British Protestants, of which all denominations are guilty, it is not at all impossible that similar scenes may be enacted in England. Ritualistic forms and ceremonies, and public processions, and, still more, the insidious teaching of numbers professing to be ministers of religion, are accustoming the people to a system which must end in their subjugation to sacerdotal despotism.

An immense concourse of people of the lower ranks closed the procession, vociferating to one another, with open eyes and necks stretched out eager to catch a sight of the condemned prisoners and the grand inquisitors as they ascended their respective platforms. The latter took their places, and then the Queen-Regent and the young prince took their places in the royal box, or bed of state, as it was called, surrounded by a number of the chief nobility of the kingdom.

It was six o’clock in the morning, and the sun was already glittering on the gilded crosses and other devices on the tops of the banners, when, the company having taken their places, Francisco Baca, the presiding inquisitor, was seen advancing to the bed of state on which the Regent and her nephew were seated; and then, in an authoritative tone, he proffered to them an oath to support the Holy Office, and to reveal to it everything contrary to the faith which might come to their knowledge. The Prince was seen to hesitate, and not till urged by his aunt would he consent to take the oath. It was the first time such an oath had been exacted from any of the Royal Family. Poor Prince! that look of his sealed his fate!

Antonio Herezuelo, from the moment he saw his wife dragged off by the familiars of the Inquisition, had been kept in utter ignorance of what had become of her. Not a reply could he get from any of the stern familiars who attended him. It vain he petitioned to be told whether she was in their power—whether she was well in health—whether she had been placed under examination. A sinister look was the only answer he received.

“Ay, I must trust in God!” Yes, Antonio, you—all who are in trouble, sickness, or any other adversity—may trust in Him with confidence, assured that He in His good time will bring you out of all your troubles.

As the familiars were clothing the prisoners in their habits of infamy, Herezuelo thought to himself, “How can I more advantageously employ the last moments of my life than by declaring to the misguided people the glad tidings of salvation, by telling them of the Saviour’s love, and that they require no other priest, no other intercessor than He?” Thus resolved to speak, he walked firmly onward to death, like a soldier to the fatal breach; but ere he reached the platform, at a sign from the monks, who had in vain, with all the sophistries they could utter, been endeavouring to shake his faith, one of the familiars thrust a gag into his mouth, which the other secured, and he was rendered speechless. Bitter for an instant was the anguish he felt, but prayer quickly restored to him his serenity.

“See! see! there is his lordship Melchior Cano, Bishop of the Canaries, mounting the pulpit. Listen! he is to preach the sermon,” was repeated by many in the crowd.

In flowing language and sonorous tones the Bishop put forth the claims of the Church of Rome to infallibility. He spoke of the importance of unity, of the crime of heresy and schism; and, finally, he enlarged on the duty of all Catholics to deliver over to justice all who were in the slightest degree guilty of those crimes. The sermon concluded, the clerk of the tribunal read the sentence of the penitents, who, on their knees, and with their hands laid on the Missal, repeated the confession. Those around them stood aside as the presiding inquisitor, descending from his throne, advances to the altar, and absolves the penitents a culpa under the obligation to bear the several punishments which have been awarded, whether banishments, penances, whipping, hard labour, or imprisonment—the deprivation of property being in all cases rigidly enforced, to the great advantage of the inquisitors. The Bishop, then, in a loud voice, administered to all present on the platform, as well as to the surrounding multitude, an oath binding them to live and die in the communion of the Roman Church, and to uphold and defend against all adversaries the tribunal of the Holy Inquisition.

As he spoke the multitude fell on their knees, lowly bowing their heads. Of the vast assemblage two men only were standing, with heads erect and arms folded on their bosoms. They were the martyrs resolved to undergo the fiery trial of the stake rather than disavow one article of their holy faith. They were Antonio Herezuelo, the advocate, and Francisco de Vibero Cazalla, parish priest of Hermigos, who was likewise gagged. There were twelve other unhappy persons condemned to death, but, having confessed, they were allowed the poor favour of being strangled before their bodies were committed to the flames. They, less courageous than the advocate and Francisco Cazalla, were compelled to kneel. But why does Antonio Herezuelo start and cast an inquiring look towards the group of black penitents kneeling near the altar? Before he could cast a second look they were hid from his sight; and now the Bishop of Placencia advances towards the group of those sentenced to death, and with a knife commences the operation of degrading the priests by scraping off the crown of the head the part which was supposed to have received the holy oil at their consecration. Then garment after garment was torn from them, the Bishop pronouncing all the time terrible curses on their heads. This done, the secular judges were summoned to receive the prisoners, and the Inquisitor formally delivered them over into their hands, saying, as he did so, in a hypocritical tone of compassion, “We beseech you to treat these poor people with the utmost commiseration—not to break a bone of their bodies, nor to shed a drop of their blood.” He said this, not only knowing that the prisoners were to be executed, but having especially arranged that they should be so—having, indeed, a few days before, acquainted the judge with the number of prisoners to be delivered over to him, in order that the required quantity of stakes, faggots, and other things necessary for the execution might be in readiness. The canons of the Romish Church, however, denounced against ecclesiastics who should be accessory to the inflicting of any bodily injury, and the above-mentioned expressions were used to avoid the censure of irregularity. The magistrates, on their part, swore that they would faithfully execute the sentences against the persons of the heretics delivered over to them.

All these ceremonies—audacious mockery of justice—occupied several hours; and now the condemned prisoners were compelled to march in front of the royal box, and pass those who had by recanting escaped the extreme penalty of the law. Again Antonio Herezuelo looked eagerly at the black penitents. What an expression of agony was seen to rise on his countenance as he beheld among them his beloved Leonor, the wife of his bosom, formerly united to him, as he supposed, in the one blessed faith and hope which animated his own soul. Who could paint the feelings which passed through his swelling heart? He would have given worlds to have been able to utter a loving entreaty to her again to take hold of the blessed truths of which he was even then reaping the fruition; but the gag prevented him. One prayer he breathed from the depths of his soul for her, and as he passed he cast at her a look of such unutterable agony, yet of such loving reproof and regret, that, like the lightning’s flash, it went to her heart. Well she understood its meaning. “Oh, my beloved Leonor,” it seemed to say, “why did you not seek for grace to hold fast to the truth, and for strength to go through the fiery trial, that, as we have lived happily together on earth, we might have ascended together to be ever with our risen Lord and Saviour?”

Full well she understood that silent appeal. It sunk into her heart. “Yes, yes, my Antonio, I will join you,” she exclaimed, stretching out her hands towards him. In vain she made the attempt to rush into his arms, for the cruel familiars held her back. In vain she struggled. She saw that to join her beloved lord in life was hopeless. She drew herself up with dignity. “Inquisitors, I will die with my husband,” she exclaimed. “I renounce for ever the gross errors of the Romish faith, which I have been induced to assume. I am ready to die as a true Protestant—a believer in the simple truths of the Gospel.”

“Away with her! Away with her to prison!” cried the Inquisitor. “She is mad; she is beside herself!”

“I am a Protestant. I will die with my husband,” exclaimed Leonor; but before she could say more a gag was thrust into her mouth, and she was surrounded by friars and familiars, so as to conceal her from the public view.

The look Herezuelo cast towards Leonor was the last he gave her on earth. Not another was allowed him. He was hurried off by the stony-hearted familiars, with his brother martyrs and their companions in affliction. The first part of the exhibition had been a cruel, a blasphemous mockery—that which was to follow was to be a diabolical reality.

Those condemned to death, either by fire or strangulation, were now formed into a melancholy procession, each person accompanied as before by familiars and monks, the latter disturbing the last moments of their yellow-robed victims by their senseless exhortations. Thus they proceeded slowly through the gates, accompanied by nearly all those who had witnessed the first part of the proceedings; the eager crowd making their observations on the appearance and bearing of the sufferers, many of the more brutal mocking and jeering, especially as they caught sight of the two principal martyrs. It might have seemed strange to them that of all the human beings collected they should have appeared the calmest, though the look of agony which arose on Herezuelo’s brow at the sight of his wife had not yet left it.

Arrived at the spot where the stakes were erected and the faggots piled up, further efforts were made to induce Cazalla and Herezuelo to recant. The former, seeing his brother Augustine not at the stake, but among those who were to be strangled before being burned, signified his sorrow by an expressive motion of his hands. The latter remained firm as before, unmoved by all the exhortations of the priests and monks. Even when instigated by his tempters, the unhappy Doctor Augustine Cazalla urged him to be reconciled to the Church of Rome, he turned on him a look of sorrow and compassion, mingled with contempt, which at once silenced the recreant from the truth. Herezuelo’s calmness seemed to excite the rage and all the evil passions of the priests and soldiers. They cursed and swore and reviled him in every possible way. “Ah! ah! in a short time, in spite of your bold looks, you will be in hell with your associate, Luther,” they shouted. To these and similar expressions he made no sign of complaints—only turning his eyes to that blue sky to which his beautified spirit was about to wing its flight towards the martyr’s crown of glory awaiting him in the realms of the blessed.

The faggots were lighted, the flames ascended, when one of the soldiers, enraged at his constancy, plunged his lance into his body, and thus saved him from the pangs he might otherwise have had to suffer. His fellow-martyr died with equal firmness, and the other victims were strangled before their bodies were cast into the flames. With them at the same time were also cast the bones and effigy of Doña Leonor de Vibero, which had appeared at the auto. This was done because at her house the Protestants had frequently assembled for prayer and praise. In a short time, of the fourteen human beings who had dragged their tortured, lacerated limbs to the spot, a few ashes alone remained. Such was the termination of the first great auto-da-fé of Protestants in Spain.

There was yet another spectacle to be witnessed that day. It was to see the house of Doña Leonor de Vibero, the mother of the Cazallas, razed to the ground, and the place on which it stood sown with salt. On the spot a pillar, with an inscription stating the cause of its demolition, was immediately afterwards erected, and stood till the commencement of the present century.

It is easy to conceive how Doña Leonor de Cisneros had been induced apparently to abandon the faith to which she had so long adhered. Falsehoods and devices of all sorts had been employed to induce her to make her peace with Rome. Every argument which sophistry could invent had been brought forward to shake her belief. There was a rack, with other fearful tortures, and the stake, on the one hand, and forgiveness and reconciliation with the Church on the other—ay, and a happy life with her Antonio. When at last the inquisitors found her stubborn, they did not hesitate to assure her that she had less wisdom than her husband, who had lately—convinced that the Protestant cause was lost in Spain—agreed heartily to conform to the faith of Rome, and to be reconciled to the Church. A rigid course of penance was prescribed for her, and after its performance she was told that she would be set free, and allowed to join her husband, who, as had been some others, would be banished the kingdom, though possibly a milder punishment might be awarded him.

Could it be possible that her husband would abjure his principles? Her faith wavered. If she remained obstinate, he might, she was assured, be brought out to witness her death. She was meditating on these things in her solitary cell when the door opened, and the Archbishop Munebrega stood before her. He spoke to her gently and kindly, as an old family friend. He would urge her to take his advice, and conform at once. Long she thought on the subject, but she could not pray for guidance. Why? Her conscience revolted against the act she contemplated. In a husky voice she told the Archbishop that she would yield.

“We will endeavour, then, to induce the advocate Herezuelo to yield also, lovely Leonor,” said the Archbishop, taking her hand and pressing it to his lips.

“Why, you told me that my husband had already yielded!” exclaimed Leonor, scarcely conscious of the act.

“I surely could not have said so, as I am not cognisant of the fact,” answered Munebrega blandly. “Be assured that for your sake I will endeavour to win him over to the truth.” Much more was urged by the Archbishop, but poor Leonor’s mind was in too great a whirl to understand the meaning of what he said. Cruel indeed was the conflict going on within her. “For the sake of appearances you will have to undergo some penances; but I will take care that they shall be as light as possible, that your health may be in no way injured,” he remarked; and with a treacherous smile the tempter left her.

No words can describe the unhappy Leonor’s feelings at seeing her husband among those condemned to the stake. It had been hoped by Munebrega, from the position in which she was placed, that she would not have discovered him. The effect has been described. On being conducted back to the convent to which she had been removed, she at once refused to continue the penances which had been prescribed. No persuasions could make her alter her determination; and therefore, as an obstinate heretic, she was returned to a cell in the Inquisition. Munebrega was soon in her presence. He reminded her that she was a widow and helpless—that he had the power of setting her at liberty. He entreated her on his knees once more to recant—to preserve her life—not to allow her beauty to be marred by a long imprisonment. She turned from him with loathing. Munebrega well knew the importance of caution. His chief and brother inquisitors were very indifferent what means were made use of (even the most abominable), provided they contributed to bring about the objects they had in view; but they would allow no private interests to be gratified. Day after day Munebrega visited the unhappy lady. His protestations, his arguments, every subject he introduced, only tended to strengthen her resolution. “Get thee behind me, Satan,” was her daily ejaculation when he appeared. She did not trust to her own strength, but hourly sought strength and grace from above to withstand all the trials and temptations to which she was exposed. Like Peter, she had fallen once; severe was the lesson she had learned. Like Peter’s repentance, hers had been deep and truly sincere. No longer did she trust to herself. Munebrega at last retired, gnashing his teeth at having been foiled by a weak woman, utterly incapable of comprehending the mighty power which had been fighting on her side against him. He now allowed other persons to attempt to move her.

Among others, her former admirer, Don Francisco de Vivers, was induced to visit her. He was still unmarried. What arguments he used it is not necessary to state. He was not hardened to the craft of the priests, and he left the prison abashed and confused. He visited her again more than once, and the idea was entertained by the inquisitors that he was moving her obdurate heart. At length, however, he was missing from Valladolid, and some of his friends feared, from some words that he had let drop, that he had offended the inquisitors, and was immured in their prisons.

It would be impossible to imagine, much less to describe, the cruelties practised on Leonor de Cisneros; and yet there were many hundreds of delicately-nurtured females and hidalgos of high rank suffering as she was physically in the numerous prisons of the Inquisition throughout Spain—many shut up in loathsome dungeons, destined never again to see the light of day.

Numerous autos-da-fé succeeded each other for the purpose of stamping out Protestant principles from Spain. The second celebrated at Valladolid took place on the 8th of October, 1559, for the purpose of celebrating the return of Philip the Second, husband of Queen Mary of England, who was employed at that time in burning her own bishops and other subjects for the same cause. King Philip was himself present, enjoying the spectacle, with his unhappy son Carlos, his sister, the Prince of Parma, three ambassadors from France, and a numerous assembly of prelates and nobility of both sexes.

The Inquisitor-General, Valdes, advancing to the bed of state, administered the same oath which had been taken by Don Carlos and the Queen of Portugal. Philip took it without hesitation, and, rising from his seat, drew his sword, in token of his determination to use it in support of the Holy Office.

A similar group to that before described, clothed in yellow garments covered with pictures of flames and devils, stood on the platform before the King and his court. The most noble-looking and highest in rank was Don Carlos de Seso, the upturning flames on whose robe showed that he was doomed to the stake. With him was Domingo de Roxas, Pedro de Cazalla, parish priest of Pedroso, who was destined to share the fate of his family. Doña Isabella de Castilla, wife of Don Carlos de Seso, was there, and her niece, Doña Catalina—condemned to lose all their property, to wear the san-benito, and to be imprisoned for life. There were also three nuns of San Belem; one of them, Doña Mariana de Guevara, was condemned to be strangled and then thrown into the flames; she was highly born, and even connected with Valdes, the Chief Inquisitor, but he could not save her from the consequences of her opinions. His subordinates resisted the applications he was said to have made on her behalf as an interference with their jurisdiction, and a proof of partiality and weakness unworthy of one of those whose office required him to be insensible to the feelings of nature and friendship.

The death of Don Carlos de Seso was worthy of his life; though gagged on the platform and on the way to execution, the instrument was removed when he was bound to the stake by the friars, who stood round exhorting him to confess. He replied in a loud voice, “I could demonstrate to you, unhappy men, that you ruin yourselves by not imitating my example; but there is no time. Executioners, light the pile which is to consume me.” These were his last words. The order was instantly obeyed, and, looking up, he died without a groan.

Another martyr was Juan Sanchez. Entrapped in the Low Countries by the emissaries of the Inquisition, he was brought a prisoner to Valladolid, and condemned to the stake. The cords which bound him having rapidly been consumed, he leaped unconsciously on to the stage where the friars were confessing some who had recanted at the last moment. The friars immediately collected round him, and urged him to retract his errors. Looking at the unhappy penitents who were risking their salvation to escape a few moments’ suffering, and then at the noble De Seso, standing unmoved amid the rising flames, he walked deliberately back to the stake, exclaiming, “I will die like De Seso.” More fuel was brought, and he was quickly in the joy of his Lord.

Numbers bore testimony to “the truth as it is in Jesus” by dying fearlessly like De Seso. At the same time, eight females, of irreproachable character, some of them of high rank, were burned alive; among them Maria Gomez, who so nearly betrayed the Protestants during a sudden fit of insanity. Having recovered her senses she returned to the Protestant faith, and soon was brought before the Inquisitors. She suffered with her three daughters and a sister. So hardened had the populace become by similar scenes, that not a single expression of sympathy escaped them as they thus witnessed the destruction of a whole family. Year after year passed away, and the same horrors continued to be enacted; the bloody-minded inquisitors being hounded on to their work of death by the bigot king; that king who, it has truly been said, was busily engaged in making Spain what she in a few years became, the lowest and least influential among the nations of Europe; while as truly was Elizabeth, by her wise measures, laying the foundation of England’s greatness and power.

Chapter Nine.

Freedom.

We must return once more to the unhappy Leonor de Cisneros. She was seated on a rough bench in her dungeon beneath the halls of the Inquisition. One gleam of light only was admitted by a small aperture, leading into a courtyard, far above her head.

The gleam fell on her marble countenance, pale as that of one who has ceased to breathe. Her once rich hair, now glistening like snow, hung over her shoulders, while her figure was draped in the dark robe she was doomed to wear. Heavy chains hung on her arms, which she could with difficulty lift to her head, whenever she strove to press her hands upon her burning brow. Even the agony of mind and body which she had endured had scarcely dimmed her beauty. Though her eyes had lost their lustre, yet in them was a fixed look of courage and resignation. Now she knelt down on the cold stones before the stool, and lifted up her manacled hands to heaven, towards which her countenance was turned, earnestly imploring strength and resolution to withstand the fearful temptations to which she was exposed. She was not disappointed. While she thus knelt, the door of her dungeon grated on its hinges. Slowly, and not without difficulty, she rose from her knees, and stood prepared to receive her visitor, whoever he might prove to be. She dreaded lest she should see the arch-fiend Munebrega; but instead of him, Don Francisco de Vivers stood before her. He advanced a few paces into the vault, and placed the lantern he bore on a stone shelf projecting from the wall on one side of the cell. He did not speak till the door closed behind him. He then stood before her with his plumed hat held in his hand, keeping still at the distance of a few paces.

“Doña Leonor,” he said, “I come to bid you farewell. The words you spoke to me during my last visits to you sunk deep down in my heart. The glorious truths you explained took root, and have since by God’s grace been abundantly watered. I obtained a copy of His blessed Word. I sought for instruction from those able to give it, and I am now ready, if it is His will, to add my testimony to the truth by my blood. I was sent here to win you back to life, and to gain you over to the false faith of Rome. You have been the cause of my becoming a thorough Protestant, and being made willing, if called upon, to suffer death—such death, that is, as man is able to inflict upon his fellow-man. Yet I am young, and do not desire to die. I have therefore resolved to quit my country for another land, where I may freely worship God according to the dictates of my conscience. I knew that you would rejoice to hear this. I therefore resolved, at every risk, to seek another interview with you. Dear lady, you will pardon me for the words I spoke to you on my former visits. I uttered them in my ignorance. I thought that I was thus benefiting you, instead of endeavouring to deprive you of that joy unspeakable which is prepared for those who truly love the Lord, and are ready to give up all for Him.”

“Oh, believe me, Don Francisco, when I say it, I have nothing to pardon,” replied Doña Leonor. “I rejoice to hear of your determination. Alas! I fear you would not benefit our unhappy countrymen by remaining among them. The spirit of evil has gained the supremacy; and while he reigns, with the sanguinary inquisitors as his ministers, the truth can never make progress in the country. Go, then, Don Francisco; my prayers, day and night, will be offered up to the throne of mercy that you may be protected from the dangers of your journey, and safely reach the haven of rest. It is mockery to speak of joy, but such joy as I am now capable of feeling will be mine when I hear that you have safely reached your destination. And oh, Don Francisco, pray for me, not that my life may be prolonged, but that I may have courage and support in the trials I may be called upon henceforth to bear; and that it may be God’s will that I may, ere long, be emancipated from my bondage, not to go forth into the world, but to be raised on wings of light to join my martyred husband, now singing praises with the heavenly choir before the great white throne of our loving Father.”

“Doña Leonor, your wishes shall ever be a law to me,” answered Don Francisco. “I shall see you no more on earth. Even should I be successful in escaping from this unhappy country, I believe that I shall never again return to it; and even if I did, I should not be permitted to see you. I hear that many Spanish Protestants are assembled at Genoa, among whom are several who were once monks at San Isidoro. Thither I have resolved to bend my steps, that I may worship with them, and gain from them instruction and counsel.”

“I thank our Heavenly Father that you have resolved on this step,” answered Leonor, “and I pray that you may be more successful than were my beloved Herezuelo and myself. Oh, that I had not believed the falsehoods that were told me before that dreadful day when I last met him on earth! Bitterly have I repented my weakness and want of faith. I should have known that no human power would have induced him to deny his Lord and Master, even for the sake of saving his life and being reunited with me. Ah, how weak and faithless was I! but I thank my God that, through the influence of the Holy Spirit, I had strength and power given me boldly to declare my faith in the truth, even though my so doing has brought me into this dungeon, and will ere long cast my body amid those flames which consumed the mortal frame of my husband. Oh, believe me, Don Francisco, to that day I look forward with eagerness and joy. My heart will bound with thankfulness when I am told to prepare for going forth to the stake.”

Don Francisco stepped forward and raised the manacled hand of the speaker to his lips. Then, casting one more glance of respect and sorrow at that still lovely countenance before him, he hastened from the cell, drawing his hat over his brow to conceal his agitation; then wrapping his cloak around him, he took his way through the narrow passages which led to the vaults, guided by one of the familiars of the Inquisition, till he reached the door of an apartment, at which his guide stopped and knocked. A voice desired him to enter. Don Francisco passed through the doorway, and stood in the presence of the Archbishop Munebrega.

“Do you expect to move her, Don Francisco?” asked the Archbishop, eyeing him narrowly.

“My lord, I do not,” answered Don Francisco, firmly; “yet I warn you that severe treatment will not effect your purpose. For myself, I would beg that I might not be again requested to visit her; but I yet entreat that her chains may be removed, and that she may be placed in a room where the light of day is allowed to enter, and be supplied with food such as her delicate nature requires.”

“Don Francisco, you ask what it may be impossible for me to grant,” answered the Archbishop, again casting a penetrating glance towards him; “but I will make known your request to my coadjutors, and, should they see fit, it may be granted.”

Don Francisco was glad when the interview with the Archbishop came to a close. He well knew the character of the man with whom he had to deal, and he dreaded lest any word he might incautiously drop should betray him. He hurried home. Already he had made every preparation which was possible for his journey. As the shades of evening drew on he left his house, and all the comforts and luxuries it contained, feeling that he should never return. Keeping his countenance concealed with his cloak, he passed unquestioned through the gates. Now he hurried on at a rapid pace for a league or more from the city. Then, turning on one side, he entered a small wood. He had not gone far when he found, standing under the trees, two horses, held by a short man in the costume of a muleteer.

“Ah! my friend Julianillo, I knew that I could trust you, and I am thankful that you have not failed me. It is time, if I would save my life, that I should leave Valladolid. Already the savage Munebrega suspects me, and I have bidden farewell to her for whose sake alone I should desire to remain in Spain. I could not bear to see her die; and yet, knowing the savage hearts of her persecutors, and her own firm resolve, I feel sure that, ere long, she will add another to the glorious list of martyrs. She has bidden farewell to the world and her fellow-creatures, and places her trust in One who alone can give her strength to undergo the trials she may be called upon to endure.”

“True, Don Francisco, true,” answered Julianillo; “but we must not delay. A few minutes may make the difference between life and safety, and imprisonment and death. When our brother Don Domingo de Roxas attempted to escape, from a short delay caused by his visit to the noble De Seso, he fell into the power of the inquisitors. But you, I trust, are not suspected, and we may in safety gain the borders of Spain without impediment. It will be necessary, however, to use caution, and above all things to trust to no one. There are guards on all the roads, and spies at every inn, ready to entrap the unwary.”

Saying this Julianillo held the stirrup while Don Francisco threw himself into the saddle. He then mounted his own horse, and together they rode out of the wood, and took the road towards the frontier.

Julianillo knew every part of the country. Each highway and every by-path was as familiar to him as if he had it mapped down before his eyes. Often and often he had travelled those roads, with his bales of goods surrounding the copies of the Bible and the works of Luther and others, which he had brought across the Pyrenees into Spain. He had, of late, however, been compelled to give up bringing any more copies of God’s Word into the country. He had, instead, devoted himself to assisting Protestants to escape from their persecutors. Those who had trusted themselves entirely to his care and guidance he had never failed to convey safely to their destination.

Their horses were fresh, and they were thus able to gallop in the greater part of the night. When morning broke, Valladolid was many miles behind them. As soon as the horses were rested they again proceeded on their journey. They thus continued till they were within a half-day’s journey of the frontier.

“We are now approaching the most dangerous part of the road,” observed Julianillo to Don Francisco. “It would be safer for you not to appear to be under my guidance. I may possibly be suspected, and as I am well-known, I should certainly be seized, while you might be allowed to continue your journey. But whatever happens, take no notice of me, and let us appear to be total strangers to each other.”

These remarks were made when the travellers were yet some distance from the inn where they intended to stop. Julianillo rode on ahead, Don Francisco following at a distance, so as just to keep him in view.

When Don Francisco entered the common room of the inn, Julianillo was already there, seated among a number of muleteers and other persons, laughing and joking with them. Don Francisco, on entering, took no notice of him, but placed himself at an unoccupied part of the long table, at the other end of the room. The guests were waiting for dinner, and in a short time large dishes of fried beans and pork were placed on the table. Don Francisco could with difficulty partake of the rough fare put before him. He ordered, however, a flagon of wine, and requested the host to partake of it, who, nothing loth, accepted his offer.

The guests had only just seated themselves when a party of mounted alguazils arrived at the inn, and, having stabled their horses, walked in to partake of the dinner going forward. Julianillo appeared in no way to be disconcerted. It was an anxious time for Don Francisco, for he could not help fearing that the alguazils were in search of suspected persons.

Having allowed time for the horses to rest, Julianillo started up, and beginning to sing a well-known comic air, sauntered out of the inn towards the stables. Don Francisco waited till he supposed his companion was on the road, and then, paying his reckoning to the landlord, begged that his horse might be brought round. Just as he was mounting, the landlord whispered in his ear—

“Stop not till you have gained the other side of the border, and then be not content till you are many leagues from it.”

“I know not what you mean,” answered Don Francisco, carelessly; “but supposing the advice to be of value, I should be truly grateful to you for it.” Saying this he rode quietly through the street of the village.

He had not gone far when he heard the mounted guards who had entered the inn following close behind. Instead of attempting to escape them he drew in his rein to allow them to come up with him. It was a moment to try the nerves of most men. They, however, rode by, saluting him as they passed, when they continued at a rapid rate. Fearing, should he show any inclination to push on, he might be stopped, he continued at a leisurely pace in the direction taken by Julianillo.

In a short time the sound of horses approaching him reached his ears, and he saw the very same party he had met before returning with someone among them. As he drew near, great was his grief to recognise Julianillo. Following the advice given him by that brave man, he approached the troop with as unconcerned a countenance as he could assume.

“Who have you got there?” he asked in a calm tone.

“A culprit who has long eluded us, but who has been caught at last, as many others who now think themselves safe will be ere long,” was the answer.

Anxious as he felt to assist Julianillo, he was well aware of the uselessness of making the attempt; the words he had just heard making him more anxious than ever to escape from the country. He therefore rode forward with the same unconcerned air which he had assumed on approaching the emissaries of the Inquisition. Following the advice of the innkeeper, as soon as he was out of sight of the party he put spurs to his horse, and ere night closed in he was many leagues within the territory of France. His adventures were like those of others who made their escape from the Inquisition. Being well supplied with money, he had, however, less difficulty than many others. He ultimately succeeded in reaching Genoa. There, though he was at first looked upon with suspicion, he was soon able to prove the sincerity of his conversion, and was received as a faithful Protestant among the brethren assembled in that city.

Meantime Julianillo was led by his captors to Seville. He was there brought before the Inquisitors. With undaunted eye and firm countenance he confronted his judges, who were at the same time his accusers. He denied nothing. He was accused of having been one of the chief instruments in disseminating the Gospel throughout Spain. He smiled calmly at the words addressed to him.

“I should indeed be proud to have performed so excellent a work,” he answered; “but those who have far more influence than I possess have had that honour. If I brought the Word of Life to those perishing for lack of it, I merely performed the part of the baker’s boy who brings the loaves to the door. It depended upon the people whether they would take the Bread of Life; and if they took it, whether they would feed on it. Hear me, ye ministers of tyranny and falsehood: I glory in declaring that I believe the only knowledge we possess of the perfect and all-sufficient sacrifice which Christ offered up once for all on Calvary, is that revealed to us in the Bible, and applied to our hearts by the Holy Spirit. I believe that the Pope and priests of Rome are ignorant of this great and glorious truth, that ‘the just shall live by faith,’ and faith alone. In this belief I have now for many years lived, rejoicing also.”

“Silence him! away with him!” cried the inquisitors, in deep and angry voices. “He is hopelessly contumacious. A speedy death by fire must be his doom.”

Julianillo smiled calmly as he heard these words pronounced.

“For many years I have been prepared for this,” he answered. “When I undertook the work in which I have been engaged, I counted the cost. I knew that I should have a rich reward, and all you can do is to hasten the time when I am to wear that crown of glory prepared for me in the skies; and, humble though I am, I feel well assured that it is a brilliant and a glorious crown.”

Before Julianillo could say more he was hurried away from the hall of the Inquisition, and thrown into a dark and noisome dungeon, there to remain till the day fixed for the next auto-da-fé, at which he was to suffer the extreme penalty inflicted by the Inquisition. He was among those who suffered on the day already described, when Don Carlo de Seso received the crown of martyrdom. Though he boasted of no exalted rank or lineage, yet, bold in the faith, he died as bravely as the most noble.

On the morning of the auto, addressing his fellow-prisoners, he exclaimed, “Courage, comrades! This is the hour in which we may show ourselves valiant soldiers of Jesus Christ. Let us now bear faithful testimony to His truth before men, and within a few hours we shall receive the testimony of His approbation before angels, and triumph with Him in heaven.”

These words were repeated to the inquisitors, and they, knowing full well his courage and determination, ordered him to be gagged, lest, when marching forth among the other condemned criminals, he should address the multitude, and perhaps gain their sympathy, or induce them to accept the truth, for holding which he was condemned to suffer. In spite of the gag, he continued by his gestures to encourage his companions condemned to death with himself; and thus until the flames rose up fiercely around him, he bore witness to the truth, and endeavoured to support them to the last.

Meantime the unhappy Leonor de Cisneros lingered on in prison. Every effort was made by the inquisitors and their familiars of high and low degree to induce her to recant, but she continued contumacious. Once only a gleam of satisfaction was seen to pass over her countenance; it was when a few words, incautiously let drop by one of her visitors, informed her that Don Francisco de Vivers had escaped from Spain, and had arrived safely at Genoa.

Was it in mercy, because her bigoted persecutors yet hoped that she would recant, that her life was still spared? or was it because their vindictive feelings made them unwilling to liberate their captive, and terminate her sufferings by consigning her to that death for which she waited longingly? Often she exclaimed with the Apostle Paul, in sure and certain hope of the resurrection of the just to happiness unspeakable, “For me to live is Christ, and to die is gain.”

Year after year passed by, and still she remained a prisoner in those dreadful dungeons. She had but numbered twenty-two summers when consigned to them, and eight long winters of existence passed afterwards over her head. During those weary years that heroic woman, with the most perfect constancy, endured insults, torture, starvation, while compelled to listen to all the arguments which cunning priests could adduce to make her change her faith.

At length, once more she stood before the judgment-seat of the inquisitors, among whom the Archbishop Munebrega presided. Did no recollection of that young woman’s mother, whom he had once fondly loved, or thought he loved, cross his mind? Did he not remember Doña Leonor herself, when in her early youth, radiant in beauty, he first beheld her, and heard from her lips the startling acknowledgment that she believed the simple Word of God and trusted to it? Now she stood before him a pale wan woman, weighed down with grief and physical suffering.

Again she was asked if she would recant, and reminded that it was for the last time.

“Oh, no, no!” she answered, her heart bounding with joy at the announcement. The captive was to be set free.

Now, in solemn mockery, the inquisitors arose, and pronounced Doña Leonor de Cisneros hopelessly contumacious, and condemned her to the flames.

A bright gleam rested on her countenance as she heard her sentence, but she uttered not a word, she made not a movement till summoned to return to her cell.

The 26th of September, 1568, at length arrived. Ere the dawn had broken in the outer world she rose from her hard pallet. Yet, hard as it was, her slumber had been calm and sweet. She knew not that it was her last day on earth. Kneeling, she lifted up her hands in prayer. She prayed for her persecutors. She prayed that the day-star might yet arise over Spain, and the Gospel be preached throughout the length and breadth of the land.

The door opened. A harsh voice ordered her to rise from her knees; prayer was not for one whom the Church had excommunicated. She obeyed. A monk, with a savage gleam in his eyes, stood before her. At the door were several familiars.

The monk’s errand was soon told. He had come to conduct her to the courtyard where the victims destined to appear in the auto-da-fé were collecting. The cruelties, the mockeries, the blasphemies of those hideous spectacles have often been described. All, all, Leonor endured, not only with patience and courage, but with a rejoicing heart. Calm and unmoved she listened to the long sermon poured forth by the Bishop of Zamora, who, from a lofty pulpit, addressed himself both to the victims and the populace.

When the blasphemous ceremonies were brought to a conclusion, joy lighted up her countenance. Firmly she walked to the place of execution, and submitted without a murmur to be bound to the stake. The moment she had longed for had arrived! The flames rose up around her, and her emancipated spirit flew to rejoin her beloved husband, and to be for ever with their Lord.

The End.

W.H.G. Kingston

"The Lily of Leyden"

Chapter One.

The warm sun of a bright spring day, in the year of grace 1574, shone down on the beautiful city of Leyden, on its spacious squares and streets and its elegant mansions, its imposing churches, and on the smooth canals which meandered among them, fed by the waters of the sluggish Rhine. The busy citizens were engaged in their various occupations, active and industrious as ever; barges and boats lay at the quays loading or unloading, some having come from Rotterdam, Delft, Amsterdam, and other places on the Zuyder Zee, with which her watery roads gave her easy communication. The streets were thronged with citizens of all ranks, some in gay, most in sombre attire, moving hurriedly along, bent rather on business than on pleasure, while scattered here and there were a few soldiers—freebooters as they were called, though steady and reliable—and men of the Burgher Guard, forming part of the garrison of the town. Conspicuous among them might have been seen their dignified and brave burgomaster, Adrian Van der Werf, as he walked with stately pace, his daughter Jaqueline, appropriately called the Lily of Leyden, leaning on his arm. She was fair and graceful as the flower from which she derived her name, her features chiselled in the most delicate mould, her countenance intelligent and animated, though at present graver than usual. After leaving their house in the Broedestrat, the principal street of Leyden, they proceeded towards an elevation in the centre of the city, on the summit of which rose the ancient tower of Hengist, generally so called from the belief that the Anglo-Saxon conquerors of Britain crossed over from Holland. Mynheer Van der Werf and Jaqueline reaching the foot of the mound, slowly ascended by a flight of winding steps, till they gained the battlements on the top of the ancient tower, the highest spot for many miles around. Here they stood for some minutes gazing over the level country, of which they commanded a perfect panoramic view. Below them lay the city, surrounded by a moat of considerable width and stout walls, which had already been proved capable of resisting the attack of foes eager to gain an entrance. Here and there bridges led over the moat, protected by forts of no mean strength. In all directions were silvery threads glittering in the sun, marking the course of the canals which led to Haarlem and Amsterdam on the north, and Delft, Rotterdam, Gouda, and many other towns on the banks of the Yessel and the Meuse on the south, while occasionally wide shining expanses showed the existence of meers or lakes of more or less extent, while westward the blue ocean could be seen, and to the south-west Gravenhague, or The Hague, as the place is more generally called. On every side were smiling villages, blooming gardens, corn-fields, and orchards, betokening the industry and consequent prosperity of the inhabitants. The city at this time bore but few traces of the protracted siege it had endured for a whole year, and which had been raised only three months before, when the Spanish force under Valdez, a lieutenant of the ferocious Alva, had been summoned to the frontier, in consequence of the rumoured approach of a patriot army under Prince Louis of Nassau.

At the period when our story commences, the heroic Prince William of Orange, loyally aided by his brothers, Louis, Henry, and John, and by other noble patriots, had struggled for seven long years to emancipate Holland from the cruel yoke imposed upon her by the bigot Philip of Spain and the sanguinary Duke of Alva. Their success had been varied; though frequently defeated, they had again rallied to carry on the desperate struggle. Several of their most flourishing cities had been besieged by the hated foe, some had fallen, and the inhabitants had been mercilessly slaughtered; others had successfully resisted, and the Spaniards had been compelled to retire from their walls. Count Louis had been defeated in a campaign in Friesland, but had escaped into Germany, where he had lost no time in endeavouring to raise another army. The Prince of Orange himself was then in possession of Rotterdam, Delft, and the intermediate country. Between those two cities was the important fortress of Polderwaert, which secured him in the control of the quadrangle watered on two sides by the Yessel and Maas or Meuse. The Spaniards meantime occupied the coast from the Hague to Vlaardingen, on the bank of the Maas. It should be understood that the country extending northward from the rivers which have been mentioned towards Leyden was generally level, and considerably lower than the ocean, which was kept out by enormous banks or dykes, and that it had been, by the industry of the inhabitants, brought under a perfect state of cultivation. There were certain spots, however, raised slightly above the surrounding flat, on all of which villages had been built. Enormous sluices existed at Rotterdam, Schiedam, and other places, by which the supply of water in the canals could be regulated; over these, as well as the dykes along the banks of the river, the Prince of Orange held perfect control. Besides the small force which enabled him to hold Rotterdam and Delft, he possessed a fleet of broad, flat-bottomed vessels, well suited for the navigation of the shallow waters of Zealand, where, under the brave and able Admiral Boisot, they were able to bid defiance to the ships sent against them by the Spaniards. Their crews consisted of those hardy sons of the ocean who, under the name of “The Beggars of the Sea,” had already rendered such good service in the cause of Freedom by the capture of Brill, the first place in Holland where the Prince of Orange was proclaimed Stadtholder, and in many other enterprises, when, according to their rule, no quarter was given to their hated foe. Besides Rotterdam, Delft, and Leyden, many other towns in various parts of Holland were garrisoned by the partisans of the Prince of Orange, and had either, with some exceptions, not been attacked by the Spaniards, or had successfully resisted the forces sent against them. Two, unhappily, had fallen; the fearful cruelties to which their inhabitants had been subjected by their conquerors showed the others what they must expect should they be unable to hold out. Of these, in Naarden, a small city on the coast of the Zuyder Zee, scarcely a man had been left alive, the whole population having been given over to indiscriminate slaughter. Haarlem, after an heroic defence of seven months, had been compelled to capitulate, when, notwithstanding the promises of Don Frederic, Alva’s son, a large number of the principal citizens, as well as others of all ranks, and every man who had borne arms, were cruelly put to death, the survivors being treated with the greatest cruelty. The mind shrinks from contemplating such horrors, and the Hollanders might well desire to emancipate themselves from the rule of a sovereign capable of allowing them.

The burgomaster and his daughter had stood for some minutes without speaking, their eyes gazing down on the smiling landscape which has been described, yet the minds of neither of them had been engaged in admiring its beauties.

“Would that I had been more determined in endeavouring to induce our citizens to level those forts and redoubts left by the Spaniards, and had also taken steps to re-victual the city and to strengthen our garrison. I have just received a letter from our noble Stadtholder, urging me to see to these matters, and I must do so without delay.” The burgomaster, as he spoke, pointed to several redoubts and forts which in different directions had been thrown up by the Spaniards during their former investment of the place. To the south-east and east were two of especial strength—Zoeterwoude and Lammen, the first about 500 yards from the walls, the latter not more than half that distance. From these forts a bank or causeway ran westward towards the Hague.

“I ought to have exerted all the influence I possessed to get the task accomplished,” continued the burgomaster. “By God’s merciful providence we were before preserved, but He helps those who, trusting to Him, labour as He would have them. The Spaniards may not return, but it is our duty to be prepared for them, though I trust that we shall soon hear of a glorious victory gained over them by the noble Count Louis.”

“Heaven defend him and his brave troops,” murmured Jaqueline; and she thought of one who had accompanied the Count to the field and who had from his earliest days engaged in the desperate struggle both at sea and on shore. Again the burgomaster was silent, and Jaqueline’s thoughts wandered far away to the army of Count Louis. The chief magistrate had come up, as was his wont, to consider the measures which it might be necessary to take for the benefit of the city over which he presided. Here, under ordinary circumstances, he was not likely to be interrupted by visitors. Jaqueline’s thoughts were recalled to the present moment by hearing a light footstep ascending the stairs of the tower. A young boy appeared, whose dress showed that he belonged to the upper orders, his countenance animated and intelligent. “Why, Albert Van der Does, what has brought you here in so great a hurry?” asked Jaqueline, as she cast a glance at the boy’s handsome face glowing with the exertion he had made.

“I had gone to your house, and finding that you had come up here, I thought you would give me leave to follow you,” he answered.

“You have taken the leave, at all events,” she said, smiling; “but what object had you in coming here this morning?”

“A very important one; I want you to accept the remainder of my pigeons; those I before gave you have become so tame and look so happy that I am unwilling to deprive the others of the privilege of belonging to you.”

“Is it only affection for your feathered friends that induces you to make me the offer?” she asked, archly.

“I confess that I have another reason,” he answered. “I shall no longer have time to attend to my pets; I heard my father say that we shall soon be engaged in more stirring work than we have had since the Spaniards marched to the eastward. As soon as Count Louis forms a junction with the Prince, every person capable of bearing arms should be prepared to engage in the struggle, and I want, therefore, to practice the use of weapons and to learn to be a soldier.”

“You will make a brave one, I am sure,” said Jaqueline.

“And will you accept my birds?” asked Albert.

“I cannot refuse what you so freely offer, though, if you repent, you shall have them again,” said Jaqueline.

“Then may I bring them to you this evening?” asked Albert.

“Thank you, Albert; we are always glad to see you; and if you bring your pigeons, I promise to train and pet them as I have those you before gave me,” she answered.

“Then I will come this very evening, with your cousin Berthold, whom I left at his books in my father’s study. Fond as he is of his books, he says that he must lay them aside to learn the use of arms with me; for as soon as Count Louis appears, we intend to go out and join him. We have but a short time to prepare, as, before many days are over, the Count and his army will have fought their way to Delft, and we must commence the work of driving the Spaniards out of our country or into the rivers and meers, where they have sent so many of our brave Hollanders.”

Jaqueline smiled approvingly, admiring, as she did, the enthusiasm of the gallant boy, so consonant with her own feelings.

“I am much obliged to you for your readiness to accept my birds, and now I must deliver a message I have brought from my father to the burgomaster. My father desires to see him about the fortifications, and as he bade me say that the matter is of importance, I ought to have given it first.”

The burgomaster had been so pre-occupied with his own thoughts that he had not observed young Albert Van der Does, and now started as the boy addressed him with that deference due to his age and rank.

“Tell your father that I will at once visit him. Although a man of letters and devoted to study, I know that he possesses, among his other talents, a military genius, which makes me value his opinion; say also that it is the very subject which has been occupying my thoughts.”

“My father is more out of spirits than I have ever seen him,” said Albert. “It is owing to a letter he lately received from a friend at Utrecht, detailing an extraordinary circumstance which occurred in that city some time ago. It is said that five soldiers of the Burgher Guard were on their midnight watch, when, the rest of the sky being as dark as pitch, they observed, directly over their heads, a clear space, equal in extent to the length of the city, and of several yards in width. Suddenly two armies, in battle array were seen advancing upon each other; one moved rapidly up from the north-west, with banners waving, spears flashing, trumpets sounding, accompanied by heavy artillery and squadrons of cavalry; the other came slowly from the south-east. They at length met and joined in a desperate conflict for a few moments; the shouts of the combatants, the heavy discharge of cannon, the rattle of musketry, the tramp of foot soldiers, the rush of cavalry, were distinctly heard. The very firmament trembled with the shock of the contending hosts, and was lurid with the fire of their artillery. Then the north-western army was beaten back in disorder, but, rallying again, formed into solid column, and once more advanced towards the south-eastern army, which was formed into a closely-serried square, with spears and muskets. Once more the fight raged, and the sounds were heard as distinctly as before; the struggle was but short, the lances of the south-eastern army snapped like hemp-sticks, and their firm columns went down together in mass beneath the onset of their foes. The overthrow was complete. Scarcely had the victors and vanquished vanished, than the clear blue space where they had stood appeared suddenly streaked with broad crimson streams flowing athwart the sky. The five soldiers reported the next day what they had witnessed to the magistrates of Utrecht, who examined them separately, and each swore to what he had seen. My father said that he should not have been inclined to believe the account had not the evidence been so strong in favour of its truth.”

“This is strange,” observed the burgomaster. “Your father will assuredly show me the letter, and I shall then the better be able to judge how far I can give the account credence. We know that strange portents have appeared in the sky before great events, at the same time these men of the Burgher Guard may have allowed their imaginations to run riot. They knew that a battle was likely ere long to take place should the Spaniards attempt to impede the march of Count Louis, and some passing clouds may have appeared to them to represent the scene they have described. Grant that they beheld something extraordinary, yet they may have been mistaken, and the south-eastern army—for from that direction the Count must be advancing—may prove victorious.”

“My father would fain hope as you do, Mynheer Van der Werf, but his friend, one of the magistrates of Utrecht, fully believes in the apparition, and has imbued him with his own desponding spirit.”

“Bear to him my regards, and beg him to cheer up,” said the burgomaster. “He must not allow his brave spirit to be agitated by a tale which may after all have originated in the heated imaginations of a few ignorant men. Had the whole city witnessed the spectacle it might have been different.”

While the burgomaster and Jaqueline were looking out from the summit of Hengist’s tower, two gentlemen approached it from opposite directions; the one was of good figure, handsomely dressed in silken doublet and cloak, with a feather in his cap, and a rapier, apparently more for ornament than use, by his side. He walked with no laggard step, looking up ever and anon towards the top of the tower. The other came on at still greater speed, his appearance contrasting greatly with that of the first; a heavy sword hung by his side, and over his shoulders was an orange sash, which partly covered a breastplate showing many a deep dent, while his dress was travel-stained and bespattered with dark red marks, while his frank and open countenance wore an expression of grief and anxiety. The two as they met exchanged salutes, the manner of the latter being hurried, as if he desired not to be stopped.

“Why, what has happened, Captain Van der Elst?” exclaimed the young gallant who has just been introduced.

“I am in search of the burgomaster, and have been told that he was seen going to the Tower of Hengist,” said the other, without answering the question.

“I am also bound there, and will gladly accompany you,” was the reply.

“Pardon me, Van Arenberg, but the business I am on is of too great importance to brook delay.” And Karl Van der Elst sprang on up the ascent at a rate which Baron Van Arenberg, without lowering his dignity, could not venture to imitate. A blush rose for a moment on the Lily’s fair cheek as she saw him coming; her countenance, however, the next moment assumed an expression of alarm when she remarked his appearance. He bowed as he approached, gazing at her with a look of sorrow in his dark eyes which did not tend to reassure her, and without offering any other greeting, much as he might have desired it, he addressed himself to the burgomaster, who inquired in an anxious tone, “What news do you bring, Captain Van der Elst? Has Count Louis defeated the Spaniards? Has he yet formed a junction with the Prince?”

The young officer, his feelings almost mastering him, could with difficulty reply, “Count Louis with his brother, Count Henry, the brave Duke Christopher, and the whole army have been annihilated. We met the foe near the village of Mookie, where we were hemmed in; in vain we tried to cut our way through the ranks of the Spaniards. Count Louis, his brother, and Duke Christopher, with four thousand gallant men, fell in the attempt. I had just before been despatched to make a circuit in order to get upon the enemy’s flank, which I was ordered to attack. Before I could reach it the day was lost; the victorious cavalry of the Spaniards charged over the field, butchering all they met. Many of our men were suffocated in the marshes or in the river, and others were burnt in the farmhouses where they had taken refuge. Finding that success was hopeless, and that I could do nothing to retrieve the day, I drew off my shattered troop, and I have deemed it my duty to hasten on to warn the inhabitants of Leyden that the enemy are rapidly advancing again to lay siege to their walls.” At first the burgomaster seemed inclined to discredit the intelligence.

“Surely all could not have been destroyed, some of the soldiers may have cut their way through, and escaped as you have done?” Karl shook his head.

“I obtained too distinct a view of the fatal field to allow me to indulge in such a hope,” he answered. “I would gladly have sought for an honourable death myself among my friends had I not reflected that the safety of my brave band depended on me, and that we might yet render service to our country.”

While he was speaking, Baron Van Arenberg joined the party, and, after saluting Jaqueline in a self-confident manner, stood listening with a supercilious air to the young soldier.

“That you have escaped from the field, Captain Van der Elst, is evident; but I fain would doubt that so many brave men would have yielded to the Spaniards,” he observed.

“They yielded not to the Spaniards, but to death,” answered Captain Van der Elst. “I myself visited the field of slaughter at night, when the Spaniards had withdrawn, in search of my beloved leader. His body, if it was there, lay among the heaps of slain, most of whom had been stripped by rapacious plunderers, and disfigured by the hoofs of the enemy’s horses.”

“I believe your report, captain,” said the burgomaster, stretching out his hand and pressing that of Van der Elst. “Our duty is clear, not a moment is to be lost in preparing for the defence of our city, and the burghers of Leyden must resist to the last. You will remain and aid us with your advice?”

“Would that I could,” answered Karl, glancing for a moment at Jaqueline; “but I must hasten to the Prince of Orange, to give him a full account of the events which have taken place, and to receive his orders. Bereaved as he is of his brothers, it is the duty of every true-hearted man to rally round him.”

“You are right,” said the burgomaster; “but I must beg you to bear a message from me to the Prince, requesting that he will allow you to return, and, if possible, to bring some men-at-arms with you. Lay before him the weak state of our garrison; say that we have but five companies of the Burgher Guard and a small corps of freebooters; but that our walls are strong, the hearts of our citizens staunch, and that they will, I feel assured, fly to arms the instant they receive the summons. Assure him that we will endeavour to imitate the example of the brave citizens of Alkmaar, and hold out till he can send us succour.”

“I will faithfully deliver your message, mynheer, and you may rest assured that if it depends on my freedom of action I will gladly return to render you such assistance as I can give,” answered Captain Van der Elst, his countenance brightening as he spoke, his eyes once more turning towards Jaqueline, who, with Baron Van der Arenberg and Albert, stood a little distance apart.

“The citizens of Leyden can well dispense with the service of one who, by his own showing, seems to have fled from the scene of battle,” whispered Van Arenberg to Jaqueline in too low a tone for Captain Van der Elst to hear him. On hearing this, without replying, she turned away, and moved closer to her father.

“He is as brave a soldier as ever lived,” exclaimed Albert, who had overheard the remark, his countenance flushing as he spoke. “My father knows and admires him, and was only the other day speaking of the many gallant deeds he has performed. He was with De la Marck on board the fleet of the ‘Beggars of the Sea,’ when they captured Brill, he was at Flushing when the standard of liberty was raised there, he assisted in the defence of Alkmaar, and I scarcely know how many sea battles he has been engaged in, while he served with Prince Louis during his campaign in Friesland; and I am very sure that it was his good fortune, or rather his courage and discretion, enabled him to escape from the Battle of Mookerheyde.”

The Lily’s bright eyes sparkled, and she gave Albert an approving look as he was speaking.

“You would make out this young captain a very Amadis,” said Van Arenberg, in a sarcastic tone. “Your father must have obtained the report of his heroic deeds from himself I suspect, for I never heard him spoken of in the same laudatory manner.”

“Why, Baron, one would suppose, from the way you speak, that you were jealous of him,” said Albert, with the boldness of a brave boy who felt that he was defending a maligned friend. “You insinuate that he ran away from Mookerheyde, and I am very sure that he did nothing of the sort. He went back to the field to look for the dead bodies of the Count and his brother, and he could not have done that without running a great risk of being killed or taken prisoner, and it was not till he had assured himself of the sad fact that Count Louis and the rest were dead that he led off his men, and came here to give us warning that we might prepare for the enemy.”

The baron, whose features were flushed with annoyance, for Jaqueline overheard all that was said, was about to make an angry reply, when the burgomaster called Albert. “Hasten to your father, my good Albert, break the sad news you have heard, and say that I shall esteem it a favour if he will come forthwith to meet me at the council hall, as I would desire to have some time to speak with him on these matters before the rest of the councillors arrive. I will, on my way, send round to summon them, as we must lose no time in preparing to defend our city.”

Albert, with the activity of youth, leaped down the steps, while the burgomaster prepared to descend with greater caution. “Baron Van Arenberg,” he said, “I must request you to escort my daughter to her home, while Captain Van der Elst accompanies me to the Stadhuis, as we have matters of importance to discuss on our way. I hope that you will afterwards join us there, and will offer your services to aid in the defence of the place.”

Baron Van Arenberg expressed the honour and pleasure he felt at the charge committed to him, although Jaqueline, while bowing her head in acquiescence, showed by her manner that the arrangement afforded her no especial satisfaction. The Lily, as may be conjectured, had many admirers, for not only was she fair and graceful, with a sweet disposition, but it was supposed that she would inherit the wealth of the burgomaster; hitherto, however, as far as was known, her heart was untouched, and she had favoured no one.

Chapter Two.

On reaching the foot of the mound the burgomaster and Captain Van der Elst proceeded to the Stadhuis, while Baron Van Arenberg accompanied Jaqueline in the direction of her own house. She walked on, though with graceful step, far more rapidly than her companion wished, looking directly before her without turning her head, unless it was absolutely necessary to do so.

“I am still not altogether satisfied as to the entire truth of the report brought by this young captain regarding the destruction of Count Louis and his army. The Spanish troops are undoubtedly brave and disciplined, but it seems incredible to me that they should have cut to pieces in so short a time the large number of levies the Count is reported to have had with him. If they allowed themselves to be so easily defeated all I can say is, that they deserved their fate. In my opinion it is a pity that we Hollanders should so persistently hold out against the troops of our lawful sovereign; far better by yielding with a good grace to bring the fighting to an end.”

“And share the fate of the unhappy inhabitants of Haarlem,” answered Jaqueline, for the first time turning her head and glancing at him with a look which betokened as much contempt as her features were capable of exhibiting. “Think of the thousands of our countrymen who have been cruelly butchered because they were determined to hold fast to our Protestant faith rather than confess that of our foreign tyrants. I should say, let every man and woman perish bravely, fighting to the last rather than basely give up their birthrights.”

“I will not venture to argue with you on that point, fair Jaqueline,” answered Van Arenberg. “I wish as much as any Hollander can do to preserve our birthrights, as well as my castle and broad estates, but I assure you that you underrate the power of the Spaniards. Our cause, the patriot cause, is desperate; it is on account of the deep admiration I feel for you, if I may use no warmer term, that I would save you from the horrors to which others have been exposed.”

“I speak the sentiments held by my father and every right-minded man in our city—ay! and woman too,” answered Jaqueline, in a firm tone. “We would imitate our sisters in Haarlem and Alkmaar and join the citizens in defending our walls.”

“But should the city be again besieged—and it assuredly will be should the report of the total defeat of Count Louis prove correct—how can Leyden hope to hold out against the disciplined and experienced troops of the king? The Prince of Orange has no force sufficient to relieve the city, and be assured that the fate which overtook Haarlem will be that of Leyden, though the inhabitants are not likely to be treated with that measure of forbearance which those of Haarlem received.”

“If you speak of the measure of forbearance awarded to Haarlem, that was small indeed,” said Jaqueline. “You seem to forget that every citizen of wealth was massacred, that every Hollander who had borne arms in the siege was put to death, while many hundreds of other citizens were afterwards murdered by the savage Spaniards who desired to strike terror into the hearts of the survivors. I should say, rather than submit to so terrible a fate, let us struggle to the last, and then perish amid the ruins of the town.”

“You are indeed, lovely Jaqueline, worthy of being a heroine of romance, and already you inspire me with some of the enthusiasm which you feel, though I cannot pretend to believe that the efforts which the citizens of Leyden may make will be crowned with success; yet believe me that I was prompted entirely by my earnest desire to preserve one I prize so highly and her family from impending destruction to give the advice I venture to offer.”

“I am well aware of the admiration in which you hold me, Baron Van Arenberg,” answered Jaqueline, “but whatever are your motives, even were I certain that our cause is desperate, and I do not believe that it is (for I feel assured that God will prosper the right in the end), I would not by word or act counsel my father and the citizens of Leyden to yield while a single man remains alive to strike a blow for freedom.”

Gentle as Jaqueline looked while she spoke, her voice and manner were firm and determined, while she showed that she was anxious to bring the discussion to an end. It might have afforded more encouragement to the baron had she endeavoured to win him over to the opinions she held, but beyond expressing them she made no attempt to do so. The baron, however, fancied that he was too well acquainted with the female heart to despair of success; he was young, good-looking, and wealthy, and as far as was known his moral character was irreproachable. The burgomaster, deceived by his plausible manners, trusted him fully, and considering from his rank and wealth that he would be a suitable husband for his fair daughter, invited him frequently to the house, and had always received him in a cordial manner. The baron had therefore good reason to believe that his suit would be successful.

On reaching her father’s house, Jaqueline politely, though somewhat stiffly, thanked him for the service he had rendered in escorting her home, and the door opening, she entered without expressing the slightest wish that he would remain. He lingered, expecting that she would at last remember what he looked upon as her neglect, but she ascended the steps without further notice of him. He stamped impatiently as he walked away, muttering, “It is clear that I have a rival, or the fair Lily would not treat my advances so coldly, supported, as she knows I am, by her father. Instead of feeling honoured, as she ought, at being sought in marriage by a noble, she seems utterly regardless of my rank and personal qualifications. I am very sure that I can make myself as agreeable to women as can most men, and from her beauty alone, independent of her fortune, she is well worth winning, so I must not despair. Still it will never do to have her cooped up in this hapless town should it be again invested by the Spaniards; I have no fancy indeed to stay in it myself, and I must bend all my efforts towards finding the means of carrying her away before the siege commences. There is not a day, however, to be lost. She appears to have no fear herself, but I may work upon the feelings of her father, and induce him, for the sake of preserving her from the horrors of the siege, to entrust her to my care. I must venture upon some warmer expressions of love and devotion than I have hitherto exhibited, and by describing the horrible fate which may be hers should she remain, and the happiness which awaits her if she will consent to accompany me, as my wife, out of the country, I may induce her to yield more willingly than she at present seems inclined to do.” Such were the thoughts which occupied the mind of the baron as he proceeded with leisurely step towards the Stadhuis, where he had no great desire to make his appearance, although having been expressly invited by the burgomaster he could not avoid going. He found the chief magistrates, most influential citizens, assembled. The burgomaster had informed them of the sad intelligence he had just received, and Captain Van der Elst, at his desire, had described the battle and its disastrous termination. One circumstance alone afforded satisfaction, it was that Count John, now the Prince’s only surviving brother, who had already done so much for the cause, although expecting to participate in the battle, had, at the urgent request of the other leaders, left the army two days before the action, in order to obtain at Cologne money to pay the troops. The young captain had just finished his account. The first point to be settled was the selection of a military chief whom all would be ready to obey.

The burgomaster rose. After expressing his readiness to devote his fortune, his life, and everything he possessed to the cause, he acknowledged that he had no military experience or talents, and urged upon his fellow-citizens the importance of selecting a man who possessed the talents in which he was wanting. “There is one,” he said. “John Van der Does, Seigneur of Nordwyck, a gentleman of distinguished family, but still more distinguished for his learning, his poetical genius, his valour and military accomplishments; if we select him, the Prince I am sure will sanction our appointment.”

Without a dissentient voice the Seigneur of Nordwyck was elected military commandant. The burgomaster did not conceal from them the dangers and the sufferings which perchance they would have to undergo, but he added, “Remember Naarden, my friends, we cannot too often reflect on the fate of Naarden; although the inhabitants offered no resistance, they were indiscriminately slaughtered, and such may be our lot even if we go humbly forth to sue for pardon from the conquerors of Mookerheyde. Remember Haarlem, which, although defended with the heroism which ought to have inspired respect and consideration in the hearts of the conquerors, was treated with cruelties from the bare contemplation of which the mind shrinks back with horror; then let us think of Alkmaar which so bravely and successfully resisted, and imitate the example of its citizens with the hope and confidence that we shall be equally successful in driving back the hated foe.”

Other patriotic magistrates spoke in the same strain, and all were unanimous in their resolution to defend their city to the last, while it was agreed that steps should instantly be taken for that object. Unhappily much precious time had already been lost; the forts and redoubts thrown up by the Spaniards still remained, and at present the defenders of the city had too much to do within the walls to attempt levelling them. The new commandant urged them to strengthen the fortifications, and in the meantime to obtain such stores of provisions from the immediate neighbourhood as could be collected. There were a few, however, who, although they did not vote in opposition to the opinions of the majority, yet spoke of the hopelessness of the undertaking in which they were about to engage. Among these was Baron Van Arenberg, although he expressed himself carefully he did his best to persuade the citizens that their wisest course would be to yield before proceeding to extremities.

“I say not that such is what I advise,” he observed. “But conciliatory measures might prove successful; if they fail let us by all means endeavour to keep out the enemy as long as we can.”

“The Spaniards have already shown us the uselessness of conciliatory measures as well as the utter worthlessness of their guarantees for the safety of those who submit,” said the burgomaster. “It would be suicidal madness to trust them; let us put faith in God, who defends the right, in our own resolute courage and power of endurance, in our strong walls, and in the assistance which the Prince of Orange will afford us at our need.”

The baron was silent; he was especially anxious not to say anything which might offend the burgomaster by openly differing from him; but his remarks encouraged others connected with certain persons, their relations or friends, recreant Hollanders, who had sided with the Spaniards and professed to have returned to the Faith of Rome. These men were familiarly called Glippers; their object was to induce their countrymen to follow their example. A few holding their opinions remained in the city, either kept there by business or with the intention of creating dissension among the patriots. Although Baron Van Arenberg openly professed to be a patriot, yet from the expressions he let fall many already began to suspect his designs. When those who followed him spoke, their opinions were received with loud expressions of disapprobation. He saw that in the present state of the public mind it would be prudent for the future more carefully to conceal his sentiments than he had hitherto done. “I must bide my time,” he said to himself.

Numerous matters of importance were discussed, and the persons supposed best suited for certain duties were selected to superintend the various tasks which had to be performed to prepare the city for the expected siege. One undertook to procure cattle, another fodder, a third corn; others to collect arms and ammunition. The strengthening of the fortifications was allotted to several who had some experience in such matters. The guns and their carriages had to be looked to, such buildings as were suited for storehouses were to be prepared, and hospitals fitted up to receive the sick or wounded; indeed, no point was neglected. All these arrangements having been made, the brave John Van der Does, the newly-elected commandant, rose.

“We have not concealed from ourselves the difficulties and dangers of the task we have undertaken,” he said. “But, my friends and fellow-citizens, on God, on your stout arms, and on the energy of our Prince we will rely to defend our city against all the foes who may appear before our walls,” he exclaimed, as he drew his sword; and raising it above his head, he added, “Never will I again sheathe this weapon till the hated Spaniard has been driven from our country, and we may henceforth repose in peace.”

Chapter Three.

Not a moment was lost after the Council broke up in commencing the all-important tasks which each member had undertaken. The burgomaster, however, did not forget the duties of hospitality; taking the arm of Captain Van der Elst, he said—

“Come with me, my friend, and partake of some refreshment, which you must sadly need. You have ridden hard all this morning, and have still a long journey to perform before you can reach Rotterdam, with the risk of encountering marauding parties of Spaniards, who may have ventured forth from Gravenhague. I will give orders in the meantime that you may be provided with the best horse the city affords, for your own steed has scarcely had sufficient time to rest to carry you as rapidly as you desire on your journey.”

Karl acknowledged that his horse was wellnigh knocked up, and thankfully accepted the burgomaster’s invitation, though he was anxious not to delay a moment longer than was necessary before proceeding on his journey. Directly the burgomaster, accompanied by Van der Elst, arrived at his house, the repast, which had long been ready, was placed on the table, and Jaqueline appeared to preside at it. She received the young captain with less frankness than she might generally have bestowed on her father’s friends. There was a slight timidity in her manner, which, in spite of herself, she could not help exhibiting, and a blush rose for a moment to her cheek as she replied to his greeting.

“And are you able to remain and assist us in preparing for the defence of our town?” she asked.

“Would that I were able to remain,” he answered. “But I must hurry on as fast as my steed can go to see the Prince and to receive his directions for my future guidance; but I will not fail to suggest to him that I may be of service in assisting in the defence of Leyden, and unless he should require me for important work elsewhere, I hope that he will allow me to return.”

“I trust so,” murmured Jaqueline, raising her eyes and casting a momentary glance at him.

The meal was soon concluded, for Captain Van der Elst was unwilling to spend a moment longer than was necessary at the table, though he would fain probably have enjoyed a longer conversation with Jaqueline. He had to wait a short time for the arrival of his horse, which enabled him to exchange a few more words with Jaqueline. While they were speaking Berthold and Albert arrived, each laden with a cage containing some beautiful white pigeons, which might easily, from the gracefulness of their form, have been mistaken for doves.

“You see, Vrouw Jaqueline, that I have not forgotten my promise, and I am sure that you will take better care of them than I could do,” said Albert. “They each have got their names, and will come when you summon them, besides which, if they are carried to any distance, however great, they will always fly back as fast as their wings can bear them. I have trained them carefully to perform this duty; see here is one I call the Lily, because it is the fairest and most beautiful of all. See how smooth and glossy are its feathers, every one of the most snowy white.”

Jaqueline thanked Albert for the birds, and promised to tend them carefully.

“They will be content, however, at present to remain in their cage, so you need not trouble yourself about them,” he observed.

Captain Van der Elst did not fail to admire the pigeons. “Should the city be beleaguered they may be of the greatest possible use some day, if you can send them to the head-quarters of the Prince, as beneath their wings they can carry the messages far more securely and rapidly than the fastest runner,” he remarked. “At present the country is open, and I shall have to ride hard. I will not ask your permission to carry any of the birds with me, but perhaps in a few days before the Spaniards gather round the city you will allow four of them to be taken to Delft or Rotterdam that they may return with such messages as the Prince may desire to send.”

“It did not occur to me when I undertook to tend the pretty birds that they might prove of the service you suggest,” said Jaqueline. “You are indeed most welcome to take as many as you can employ. I shall prize them more than ever when they have thus assisted our glorious cause.”

Suddenly Berthold, on hearing that Captain Van der Elst was about to set out for Rotterdam, started up. “If my uncle will give me leave may I accompany you?” he exclaimed. “I know all the crossways and cross cuts better probably than you do, or indeed than anybody you can find, and I might be useful in guiding you.”

“Will you have my nephew as your companion?” asked the burgomaster.

“I would gladly have his society, but I am unwilling to expose him to the risks I may incur,” answered Captain Van der Elst. “The Spaniards are likely to be more vigilant than ever, and their light horse will probably be scouring the country either to forage or to interrupt the communication between the cities.”

“That is the very reason why I wish to go with you,” said Berthold. “I know the roads thoroughly, for as soon as the Spaniards had retired, feeling like a bird set free I scoured over the whole country, and amused myself in making a plan of them.”

“As Berthold knows the country so well, surely it will lessen the risk you would have to run alone if you will take him with you,” observed Jaqueline. “I am sure that he will feel it an honour to accompany you, and he can return speedily with any message the Prince may have to send.”

Captain Van der Elst’s scruples being overcome by these arguments, he no longer hesitated to accept the offer made by Berthold, who hurried out as soon as he had snatched some food to see that his horse was got ready.

“I quite envy you,” said Albert to him. “I should like to go also, but I know that my father will require my services, and I must even now hurry back to him.”

In a short time, the two steeds being brought to the door, Captain Van der Elst and his young companion, having bid farewell to the burgomaster and Jaqueline, proceeded towards the Cowgate, the southern entrance to the town, leading towards Rotterdam. Jaqueline watched them eagerly as they rode off, undoubtedly a prayer ascended from her heart for their safe arrival. The country was green with the bright grass of early spring, the fruit trees in numerous orchards were covered with bloom, giving fragrance to the air. For the first part of the distance there was but little risk of their encountering enemies, and by the time they had got further on the sun would already be setting, and they would have the advantage of being concealed by the shades of evening. The village of Zoeterwoude, standing on a slight elevation above the surrounding plain, was soon passed, and that of Zuidbrunt, close to a large and shallow meer, was next reached, but they neither of them entered lest a party of Spaniards might have ventured thus far from their head-quarters. They had already passed three enormous dykes running across their road, one beyond the other, built for the purpose of protecting the city from the inroads of the sea. Roads, of course, ran along the top of these, some towards the Hague, others towards Delft, Gouda, and numerous towns and villages to the right and left. Although hitherto not a Spanish soldier had been seen, at any moment some might be encountered. There were no heights or even tall trees from the top of which a view could be obtained of the surrounding country, so that they might know how to avoid their foes. Their anxiety was much relieved when they saw the sun sinking into the not distant ocean. The Prince frequently visited Delft, but Captain Van der Elst believed that he was now to be found at Rotterdam, and although the former city was but slightly out of their course, he proposed avoiding it and riding directly for Rotterdam. More than half the distance had been performed. A short way to the left lay the village of Zoetermeer, raised, like others, slightly above the plain, and they already perceived the green trees and red roofs of the houses peeping up among them, lighted up by the last rays of the setting sun.

“Too much haste the less speed,” observed the captain. “It is a true saying, and we must therefore bait our horses and give them a short breathing time, or they may break down before we reach our journey’s end.”

“Might we not push on without stopping, and trust to the animals to keep up their strength to the last?” asked Berthold. “They are both good nags and sound in wind, and can manage a pretty broad ditch when pressed at it.”

“We may have to try their mettle even yet,” said the captain. “And they will the better do their work after a feed of corn; besides, we may have to ride back, and we shall probably find no horses to exchange for them in Rotterdam.”

“As you think best,” said Berthold. And they rode along a causeway which seemed to lead directly for the village. On reaching it they pulled up at the door of a small inn, the only one the place afforded. The landlady hurried out to meet them, and desired to know whether they intended to stop there the night.

“No, friend, we wish only to bait our horses, and must be in the saddle again as soon as they are rested. It may be more prudent than remaining, for we cannot tell at what moment we might receive a visit from those savage hounds the Spaniards.”

“Reports have been brought in of several foraging parties being out, who take what they can find without paying a styver in return, besides which they ill-treat the people on all occasions,” observed the landlord. “It would be a satisfaction if some of our young fellows were to break their heads, but if they were to make the attempt our village would to a certainty be burnt down, so we must humbly submit to save our skins.”

“I cannot advise you for the present to do otherwise,” answered Captain Van der Elst. “But the time may shortly arrive when we shall drive our hated foes into the sea.”

“Would that it may come soon before they have, like a flock of locusts, eaten up every green thing in the land,” exclaimed the landlord.

“The information you give shows me the importance of our being on the road again without delay,” said Captain Van der Elst, as he and Berthold accompanied the landlord to the stable, where room was at once made for their horses by turning out a couple of others. The landlord then pressed them to come in and take some refreshment, but they both declined.

“Not even a glass of Rhenish wine? I have some of the best,” said mine host. But they refused, considering that their time would be better occupied in rubbing down their steeds, and moistening their lips from a bucket of water, after they had finished their corn.

“You can still render us a service, friend, by sending out to learn if any Spaniards are yet in the neighbourhood,” said the captain, “Surely that I will do,” answered the landlord, and he summoned a couple of active-looking lads and directed them to run out as far as their legs could carry them in ten minutes, and to try and discover if any cavalry were near at hand. “Foot soldiers are not likely to venture thus far, so we need have no fear of them,” he observed.

The lads clearly understood what was required of them, and started together in opposite directions. They had not been gone the allotted time when one of them came hurrying back, covering the ground with long, rapid strides.

“If the mynheers do not wish to be made prisoners, they had better be out of the village as soon as they can saddle up,” he said. “I caught sight of a party of horsemen just passing the border of the Meer where the willows grow; there must have been a dozen of them or more; but I only stopped to count thus far and then took to my heels, expecting every moment to have a shot whistle by my ears.”

“You have done well, Hans,” said the landlord.

“And here is a reward for your service,” added Berthold, giving the youth a coin.

“I did it of my own free will,” answered Hans. “It is not the first time I have been set to watch the Spaniards, or that they have tried to catch me, and found that they had a Will-o’-the-Wisp to deal with; but this was an easy task, and nothing to boast of.” Hans was saying this while he was assisting Berthold to replace the bit in the horse’s mouth, and to tighten the girth of his saddle, the landlord rendering the same service to Captain Van der Elst. The next moment they were in the saddle and pushing full speed through the village to the southward. Should they be discovered, they would not only run the risk of being shot at, but would expose the landlord to punishment for having entertained them. Looking back, they could see no one following, and hoped, therefore, that they had escaped observation, while their horses, refreshed, made up for the short delay by getting on at full speed. They soon passed the village of Bleiswijk, between which and the next place ran a broad causeway forming the high road to Rotterdam. Though the gloom of evening was increasing, there was still sufficient light to enable them to see objects at some distance. Berthold, who knew the road best, was leading, when suddenly he reined in his horse, and made a sign with his right hand for his companion to do the same.

“See, just coming from the right, are a score of horsemen; they may be Hollanders, or Free Lances, though from the height of their helmets they look more like Spaniards,” he exclaimed. “We had better avoid them.”

“How is that to be done?” asked Captain Van der Elst.

“We passed just now on the left a narrow dyke, which runs, I know, in a south-westerly direction; at the farther end is a bridge which leads across the Rotte. If we are pursued, we must leave the road and ride across the country. We can without difficulty swim the river, when the Spaniards, with the heavy trappings of their horses, would not be able to follow.”

Scarcely had Berthold said this when they could see against the sky the figures of a large number of horsemen moving along a road to the right.

“We might even now, by dismounting, lead our horses down into the plain, and perhaps escape observation,” said Berthold.

“No, no, as we can see them they must have discovered us,” said the captain. “Lead the way across the dyke you spoke of; I will follow closely at your heels.”

As there was no time for further deliberation, Berthold, turning his horse’s head and passing the captain, galloped along the way they had come for a few minutes and then turned off along the top of the dyke he had described. The moment they turned they heard shouts, evidently coming from the horsemen they wished to avoid.

“Those are Spanish voices,” said the captain. “I know them well. Push on, Berthold!” But the road along the top of the dyke was much rougher than the one they had left, and it made it necessary for them to keep a careful hand on their reins to prevent their horses from falling. From the way the dyke ran it formed an angle with the high road, and they were soon again brought within sight of the Spanish horsemen, who shouting out to them to stop, fired several shots in rapid succession.

“The fellows are not bad marksmen,” said Berthold, “for I heard two or more bullets whistle close to my ears.”

Captain Van der Elst continued shouting out, “Ride on! ride on!” more to show that he himself was unhurt than that there was any necessity to urge on Berthold. The Spaniards were evidently unwilling to trust themselves to the low ground for fear of finding that it was a morass, into which their steeds might plunge with little hope of extricating themselves. On seeing that the fugitives had a good chance of escaping, although some of the Spaniards galloped after them along the road, the others continued firing their carbines, though fortunately they missed their aim. The two fugitives were soon beyond the range of the Spanish musketeers, but Captain Van der Elst still cried out to his companion, “Go on! go on!” for, glancing behind him, he saw indistinctly through the gloom the heads of several horsemen following them.

“We shall soon be at the bridge,” cried Berthold. “I do not think the Spaniards will attempt to cross it.” Just as he had announced that they were close upon it they saw a body of horse who had evidently galloped round to take possession of the post. This discovery was made, however, in time to enable Berthold to ride his horse down the side of the dyke, the captain following his example. “Come along,” he cried out, “the ground is somewhat soft, but these horses are accustomed to it, and we may get over it much faster than our pursuers.” Having proceeded some distance, they had good reason to hope that they had not been seen.

“We must now make for the river, and a few minutes will carry us safe across it,” said Berthold.

The horses as they reached the bank, without hesitation plunged in, and bravely breasted the smooth water. They had got more than halfway across when again they heard the shouts of a number of Spaniards ordering them to return.

“You may shout yourselves hoarse, my men,” cried Berthold. “We have no intention of obeying you.” Finding that their shouts produced no effect, they fired several bullets from their fire-arms, and the bullets came spattering into the water like a shower of hail, but the gallant steeds bore their riders to the opposite bank unhurt, and soon scrambling up, the captain and Berthold continued their course over the fields.

“Will not the Spaniards cross the bridge and attempt to overtake us?” asked the captain. “We must be prepared for the contingency.”

“I think not,” answered Berthold. “They might encounter some of the Prince’s cavalry, and are not likely to venture further south.”

They at length gained another dyke, on the summit of which the road ran directly for Rotterdam. They now galloped forward with less apprehension of meeting an enemy, and at length, about two hours after dark, entered Rotterdam. They immediately inquired the way to the house where the Prince was residing. From the remarks they heard made, they discovered that the news of the disaster at Mookerheyde had already reached the city, for which the captain was thankful, as it would save him from the painful necessity of announcing it to the Prince. They found guards before the door, and several grooms and other servants, to one of whom they committed their horses. Captain Van der Elst at once delivered to a gentleman-in-waiting his name and the object of his visit, and they had no time even to shake off the water which still clung to the lower part of their garments, when they were informed that the Prince desired to see them. They followed their guide into an apartment plainly furnished, with several writing-tables; at one of these sat a tall, dignified man with brown hair, moustachios and beard, a forehead broad and lofty, and eyes bright and full of expression. The captain advancing, bowed, and introduced his young companion as the nephew of the Burgomaster of Leyden. The Prince, who had risen, received them gravely, but at the same time in a cordial manner.

“You bring further intelligence, Captain Van der Elst, from the field of Mookerheyde?” he said. “Of the main particulars I have already been informed by some few who escaped and made their way here.”

Captain Van der Elst briefly explained how he himself had escaped, and being well assured that Leyden would again be attacked that he had considered it his duty to ride round to that city in order to prepare the inhabitants for what was likely to occur. He then gave an account of the meeting of the Council, stating that John Van der Does had been elected military commandant, subject to his approval.

“They could not have made a better choice,” remarked the Prince. “It shall be confirmed.” In a few brief sentences he questioned the captain regarding the battle of Mookerheyde. A tone of melancholy pervaded all he said, but he in no other way showed the deep grief which weighed him down. The Prince sat silently listening, his countenance unmoved, while the captain made his report, and Berthold began to fear that his friend might be blamed for his conduct. He was, therefore, greatly relieved when the Prince remarked, “You have exhibited courage and discretion, Captain Van der Elst, qualities we greatly need in the present emergency. I must send you back with a message to the citizens of Leyden to urge them to maintain the town against the foes of our country to the last gasp. They ought to have destroyed the forts the Spaniards left, to have amply provisioned the city, and to have secured an efficient garrison; but I will not now speak of what is passed. Remind them from me that they are about to contend not for themselves alone, but that the fate of our country of unborn generations may, in all human probability, depend on the issue about to be tried. Eternal glory will be their reward if they manifest the courage worthy of their race, and of the sacred cause of religion and liberty. Say that I implore them to hold out at least three months, and I pledge my word that I will within that time devise the means of delivering them. Advise them immediately to take an account of their provisions of all kinds, including the live stock, and let the strictest economy be employed in their consumption. Stay, I will sign the commission appointing the Seigneur of Nordwyck as Commandant, and write what I deem necessary to confirm the message I verbally send by you. When can you again set out?”

The captain acknowledged that he and his young companion had had no refreshment or rest since they left Leyden, but that he himself was willing to start immediately could a fresh horse be found for him. He, however, considered that he ought to mention having encountered several parties of Spaniards, and that there would be some risk of being captured on the return journey. When he also explained the energetic measures the burgomaster and commandant were already taking, the Prince replied, “Wait, then, till to-morrow, when you may get over the most hazardous part of the distance during the night.”

The Prince having spoken a few words of encouragement to Berthold, which he was never likely to forget, signified to them that they might retire, and gave orders to one of the officers to attend to their wants.

Chapter Four.

The brave commandant, attended by young Albert, set an example of enduring energy to his fellow-citizens. From morning till night he was to be seen going round and round the fortifications, showing were points might be strengthened with advantage, and to encourage the labourers, often himself taking a spade or pick in hand. Where fresh batteries had to be thrown up, the work was one which greatly taxed the strength of the citizens, but they all knew that their lives depended on their repairing and strengthening their defences before their foes should again attack them. Not only the citizens of all ranks, but their wives and children assisted, many who had never before engaged in manual labour offering their services to carry baskets of earth to the ramparts, and otherwise aiding in the work going forward. In this task the commandant was ably supported by the burgomaster and other magistrates. Jaqueline often accompanied the burgomaster, and set an example to the citizens’ wives and daughters by carrying baskets of earth, nor did her father, tenderly cherished though she had always been, attempt to prevent her from performing the task which she considered right. He felt the importance of the example she set to others, for when they saw the fair Lily, the admired of all, engaged in manual labour for the common good, no one, not even the most delicate, could venture to hold back. It would have been well for the citizens if they could have obtained provisions as easily as they could repair their walls, but the country had already been drained by the Spaniards, mounted parties of whom were even now ranging as near as they could venture, to prevent supplies from being sent into Leyden. Barges laden with corn, and carts, however, were constantly arriving at the city, and occasionally a few oxen, while horsemen rode out in various directions to induce the peasantry to send in all the provisions they could spare, reminding them that they would before long fall into the hands of their foes, who would take them without payment. Still the amount of food collected fell far short of what was required. The citizens did not labour with the dull apathy of despair, but with warm enthusiasm, they all being resolved to rival their countrymen at Alkmaar. The men sang at their work, and the girls chatted as if they were engaged in some holiday task. The only person who appeared not in any way to partake of the general enthusiasm was the Baron Von Arenberg, who excused himself on the plea that he was out of health, and that any exertion would be exceedingly injurious to him, though he had no objection to standing still and watching others at work, which he declared ought to afford the labourers ample encouragement. He did not, however, make his appearance in public as often as he had been accustomed to do. He was greatly put out from the circumstance that when calling at the house of the burgomaster he had seldom found him at home, and that Jaqueline had invariably excused herself from seeing him during the absence of her father. He had therefore not known how she was employed. Curiosity had, however, prompted him one bright morning to take a walk round the ramparts, and he arrived at a spot where a new battery was being thrown up. On a high mound stood the burgomaster, and near him a number of men were engaged in the more severe labour of the undertaking, while troops of women, some with full baskets, were bringing up earth from the trench which was being dug, while others were returning with the empty ones. The baron started with astonishment, for at the head of one of the parties appeared the Lily of Leyden carrying with a companion a basket of earth; her dress, though not ungraceful, was suited to her occupation. Me gazed as if at first unable to believe his senses, a flush mantled on his brow.

“Can her father thus allow her to degrade herself?” he exclaimed to one of the eldest and chief citizens who was standing by, whose daughters and grand-daughters were similarly employed, though the baron was not aware of the fact. “The task too is utterly useless; should the Spaniards again lay siege to the town, they will, before two weeks are over, have gained an entrance, and they have already shown the penalties they intend to exact from those who resist their authority.”

“Baron Van Arenberg, such I am bound to believe is your honest opinion, but understand that we trust in God, in the true courage which animates the breasts of patriots, and in that aid which our noble Prince will most assuredly send us,” answered the old man, in a stern tone. “The task in which the fair Jaqueline is engaged raises her higher than her beauty, her position, or her wealth can do in the eyes of her countrymen. Look at my daughters and grand-children, they feel proud of imitating her; when you communicate with your friends, the ‘Glippers,’ tell them how the matrons and maidens of Leyden are employed, and let them warn the Spaniards of the death which awaits them should they assail our ramparts.”

The baron again started, but with a different feeling than before, and declared that he was no “Glipper,” though he was not inspired, he confessed, with the same enthusiasm which at present animated the citizens of Leyden.

“It may be that you are not a ‘Glipper,’ but your remarks savour much of the principles which animate them,” observed the old citizen, in a dry tone. “Speak them not aloud to others, or you may chance to be looked upon as a traitor and be treated as such.”

By a strong effort the baron quelled his rising anger; he could gain no credit by a dispute with the aged and highly esteemed citizen who had thus spoken to him, and turning aside he directed his steps homeward. He fancied that it would be derogatory to his rank to engage in manual labour, and yet he could not stand by and see the fair Jaqueline and other young ladies of position thus employed without offering to assist them, unless he was prepared to be regarded as destitute alike of all chivalric and patriotic feelings. On reaching the handsome mansion he inhabited, after pacing several times across the room, he threw himself into a chair to consider what course he should pursue. The old citizen’s remarks had warned him of the danger he would incur should he be supposed to advocate a surrender to the Spaniards, and he would be in still greater danger should it be discovered that he was carrying on a secret correspondence with Valdez through his “Glipper” friends; he was also mortified and annoyed at seeing Jaqueline so degrading herself, as he considered, by labouring like any peasant girl at the fortifications. “How can her father, who dotes on her as the apple of his eye, allow her thus to demean herself?” he exclaimed, “to exhaust her health and strength, to soil her fair hands with the moist and black earth; the very thought is unbearable!” He again rose and paced across the room, half inclined to order his servants to prepare for an instant journey. “If I remain I shall have to share the sufferings these obstinate citizens are preparing to bring down on themselves, or indeed I may lose my life. I would rather sacrifice my property than do that. I may by joining General Valdez at once gain better terms for them, little as they deserve it at my hands, at all events I shall secure my own possessions.” He rang a bell to summon an attendant, but no one answered to the call. At length he inquired of the old one-legged porter who had admitted him, when, to his disgust, he found that the whole of his establishment had gone out to labour at the fortifications. “They will soon get tired of the work and return,” he said to himself, but the delay gave him further time for reflection. “If I go I must abandon all hope of winning the Lily of Leyden, unless the city is speedily captured and I am able to save her from the terrible danger she would incur during the assault. For her sake I must not allow her to run that risk; no, the only safe course, as far as she is concerned, for me to follow is to remain either to gain her father’s consent to our immediate union, or to persuade her to fly with me, while there is yet time, to a place of safety. She might be unwilling to go to the Hague, but I might take her to Delft or Rotterdam, where she would be equally safe; and although she might at first regret having left her father and other friends in this city, a very few weeks will show her what a merciful escape she has had. It may yet be some days before Valdez and his army can reach the neighbourhood, I will remain and employ the time in endeavouring to persuade her to take the only step which can secure her safety. I cannot bear the thought that one so lovely should be doomed to the fearful fate in which she will be involved when the Spaniards capture the city.”

Fortunately there were few in Leyden who entertained the baron’s opinions. While he remained at home, his mind agitated by conflicting doubts and fears, the rest of the inhabitants were engaged as has been described. The commandant, accompanied by his son Albert, remained chiefly on the ramparts; he had to inspect the firearms as they were repaired or manufactured by the armourers, ceaselessly working day and night, and he had likewise to examine the few recruits who could be collected from the country round to assist in the defence, and especial attention had to be given to the exercising of the men at the great guns placed in the various forts. The burgomaster, among his many other duties, daily visited the storehouses to see the progress made in collecting food, both for man and beast, and he also inspected the pens and sheds in which the cattle were placed as they were driven in, while he made preparation for all the various contingencies which might occur. And, although he desired his daughter to set the example to the women and girls of Leyden, remembering that she was utterly unused to manual work, he, after a time, summoned her home to take the rest and refreshment she required.

“Go, my sweet Jaqueline,” said Vrouw Margaret de Munto, the wife of one of the chief magistrates. “You have shown us how the most delicate can work, and we will not be idle during your absence.”

Jaqueline, whose arms and shoulders were aching with the unwonted labour, was, it must be confessed, thankful to obey her father’s summons to return home. She was rewarded with the consciousness that she had performed her duty, and she hoped to have strength to continue it, but she was more out of spirits than was usual with her. Some days had passed since her young cousin Berthold had accompanied Captain Van der Elst to Rotterdam and they had not again made their appearance. The burgomaster could not account for the delay, but felt sure that the Prince would immediately send them back with despatches confirming John Van der Does in his appointment as Commandant, and stating what plans he proposed for their relief. The Lily cast many a glance over the plain in the hopes of seeing the two horsemen approaching; but though occasionally trains of carts and baggage-horses laden with sacks of corn, and small herds of cattle were seen on the roads, the two absent ones whose safe return would have relieved her anxiety failed to appear. As the foragers brought in word that parties of Spaniards who had come from the direction of the Hague had been met with, some fears were entertained that Captain Van der Elst and Berthold might have fallen into their hands.

“Berthold is too well acquainted with the country to allow himself and his companion easily to be caught,” observed the burgomaster. “Perhaps the Prince is waiting to decide on the plan he proposes to adopt for our relief. We shall see them in a day or two; though it is but natural that you should feel as anxious about your cousin Berthold as I do. They will arrive, I feel sure, before the Spaniards approach our walls, as the Prince, who keeps himself well acquainted with the enemy’s movements, will not detain them too long, so as to prevent them getting in with safety.”

The Lily sighed, for she feared there might be some miscalculation as day after day notice had been brought of the rapid approach of the hated foe, and at any hour it seemed that their advanced guard might appear before the walls. The burgomaster had thrown himself into an armchair the first rest he had sought that day since early dawn, having especially desired his daughter to retire. Scarcely, however, had he taken his pen in hand to sign certain documents which had been brought to him, than the bells of the nearest church struck a peculiar note, which was taken up by the others in different parts of the city in rapid succession. It was the tocsin peal, announcing the approach of an enemy, and summoning the citizens to the ramparts. The burgomaster immediately rose, and sending word to Jaqueline on no account to leave the house, set forth to the Stadhuis, where he knew that the principal magistrates would quickly assemble. As he was leaving the door of his house he was met by young Albert Van der Does.

“The commandant has sent me, Burgomaster, to request your presence on the north-western rampart, where he, with several officers, is waiting your arrival. A body of troops has been seen approaching along the causeway from the direction of the Castle of Valkenburg.”

The burgomaster, notwithstanding his fatigue, accompanied young Albert at a rapid pace. From every direction people of all ranks were hastening through the streets, some girding on their swords as they left their doors, while their wives or daughters handed to them their firearms. Many an eye was turned in the direction of the approaching troops.

“They march more quickly than the Spaniards are wont to do,” observed the commandant to the burgomaster.

“Can they be troops sent by the Prince to assist in the defence of the city?” asked the latter.

“They would not be coming from that direction,” said the commandant. “By their pennons, and the sombre appearance which pervades their ranks, I suspect that they are English.”

The foreign troops drew nearer, and no doubt longer remained that they were English, and as far as could be calculated numbered between five and six hundred men.

“They will be a welcome addition to our garrison,” observed one of the magistrates. “For those islanders are brave fellows and fight well on all occasions.”

“Notwithstanding, unless they bring a written order to me from the Prince to admit them, I will dispense with their services wherever they come from,” said the commandant. “The English are trustworthy enough, and fight well if they are well fed and are satisfied with their quarters, but I would not trust them should a famine get within our walls; and should they begin to feel the pinchings of hunger, they would then cry out that we must surrender, and would induce others to follow their evil example. They well know that it is the policy of the Spaniards just now to behave courteously to the English, and these mercenaries would hope that their lives would be spared, though every other man in the place were put to death. No, no; even though our numbers be few let us rather trust to the stubborn hearts of our Hollanders than to such men as those probably are.”

The burgomaster and the other magistrates, after a short consideration, fully agreed with the sentiments expressed by the commandant. In a short time the English commander, galloping ahead of his men, rode up to the walls and in the name of William, Prince of Orange, demanded instant admittance.

“Whence do you come, Colonel Chester?” inquired the commandant, who recognised the officer as the commander of a body of English troops in the service of the Prince.

“From Valkenburg,” was the answer. “I have been obliged to abandon that fortress, from being assured that it would be hopeless to attempt holding out against the Spaniards, who I hear are advancing with an overwhelming force, and I had neither provisions nor sufficient ammunition to stand a lengthened siege, I therefore judged it prudent to march here to assist you in the defence of your city.”

“I regret that I cannot admit you or your men, Colonel Chester,” said the commandant. “Our garrison is already of sufficient strength, and we have as many mouths to feed as we can find provisions for.”

“But my men and I shall be cut to pieces by the Spaniards, who, if they overtake us in the open country, and we cannot hope to reach any other fortress in which we can defend ourselves, have threatened vengeance against all who side with the Prince of Orange.”

“There was one fortress you might have defended, and that you thought fit to abandon, regardless of the interests of the noble prince whom you engaged to serve,” answered the commandant, sternly.

In vain the English colonel pleaded that the lives of his whole band would be sacrificed if they were not admitted within, the city. The commandant was firm in his resolution and declined their services, and they at length finding that they pleaded in vain, forming themselves into compact order moved on till they reached the causeway leading to the Hague. At length they were lost to sight in the distance; some few regretted that the commandant had refused the assistance of so many sturdy men-at-arms, but the act inspired the citizens with fresh courage, each man now feeling that on his own bravery and resolution the safety of the city depended.

Chapter Five.

Active and intelligent scouts had been sent out to watch the movements of the enemy, and to bring back due notice of their approach to Leyden. The citizens meantime were labouring as before at their fortifications; they well knew that there was no time to spare to complete their work. Van Arenberg, who had still managed to retain the confidence of the burgomaster, was a constant visitor at his house during the short time in the evening that he was at home. The baron, however, was convinced that there was no longer a hope of persuading the stout-hearted magistrate to submit, and yet anxious as he was to get outside and avoid the miseries he saw impending, he could not bring himself to abandon the prospects of winning the fair Lily. He still, therefore, endeavoured to work on her feminine nature by pointing out to her the horrors and sufferings in which she must share with the other inhabitants of the place should she remain.

“You have often spoken to me on this subject, Baron Van Arenberg,” she answered, regarding him calmly; “but know that I would rather trust to the pikes and swords of the citizens of Leyden to defend our poor women and children from the clutches of the Spanish soldiery than I would to the tender mercies of their general. It is useless again to speak to me on the subject; but since you fancy that you see so clearly the dreadful doom prepared for those who remain, I advise you to quit the city while there is time.”

The baron could say no more, but he muttered as he walked homeward that evening, “I must take other means of carrying out my object.”

The next morning Jaqueline had repaired with her father to the ramparts on the south side of the town. They were soon joined by Albert.

“I met Arenberg just now,” he said to Jaqueline, “looking as sulky as a bear. He asked where you were gone, as he had not found you at home. I could not tell him, as I did not know, and would not have told him if I had known; but I saw him start off to the north side of the town, so there is no fear of your being troubled by his presence.”

“But how do you know his presence troubled me?” asked Jaqueline.

“Because I am very sure you cannot like a man who is a ‘Glipper’ at heart, whatever he may seem to be to people openly; and I have observed the way you always speak to him, and very glad I have been to see it.”

Jaqueline was inclined to smile, and she could not chide Albert for his frankness.

“Hulloa! look up there!” he exclaimed, pointing along the road. “I see two men on horseback and another on foot. What if they should prove to be the captain and Berthold with a guide? Perhaps they will bring us good news.”

“They do not come on as fast as I should have expected,” said Jaqueline, watching them intently. “Yet they seem to be cavaliers, not common horse soldiers. Perhaps they have to wait for their guide.”

The two horsemen and their attendant on foot drew near.

“It is Captain Van der Elst and my cousin Berthold!” exclaimed Jaqueline, in a more joyous tone than she had spoken for many a day. “The message they bring from the Prince will, I trust, encourage our citizens.”

“Encouragement they will certainly bring if they come from William the Silent, who is very sure to inspire all whom he addresses with the spirit which animates his own dauntless mind. We will go down to the gate to meet them,” said the burgomaster.

The captain and Berthold, with their companion, having answered the challenge of the sentries, were forthwith admitted. Perceiving the burgomaster and Jaqueline, they leaped from their steeds, and giving the reins to their companion, advanced towards them.

“We have been a much longer time in reaching the city than the Prince or we ourselves expected,” said the captain, after the usual greetings. “We were pursued by a party of Spaniards, and had to take refuge in the fortress of Polderwaert, from which for several days we were unable to make our escape; but the message we bring will, I trust, encourage the citizens and garrison of Leyden to defend the city until the Spaniards are compelled to retire.”

“There is little doubt about that,” said Berthold. “He has not told you how, after we had taken refuge in the fortress, through his vigilance and courage, the Spaniards, who attempted to surprise it, were driven off, and had he not been charged with the message from the Prince, he would have been detained to assist in its defence should it again be attacked.”

“And who is that lanky fellow you brought with you, who is leading on the horses after us?” asked Albert of his friend, as they followed the burgomaster with Jaqueline and the captain.

“A first rate fellow, Hans Bosch, he has done us good service twice already, besides piloting us along last night by paths which I could not have found by myself, though I know the country pretty well; he volunteered to come in order to carry messages from the city, and very useful we are likely to find him.”

As it was important at once to communicate the message brought by Captain Van der Elst, the burgomaster summoned the chief inhabitants forthwith to the Stadhuis. The captain having delivered his written despatches, spoke as he had been directed, employing the very words the Prince himself had used, and advancing the most powerful arguments to induce the citizens not to yield to their foes. “He implores you,” he continued, “to hold out for at least three months, and he pledges his word that he will within that time devise the means of delivering you from the Spaniards.”

“For six months, if necessary, even if we have to eat the grass in our squares, the shoes on our feet, the rats and dogs to be found in the streets,” was the reply.

“I will announce your resolution to the Prince, and it will, I am sure, encourage him to continue the efforts he is making for your relief,” answered the captain. “Had Prince Louis lived and joined him he would have had an army at his disposal, but the forces he can at present muster are only sufficient for the protection of Rotterdam and Delft.”

The address of the Prince was printed and circulated throughout the city. After the meeting broke up, the burgomaster invited the young captain to accompany Berthold to his house.

“And who’s your attendant, he appears to be a strange being?”

“There are not many like Hans Bosch,” remarked Berthold. “He has twice saved us from falling into the hands of the Spaniards, and, if I mistake not, will still render us good service, he can run like a deer and leap like a young calf. There are few who can dodge the Spaniards as he can, and if we get shut up in the city, he will manage to get out again and slip through their ranks so as to let the Prince know what we are about.”

“Berthold does not over-praise Hans Bosch,” observed the captain. “I commend him to your care, Burgomaster, while he remains in the city, and he will be ready to make himself useful when his services are required.” It was the first evening since preparations for the defence were commenced, that any of the inhabitants were able to take rest. Though labourers were still employed on the works, they were nearly completed, and Jaqueline felt that she might, without neglecting her self-imposed duty, return home and resume her ordinary attire, so that she could preside at her father’s table. There were no guests besides Captain Van der Elst and Albert—Berthold always resided with his uncle.

“Can you now remain with us?” asked the burgomaster of Captain Van der Elst.

“Would that I could,” answered Karl, his eyes turning for a moment towards Jaqueline. “But our Prince requires my services and directed me to return without delay, he has, as you know, but few officers. His great object is forthwith to raise a force of sufficient strength to drive the Spaniards from your gates; he did not inform me how it was to be done, but it will be no easy task, for he has to garrison Rotterdam and Delft, and to guard the immediate country. Were he to leave those places unprotected, all might be lost.”

“We will trust to his sleepless energy and determination, both to devise and carry out a project for our relief,” observed the burgomaster.

“An idea has occurred to me, Captain Van der Elst!” exclaimed Albert. “I lately gave four beautiful carrier pigeons to the Vrouw Jaqueline, and if she will consent to make them over to you, you can carry them with you, and by their means inform us what progress the Prince is making in his plans for our relief. Do you consent to give up your pets, Vrouw Jaqueline?”

“Most willingly,” she answered, “if Captain Van der Elst will undertake the charge of the birds.”

“I will tend them carefully, and trust that they may become the messengers of happy news,” he said, a smile for a moment lighting up his countenance.

Albert proposed that they should at once visit the pigeons with Captain Van der Elst, and instruct him how they were to be fed and treated, as it was possible that he might have to depart at an early hour the next morning. As Jaqueline expressed her readiness to do as Albert proposed, the whole party, with the exception of the burgomaster, accompanied her to the tower of the house in which they were kept. In the same tower was situated her boudoir, and hence she could enjoy a wider view over the country than from any other part of the house.

“We must put them into two small cages, so that they may be carried easily on horseback, or by a man on foot, if necessary,” said Albert. “Come, Berthold, if your cousin will allow us, we will go and procure such cages. I know where they are to be found, and we will be back in a few minutes.” As Jaqueline did not forbid them, they set off.

It was the first time that Jaqueline and Karl Van der Elst had been together. They had never spoken of love, and the present moment seemed most inappropriate. Karl did not conceal from himself the dangers to which he must be exposed in carrying out the projects of the Prince, nor could he shut his eyes to the fearful risk all the inhabitants of Leyden must run, even though relief might soon be brought to them. He, almost against his intentions, spoke a few words to Jaqueline, the meaning of which she could not fail to understand.

“It may be weeks—months—before we meet again, but my feelings, when I have learned once to esteem, are not given to change,” she said. The young captain had reason to be content with the look which accompanied her words, even more than with the words themselves. The two lads soon returned with the cages, which were so small that two pigeons could only be pressed into each.

“They will be hurt, poor things,” cried Jaqueline.

“Oh, no, no,” said Albert, “they will support each other, and travel far more comfortably than if they had more space, and were allowed to tumble about.”

As the captain had to start the following morning, Arthur and Berthold undertook to carry the birds to his lodgings that evening.

Captain Van der Elst, accompanied by Hans Bosch, for whom a horse had been provided, and who carried the two cages, set off at an early hour the following morning. Secretly as his departure had been arranged, it was discovered by Baron Van Arenberg, who had that morning risen at an earlier hour than usual and gone out to the ramparts. The baron recognised him, and muttered, as he observed him leaving the gate, “It will be many a long day before he is again within the walls of Leyden, for ere long the Spaniards, if I mistake not, will be in possession of them.”

In the evening the burgomaster, accompanied by his daughter and nephew and Albert, had ascended to the top of the Tower of Hengist, when Albert, whose eyes were of the sharpest, exclaimed, pointing over the city to the eastward, “See, see, there come a large body of men; they must be either the troops the Prince has promised to send to our assistance, or the Spaniards.”

The rest of the party gazed in the same direction. “They form the advance guard of our foes,” said the burgomaster. “Albert and Berthold, hasten and give the information to the commandant; he will take good care that the walls are forthwith manned, though the Spaniards, after a day’s march, will be in no mood to make an attack when they know full well that we shall give them as warm a reception as did our friends at Alkmaar.”

In a few minutes the bells of all the churches were ringing forth the well-known call to arms, and the citizens, with their weapons in hand, were seen hurrying to man the forts and ramparts. The burgomaster, with Jaqueline, remained some time longer on the top of the tower that he might judge what positions the Spanish general was likely to take. The head of the leading column advanced till it reached a spot just beyond range of the guns in the batteries, then it halted to wait for the arrival of other troops; these quickly followed, the whole force numbering not less than eight thousand men, Walloons and Germans. Some immediately took possession of Leyderdorp, and of the other forts which ought to have been destroyed, while others, armed with pickaxes and spades, without a moment’s loss of time began throwing up fresh lines and forts, a third party being employed in pitching the tents and forming a camp just beyond them. All night long a vigilant watch was kept, as it was very possible that the Spaniards might attempt to surprise the city in the hopes of capturing it at once, and saving themselves from the annoyance and sufferings of a protracted siege. Young Albert and Berthold together went the rounds to see that the sentries were at their posts and wide awake, and that no post was left without a sufficient guard. No experienced officers could have been more on the alert. More than once they met the commandant, who, entrusting nothing of importance to others, was himself going the rounds.

He gave the lads some words of approval. “While the young ones show such zeal I feel confident that we shall keep the foe in check till they are compelled ignominiously to retreat,” he observed.

For several days the citizens beheld the foreign troops gathering round them, bringing their batteries closer to the walls, till Leyden was invested by no less than sixty-two redoubts, while fresh troops were seen coming in to swell the ranks of the besiegers. The city was now placed on a strict allowance of food, all the provisions having been purchased by the authorities, with an allowance of half a pound of meat, half a pound of bread allotted to each full-grown man, and to the rest in due proportion. At length the soldiers, and even some of the burghers began to murmur at their own inactivity; to give them confidence the commandant allowed a sortie to be made, promising a reward to each man who brought in the head of a Spaniard. The men of Leyden waited till nightfall, having previously carefully surveyed the point it was proposed to attack. All was still in the city, the Spaniards might have supposed that the besieged were sleeping, when suddenly the gate at which the sortie was to be made was thrown open, three hundred men eager for the fray noiselessly rushed out, not a word was spoken, not a shout raised till they were upon their foe. The Spaniards, the work of the day over, had piled their arms, and had scarcely time to fall into their ranks before their enemies were upon them; though a score or more fell yet they were too well disciplined to remain long in a state of confusion, and the officer leading the sortie deemed it prudent to call back his men. They returned without the loss of one of their number, bringing back at least a dozen Spanish heads, such was the savage commencement of the struggle. Night after night similar enterprises were undertaken, not always with the same result, though the Hollanders were invariably successful, so silently and well executed were all their sorties, but several brave men fell, and the commandant, from fear of losing too many of his troops, deemed it necessary to prohibit any from leaving the gates without his express order.

Chapter Six.

The inhabitants of Leyden were already fearfully hard pressed for food. Their bread was entirely consumed; they had but a small supply of malt cake, with a few cows—kept as long as possible for their milk—besides these an equal number of horses and sheep; but every day these provisions were becoming more and more scanty, and unless they could speedily be relieved, starvation threatened them. The burgomaster and Council were assembled when a letter which had been sent in from Valdez, with a flag of truce, was received. The burgomaster read it aloud. It offered an amnesty to all Hollanders, except a few mentioned by name, provided they would return to their allegiance; it promised forgiveness, fortified by a Papal Bull which had been issued by Gregory the Thirteenth to those Netherland sinners who duly repented and sought absolution for their sins, even though they sinned more than seven times seven. Besides this public letter were received epistles despatched by the “Glippers” from the camp to their rebellious acquaintances in the city, exhorting them to submission, and imploring them to take pity upon their poor old fathers, their daughters, and their wives.

“What say you, my friends?” exclaimed the burgomaster, who read these letters aloud. “The Spanish general offers us free pardon for defending our hearths and homes as we have hitherto done, and by God’s grace we will continue to do. The same plausible offers Don Frederic made to the citizens of Haarlem. And what happened? The slaughter which overtook old and young alike, their city plundered, their homes ruined, can testify as to the value of such offers. Shall we share their fate, or shall we hold out like men until the relief, which assuredly will come, arrives, although we have only malt cake to live upon, and but little of that, and a few cows, horses, goats, and dogs; and as to the remark of these ‘Glippers,’ the best pity we can show our poor old fathers, daughters, and wives is to keep them from the clutches of the Spanish soldiery.”

“We will fight to the last! We will fight to the last!” was the unanimous response taken up by all the citizens in the streets. It was agreed that no answer should be sent to the Spanish general; indeed some proposed hanging the herald, who was glad to make his escape with a single line in Latin, on a sheet of paper, handed to him—

“When the trapper seeks to lure his bird, he softly plays his pipe.”

Good care was taken that the herald should see nothing going on within the walls, or be able to report a word about the haggard countenances of the defenders. From their frowning looks and taunting expressions he was probably glad to escape with his life. Meantime the condition of the inhabitants became worse and worse.

Jaqueline, with other maidens and matrons of rank, had formed themselves into a band to carry such relief as they could obtain for the sufferers. Day after day they nobly prosecuted their self-imposed duties, and many by their means were aided who might otherwise have perished. Returning one evening to her tower to attend her remaining pigeons, which as yet she had not allowed to be killed in the hopes that they might serve some useful purpose, after feeding them as was her wont, she was seated at the window, inhaling the pure air which the lower part of the city had failed to afford, when she observed a white spot in the sky glittering in the rays of the setting sun. Nearer and nearer it came till she perceived that it was a bird. It soon flew in at the window and alighted in her arms. It was one of her own pigeons; beneath its wing she discovered, securely fastened by a silken thread, a small folded paper. Quickly untieing and releasing her bird, which she placed with its companions, she hurried down with the document to her father. It was, as she hoped, from Captain Van der Elst, written by the directions of the Prince. He assured the citizens that he was already preparing the promised aid, and that he hoped all difficulties would soon be overcome. He again reminded the garrison of Leyden that the fate of their country depended on their holding out. The captain did not say, what was really the case, that the Prince himself was lying ill of a fever at Rotterdam, and that unforeseen delays had occurred. As may be supposed he added a few words of his own to be read only by Jaqueline, who would, he trusted, receive the epistle. The burgomaster lost no time in communicating the contents of the letter to the brave commandant. The despatch served to revive the drooping spirits of the garrison; still there was a further delay. Again the Spaniards attacked the walls and were once more repulsed, but the numbers of the garrison were slowly though surely decreasing, yet neither the burgomaster nor John Van der Does entertained a thought of submission. As only one of the pigeons had returned, Jaqueline hoped that another might soon appear bringing more certain news of relief. She paid, as may be supposed, frequent visits to her tower, gazing in the direction when she hoped her winged messenger would appear. Her numerous duties compelled her frequently to be absent, but each time she returned home she hurried there, as often to be disappointed. She had risen one morning rather later than usual from her couch, when going to the tower she perceived that the number of her pigeons was increased, quickly searching out the new arrival she discovered, as she had expected, a letter below its wing, it was longer than the previous one. As the burgomaster, to whom she carried it, read the news it contained his eyes brightened. It was from the Prince himself; it said that the sluices at Rotterdam and Schiedam had been opened, that the dykes were all pierced, that the water was rising upon the Land-Scheiding, the great outer barrier which separated the city from the sea; that he had a fleet of two-hundred vessels in readiness stored with provisions, under the command of Admiral Boisot, and that as soon as there was sufficient depth of water, the fleet would fight its way to the walls of Leyden and bring the citizens relief.

“This is indeed joyous news!” exclaimed the burgomaster. He at once directed Berthold to summon the city musicians to meet him, with their instruments, in the market-place, to which, accompanied by Jaqueline, he immediately repaired. He knew that many of the chief citizens would soon collect there. Taking the letter, he read it publicly, when the bands of music striking up, marched through the streets playing lively melodies and martial airs. The bells rang out merry tunes, and salvos of cannon were fired not at the foe but at brief intervals, to give indubitable signs that the city was rejoicing.

“These scenes will astonish our enemies, who will at first be unable to comprehend their import, but I’ve an idea they will soon find out, and may deem it wise to decamp,” exclaimed Berthold. Albert proposed making a sortie to attack the Spaniards before they had recovered from their astonishment at hearing the joyful sounds from the city, and seeing the waters flowing over the land.

“No! no!” answered the commandant. “Many valuable lives might be sacrificed, and the ocean will ere long fight for us far more effectually than our swords.”

The burgomaster, generally accompanied by Jaqueline, paid frequent visits to Hengist Tower.

Already from its summit the waters could be seen covering spaces which had hitherto been dry land, the canals having in many places risen ten inches and were overflowing their banks, though the great dyke five miles off still prevented the flood from reaching the Spanish camp. The had one evening gone there with Berthold and Albert, who were especially eager in watching the rise of the flood. Already in the far distance the rays of the sun glittered on the rising waters, where hitherto only green fields and orchards had been seen, but between that shining expanse and the city lay about five miles off the Land-Scheiding, a strong dyke which had been spoken of, and within it were also several circumvallations thrown up to defend the city from the encroachments of the ocean. These all had to be passed before the fleet could reach the walls. Though there were canals navigable at all times by vessels of small burden, the Land-Scheiding was still a foot and a half above the water, forming an impassable barrier, besides which in the intermediate space were numerous villages held by the king’s troops. While the two lads were standing somewhat apart from the burgomaster and Jaqueline they observed a person approaching the tower. “It is that fellow Van Arenberg,” whispered Albert. “I wonder he has ventured to remain so long in the city, he might all this time have been with the Spaniards, whom he is so constantly praising and advising the people to confide in. When the fighting is going on he is never to be seen on the ramparts, and though he receives his rations I suspect that it is only a make-believe, and that he has a secret store of provisions in his own house.”

“It would not do to say that to the burgomaster,” observed Berthold. “He still believes him to be honest, though wanting in spirit, and would, I suspect, even now let Jaqueline marry him if he were to press his suit and she were to consent.”

“That is not very likely to happen,” said Albert. “She would be more ready to marry Captain Van der Elst.”

“I do not know,” answered Berthold. “During our journey he never, that I recollect, once spoke to me about her; but here comes the baron, we had better keep out of his way, for if I meet him I shall be inclined to say something he won’t like.”

The baron, who certainly seemed to have suffered less than most of the inhabitants of Leyden from scanty food and constant watching, now reaching the top of the tower approached the burgomaster and Jaqueline. Having in his usual courteous and polished manner paid his respects to the Lily and her father, he pointed southward.

“You are looking out there, I conclude, for the appearance of admiral Boisot and his Sea Beggars, but I fear that we shall look in vain; his flotilla may reach the Land-Scheiding, but beyond that no mortal power can enable his ships to advance; even should they pierce it, as the Prince expects, it is impossible that they can pass all those other barriers with the victorious troops of Valdez opposing them and garrisoning every village and fort.”

“God can make a way if man cannot,” answered the burgomaster.

“But He may not think fit to make one for those daring outlaws to reach Leyden,” said the baron. “Would that I could hope that relief was likely to come, but I have long despaired, as you know, of obtaining it, and I have sought you, Burgomaster, to entreat you that even should you consider it your duty to remain you will allow me to escort your fair daughter to some place where she may escape the unspeakable miseries which are gathering round the inhabitants of this unhappy city. I can, through some influential friends, obtain a safe pass from Valdez, and can also through their means arrange for her secret departure from the city, so that whatever happens she will at all events be preserved.”

“Even should she wish it, my duty to my fellow-citizens will prevent me from permitting her to go,” answered the burgomaster. “Her departure would tend to dishearten those who have already sufficient to try them; but you may ask her.”

Jaqueline had, while the baron was speaking to her father, withdrawn from his side, and was about to join her cousin and Albert when the young noble approached her. In carefully measured words he spoke of his love and devotion, and offering his hand and heart, entreated her at once to become his wife that he might be able to rescue her from the dangers by which she was surrounded.

“I have your father’s permission,” he added, “and whatever opinion he may consider it his duty to express publicly I cannot but believe that his mind will be greatly relieved when he knows that you are beyond the reach of harm.”

“It may be that you have my father’s permission to speak to me,” she answered, “but he would never counsel me to play a dastard’s part and dishearten my fellow-citizens, whom I am bound to encourage. Understand, Ernst Van Arenberg, sooner would I remain among those who are stricken down every day by famine and pestilence, and share their fate, if God so wills it, than wed one who traitorously counsels submission to the foe.”

As she spoke she fixed her clear blue eyes on him with a look the meaning of which he could not misinterpret, for it showed the scorn his proposal had inspired. He might have seen that his cause was hopeless, yet he could not even now abandon her, and was again about to speak when Berthold and Albert came up with an independent air, the former exclaiming—

“Look out there, Jaqueline! Look out, your eyes are keen enough to see the sun shining on some score of white sails far away to the southward; they form, I doubt not, the vanguard of a relieving fleet, and before long the Spaniards, the ‘Glippers,’ and their friends will be scampering off to escape being overwhelmed by the rising tide.”

“It is high time for you, Baron, to go and give the Spaniards warning if you wish to serve them a good turn,” said Albert.

The baron frowned at the lad, who looked so unconscious of having said anything disagreeable that he did not venture to reply. At length the burgomaster, addressing Jaqueline, proposed to return home, and desired his nephew and Albert to follow him, but a word from Jaqueline prevented him from inviting the baron, as he might otherwise have done, to his house. Van Arenberg descended the steps close behind them, but receiving no intimation that he might accompany them from Jaqueline or her father, he was compelled to lift his beaver, which he did with a somewhat haughty air, and without taking the slightest notice of the lads, walked away in an opposite direction. The burgomaster, who had overheard some of the boy’s remarks, chided them for speaking so rudely to the baron.

“Though the opinion you have formed of him is, I fear, right, it becomes you not thus to address a person so much your senior in age as well as in rank,” he said.

Jaqueline, however, interfered, and told her father that she was thankful to them for coming so opportunely to her assistance, and preventing her from uttering expressions which the baron might have deemed far more severe than anything her cousin and Albert could say.

Chapter Seven.

Jaqueline had welcomed a third of her white-winged birds to her tower. The pigeon bore a letter dictated by Admiral Boisot, though she recognised the handwriting of Captain Van der Elst. It stated that the fleet led by an enormous vessel, the “Ark of Delft,” with shot-proof bulwarks, and moved by paddle-wheels turned by a crank, had reached the Land-Scheiding, and that he hoped, ere long, the large dyke would be broken through and that the way would be opened to the very walls of the city. The Prince also sent a message urging the citizens yet longer to hold out, reminding them that with Leyden all Holland must also perish. This letter for a time greatly encouraged the suffering garrison; those who understood the nature of the undertaking were aware that much depended on the direction of the wind. An easterly gale was calculated to blow back the waters and prevent their rising, while one from the south or west would force them on towards the city. The wind was now blowing from the cast and the tides were at their lowest, so that the waters were making but slow progress. Still the loyal-hearted among the population, trusting to their Prince’s promises, were assured that if it was in the power of human help they would in time be relieved. The “Glippers,” however, who professed to know the country well, ridiculed the desperate project. Those in the town taunted their fellow-citizens, frequently crying out, “Go up to the tower and tell us if you can see the ocean coming over the dry land to our relief.” Day after day they did go up, hoping, praying, fearing, and at last almost despairing of relief from God or man. Letters were also daily received from those with Valdez urging the inhabitants to spare themselves further suffering. Young Albert and Berthold had made themselves especially useful by going round the ramparts, not once or twice a day, but many times during the day and night, at all hours, so that they might not only see that the sentinels were keeping a vigilant watch, but that they might be able to discover treachery should any have been attempted. They had one evening gone to the top of Hengist’s Tower, a spot they were especially fond of visiting at all hours of the day and night, when they saw the hitherto dark sky to the southward suddenly illumined by bright flashes of light following one another in rapid succession.

“Hark, I can hear the roar of guns,” exclaimed Berthold. They listened, there was no doubt about it. The flashes continued, now fires blazed up in various directions. There was more firing, not always in the same place, the tide of battle was evidently moving on. The lads were at length joined by several citizens.

“The Sea Beggars are coming!” shouted Albert, unwittingly, “they are fighting their way towards us.”

“We must not be too sanguine,” observed one of the citizens. “There may be fighting taking place, but we cannot tell who is gaining the victory. It may be that the Spaniards are driving back our friends.”

“I am very sure that they are not,” cried Albert. “Admiral Boisot and his gallant followers are victorious—of that I am certain.”

“Count Louis and his whole army were cut to pieces not long ago,” remarked this citizen, in a melancholy tone. The mystery was not solved that night, and the whole of the next day went by without any information having been received of what had taken place.

The following night the two lads were passing along the top of the wall in the neighbourhood of the Cowgate, looking southward, when they caught sight of the figure of a person close below them who had suddenly come into view.

“Send me down a rope and be quick about it, or I may be caught by the Spaniards, for they are close upon me,” he exclaimed.

“They will scarcely venture within range of our guns,” said Berthold. “But we will haul you up as soon as we can get a rope.”

“I know where to find one not far off,” said Albert, and he hurried away, while Berthold summoned two or three of the guard to the assistance of the stranger. Albert quickly returned with a rope of sufficient length and strength. Scarcely was it lowered when the stranger hauled himself up with the agility of a monkey.

“Don’t you remember me?” he said, looking at Berthold. “I am Hans Bosch, you know that you can trust me; I have accompanied Captain Van der Elst, and he will be up here before long. I have led the Spanish guard a pretty dance to draw off their attention, that he might the more easily pass by them. I don’t think they are likely to have caught him, though if he does not appear soon I must go back again. I know part of his message, which I may give if he does not appear, but I hope that he will deliver it himself.”

This news so greatly excited Berthold and Albert that they were much inclined to set out with Hans to look for their friend, but he advised them to do nothing of the sort.

“They might as well try to catch a Will-o’-the-Wisp as me,” he said, “but they would trap you in a moment. No, no; if I go, I go alone.”

At length, to their great joy, another figure was seen.

“Quick! quick! That’s him!” exclaimed Hans. “That’s the captain. Quick! quick! The chances are he has a dozen Spaniards at his heels!”

The rope was lowered, and the captain was quickly hauled up to to the top of the wall. He shook Albert and Berthold warmly by the hand.

“I must lose no time,” he said, “in reporting to the burgomaster and commandant the steps the Prince has taken for the relief of the city. You are undoubtedly eager to hear, but I must reserve my report for your ciders.”

The two lads hastened on with their friend, and fortunately found the burgomaster in consultation with the commandant. The boys stood eagerly listening while the captain delivered his message.

“You heard that the admiral had received directions from the Prince to take possession of the Land-Scheiding. This was done two nights ago. But a few Spaniards were found stationed on the dyke, and they were quickly driven off when we fortified ourselves upon it. In the morning the enemy endeavoured to recover the lost ground, and attacked us in considerable force, but we drove them back, they leaving hundreds of dead on the field. No time was lost in breaking through the dyke in several places. The water rushing on, the fleet sailed through the gaps; but, to our disappointment, we found another dyke, that of the Greenway, three quarters of a mile further on, rising at least a foot above the waters. This had also been left ill-protected, and our admiral promptly attacking it, took possession, and levelling it in many places, brought the flotilla over its ruins. Soon afterwards, however, the further progress of the fleet was arrested by the shallowness of the water; but our admiral, knowing the anxiety you must be feeling, dispatched me to inform you of this, and to assure you that he waits but the rising of the tide and a favourable wind to bring you succour.”

The news was thus far satisfactory, and the captain was warmly thanked for bringing it, but that he received his reward when at the burgomaster’s invitation he accompanied him home, there could be little doubt.

The wind, however, still blew from the east, and the inhabitants well knew that as long as it came from that quarter they must look in vain for the wished-for ocean to reach their walls.

Day after day the siege continued; the inhabitants were suffering not only from famine, but from pestilence, produced by the scantiness of their food. Hapless infants were starved to death, mothers dropped dead in the streets with their dead children in their arms, and in many a house the watchmen in their rounds found whole families of corpses, father, mother, and children, lying side by side, struck down by pestilence. Bread, malt cake, and horse-flesh had entirely disappeared. A small number of cows had been kept as long as possible for their milk, but a few of these were killed from day to day, and distributed in minute proportions, scarcely, however, sufficient to support life among the famishing population, while their hides chopped and boiled were greedily devoured. Green leaves were stripped from the trees, every living herb was converted into human food; dogs and rats were caught and eaten. Still, although papers offering a free pardon were sent into the city, the inhabitants spurned them, and refused to listen to treacherous promises of the foe.

The commandant was anxious to send a trusty messenger to the Prince, and while pointing out the urgent necessity for relief, promising to resist to the last.

“Will you return, Captain Van der Elst?” he asked of Karl, who was in attendance on him. “I dare not order any man on so desperate an undertaking, for the Spaniards keep a vigilant watch, and will have no mercy on any one whom they capture.”

“If it were to certain death, I would go,” answered Karl. “And I place my services at your disposal. At the same time the danger is not so great as you suppose. Several of the forts in the lower ground have been flooded, and the trenches filled with water, so that the Spaniards have been compelled to evacuate them, and thus to those who are acquainted with their position the way is far more open than it has been heretofore, while numerous sentries at the outposts have been withdrawn.”

“To-night be prepared to set out; a skiff shall be in readiness having served at sea, you know well how to manage her,” answered the commandant.

Karl took his leave, and repaired to the house of the burgomaster to receive any message he might desire to send. He might have had another motive. He found the chief magistrate and his daughter seated alone. Though suffering from the severe privation she had undergone in common with the rest of the population, if possible the Lily looked more lovely than ever. She smiled as the young soldier entered, but her lip trembled on hearing of the duty he had undertaken, yet not a word did she utter to dissuade him from it.

“My prayers will be offered that Heaven protect you,” she murmured, in a low voice as he approached her, while the burgomaster was writing some brief notes.

“I trust that I may return, perhaps ere many hours are over, on board the fleet to bring you succour,” he answered. “You will know of our approach, for our guns will thunder against the fortresses of the enemy when the waters rise sufficiently to enable us to advance.”

“The wind still blows from the cast and keeps back the fleet,” she observed.

“But the wind may ere long change, and depend upon it our brave admiral and his ‘Sea Beggars’ will not linger the moment there is sufficient water to float their ships,” said Karl, in an encouraging tone. When her eyes were lifted towards his countenance, their expression was very different to that with which she had regarded the baron. With natural reluctance Karl, having received his dispatches, at length rose to take leave and prepare for his enterprise. As there were traitors within the gates he kept all his arrangements secret. They were known only to his two young friends and Hans Bosch, who undertook to accompany him. Not till late on the following day was it even known that he had set out when the burgomaster announced that he had despatched another messenger to entreat their friends to hasten to their relief. Desperate as had been the state of matters in the besieged city, they hourly became worse. Leyden, indeed, appeared to be at its last gasp. The noble burgomaster maintained his heroic bearing, ever moving about to encourage the wavering and to revive the drooping spirits of the loyal; but a trial greater than any he had yet had to endure was in store for him.

Jaqueline had from the first employed herself in going among the sick and suffering, and carrying such relief as she was able to afford, and consoling the afflicted ones from that Book in which true comfort alone can be found. In these active duties she found her chief solace. Not only was she enduring physical suffering! but no certain tidings had been received of Captain Van der Elst, and reports were current that he had been captured by the Spaniards, it being well known that if such was the case a cruel death must have been his fate. One evening the Lily was returning to her home from one of her expeditions of mercy, attended by Margaret, an old and faithful servant, who was her constant companion. As darkness was already overspreading the city, she hurried on, unwilling to be out so late at night, when she was accosted by a poor woman, who, with a piteous tale, too likely to be true, entreated that she would visit her perishing family. Without hesitation she desired Margaret to return home and obtain such scanty provisions as remained, while she accompanied the suppliant. Margaret, having collected a small amount of food, hurried back to rejoin her mistress at the address given by the woman who had spoken to her, but no living beings were in the house; three corpses alone lay on the floor. Margaret, without a moment’s loss of time, went to all the neighbouring houses, inquiring for the Vrouw Jaqueline, but no one had seen her. Almost frantic she hurried through the streets of the city, but her search was fruitless. At last she went back with the overwhelming intelligence, which she entreated Berthold to break to his uncle. The burgomaster, who had hitherto held out so bravely, for a moment seemed stunned, but quickly recovering himself he directed Berthold to send all the servants of the house to him, but no one was able to afford the slightest information to account for Jaqueline’s disappearance.

“I would lay my life that the Baron Van Arenberg has had something to do with it,” exclaimed Berthold. “If you will let me I will get Albert and we will go to his house. We shall soon judge by the way he receives the intelligence whether he knows anything about the matter.” Berthold received the leave he requested, while the burgomaster himself forthwith sent a band of watchmen round in all directions through the town in search of Jaqueline, while he called at numerous houses and visited all the friends on whom he could rely to obtain their assistance in the search. The first to make their appearance at his house were Albert and Berthold.

“We were right,” they exclaimed. “The baron’s servants know nothing of him; he left home at an early hour this afternoon, and has not since returned. Most of his domestics, who were ‘Glippers,’ have long ago made their escape. The watchmen in the course of the night came in with equally unsatisfactory reports—not a trace of the Vrouw Jaqueline had been discovered.”

“May God protect my child,” exclaimed the burgomaster, bowing his head. “She is beyond human aid.”

No one would have believed from his appearance the next morning, when he left his home to attend to his magisterial duties, that a deep domestic sorrow had overtaken him. He started as he quitted his door, for there, on the very threshold, lay a dead body, thus placed as if to reproach him for his stern determination in holding out.

“We shall all soon be like him who lies there,” cried many voices.

“It were better to have yielded than have been compelled to endure such suffering,” shouted others.

Unheeding them, the burgomaster proceeded to a triangular space in the centre of the town, into which many of the principal streets opened, and in which stood the church of Saint Pancras, two ancient lime trees growing on either side of the entrance now stripped bare of leaves by the famishing people. Ascending the steps, Adrian Van der Werf stopped while he regarded the numberless angry faces turned towards him. For a moment he stood there, his figure tall and imposing, his visage dark and haggard, his eye yet tranquil and commanding, and then waving his broad-brimmed hat for silence, he exclaimed, “What would you, my friends? Why do you murmur that we do not break our vows and surrender our city to the Spaniards, a fate more horrible than the agony which she now endures? I tell you I have made a vow to hold the city, and may God give me strength to keep it. I can die but once, whether by your hands, by the enemy’s, or by the hand of God. My own fate is indifferent to me, not so that of the city entrusted to our care. I know that we shall soon starve, but starvation is preferable to the dishonoured death which is the only alternative. Your menaces move me not. My life is at your disposal. Here is my sword, plunge it into my breast and divide my flesh among you, take my body to appease your hunger, but expect no surrender as long as I remain alive.”

The words of the brave burgomaster inspired a new courage in the hearts of those who heard him. Shouts of applause and defiance rose from the famishing, but enthusiastic crowd, they hurried to the ramparts to hurl renewed defiance at the enemy.

“Ye call us rat-eaters and dog-eaters,” they cried; “so long as ye hear a dog bark or a cat mew within the walls ye may know that the city holds out; when the last hour has come, we will with our own hands set fire to the houses and perish in the flames rather than suffer our homes to be polluted and our liberties to be crushed.”

Chapter Eight.

Truly it has been said that Leyden was sublime in its despair. Day after day went by and yet no relief came, but the wind, which had long blown steadily from the cast, suddenly changed to the westward. At length Albert and Berthold, who had regularly visited Jaqueline’s tower, discovered the fourth pigeon. They eagerly examined its wing, beneath it was a letter which came from the admiral. The fleet had reached North Aa, and in a few days at furthest he expected to reach the gates of the city. The burgomaster read the letter as before in the market-place, and the bells rang out a joyous peal. Once more, however, the wind shifted, and the hopes of the garrison of Leyden sank to the lowest ebb.

We must now return to the evening when Jaqueline, having sent her attendant Margaret to obtain provisions for the suffering family, accompanied the woman who had supplicated her. Suddenly, as she was passing close to a canal, she found herself lifted from her feet, while a thick cloak was thrown over her. In vain she attempted to shriek for help, in another instant she heard the splash of oars.

“Do not fear, you are in the safe keeping of one who desires to save you from horrible suffering and death,” whispered a voice in her ear. Notwithstanding these assurances, Jaqueline entreated that she might be placed on shore, and endeavoured by her cries to attract the attention of any who might be passing. Vain were her efforts, the thick folds of the cloak prevented her voice being heard, while a heavy mist, together with the shades of night, shrouded the canal as the boat glided forward. Jaqueline knew that the canal extended out beneath the city walls, and she hoped that the boat would be challenged as it passed under them and be compelled to put to shore. Keeping silent, she resolved to take the opportunity of making another effort to escape from her captors; as the spot was approached, however, she felt a hand pressed on her mouth. In vain she struggled to free herself, she heard the sign and counter-sign given, and the boat impelled by four sturdy rowers soon left the city walls behind. Strange as it might seem, thinking more of the safety of her townsmen than of herself, the idea occurred to her that if persons could thus, undiscovered, leave the city, an armed force might be introduced by the gates, and disastrous might be the consequences. She was, she had reason to fear, being carried to the Spanish camp, but who could have been guilty of so treacherous an act? She was not left long in doubt, the person who had before addressed her in a subdued tone now raised his voice, and she recognised it as that of Van Arenberg. For some time she could not sufficiently command herself to speak, at length, however, she said in a calm tone, “I will not pretend to be ignorant that it is you who have committed this unwarrantable act of violence, and I insist that you carry me back to the city and restore me to my father, his mental anxiety already so overwhelming, when he finds that I am lost, may bring him to the grave.”

“I have but acted, my beloved Jaqueline, as you would secretly wish, to save you from that destruction which must, ere many days have passed, descend on the city. My object is to carry you to a place of safety, all I ask being your hand and love.”

“The former I will not give, the other I cannot bestow,” answered Jaqueline, firmly. “Had I before been willing in obedience to my father’s wishes to try and love you, the outrage you have committed would have changed my sentiments, and I again insist that you return with me to the city.”

“To do so is utterly impossible,” answered Van Arenberg. “The sentries, as we passed beneath the fortress of Zoeterwoude, nearly detected the boat, and we should certainly be captured were we to make the attempt. We will now, therefore, proceed towards Delft, where you will be among friends, and safe from the foes you dread.”

Jaqueline greatly doubted that the baron spoke the truth. Again and again she insisted, notwithstanding all the risks they might run, that they should return to the city. She saw at length that all expostulation was useless, the darkness of night prevented her from observing the direction they were taking. Suddenly the sound of heavy guns broke on her ear, followed by the rattle of musketry. Looking southward she saw bright flashes glancing over the water in rapid succession; she thought, too, that she could even hear the shouts of the combatants, the clashing of swords and battle-axes. It was evident that a fierce fight was raging in that direction. The rowers, who had hitherto been exerting themselves to the utmost, paused, and exchanged a few hurried words. It appeared to her that they had lost their way, for many new channels, deepened by the inflowing waters, branched off on every hand.

Van Arenberg ordered them to row on.

“In what direction shall we go?” asked one of the men. “We may chance to run our noses into the lion’s den. See, fires are blazing on all sides, and friends and foes are likely to treat us in the same fashion.” Van Arenberg, anxious for Jaqueline’s safety, and perhaps for his own, urged his crew to row away from the point where the engagement appeared to be raging most furiously. Already round shot and bullets came flying across the water, and a stray one might chance to hit the boat. The men appeared undecided which way to go, when one of them cried out, “There’s a boat astern! She may, perchance, be that of an enemy, and if so we shall to a certainty be knocked on the head.”

“Row then for your lives!” cried Van Arenberg, for he had equally to fear the Hollanders and Spaniards; the latter, not aware of his treachery, might, before he could show his pass, shoot him down or run him through with their pikes, while his own countrymen would treat him as a hated renegade. The crew, needing no second bidding, bent to their oars with all the strength they possessed. Their flight was, however, discovered by the boat they had seen, which immediately gave chase. Jaqueline believed that their pursuers were Spaniards, and was as eager to escape as the baron, but sturdily as the crew of the villagers whom he had hired plied their oars, the others came on faster. The night was so dark that it was impossible to distinguish objects ahead. At any moment they might find themselves stranded on the shore, or stopped by some impassable shallow. The baron now urged the men to be cautious, now to row with might and main.

Ever and anon the glare from the burning villages, and from fires on the dykes, showed that the boat in chase was gaining on them.

“It were far better to stop and fight,” cried the chief man of the crew. “As to escaping, there is no chance of that in the end, for the fellows astern have a much lighter boat than ours.”

“Fifty guilders if you beat them off,” cried the baron. “Lady, you must lie down at the bottom of the boat, or you may chance to be struck by a shot, or injured by the pikes of our pursuers, should they overtake us.”

“I fear less the weapons of our foes than I do your designs,” answered Jaqueline, with a tone of scorn, retaining her seat. There was little time to hold parley on the subject. In another moment the boat was alongside, and a voice in Dutch shouted, “Yield! inform us whither you are bound.”

“Treachery! treachery!” cried the baron. “They are Spaniards; we may yet escape them.”

But Jaqueline recognised the voice. “Karl,” she exclaimed, “save me, save me!” and she sprang towards the boat.

Van Arenberg would have prevented her reaching it, but his sword whirled from his hand, the next instant he was driven overboard by a thrust from a pike through his breast. A despairing cry was heard, and before the people could clutch his clothes he was swept away by the current. In a few words Jaqueline told of the outrage to which she had been subjected. Captain Van der Elst accounted for the circumstance of his having so providentially rescued her by saying that he had been sent to reconnoitre the enemy’s position, and supposing that the boat was manned by Spaniards he had given chase. She entreated that he would proceed in his duty.

“No harm can come to me while I am by your side,” she said, scarcely thinking of the interpretation which might be put upon the words she uttered. He pressed her hand. Having ordered the villagers’ boat to follow at a distance, warning them of the punishment they would receive should they attempt to escape, he continued on till he had performed the duty on which he had been despatched. Morning was approaching when he returned to the fleet, which had just broken through the second great dyke and destroyed the villages of Zoetermeer and Benthuyzen, and now borne on by the rising waters was advancing towards Leyden. Karl conveyed Jaqueline on board the admiral’s ship, manned by a savage-looking crew, the wild Beggars of the Sea. Ferocious, however, as they were to their foes, to her they were civil and courteous. Eight hundred of them, mostly Zealanders, manned the fleet. The greater number were scarred, hacked, and even maimed in the unceasing conflicts in which their lives had been passed, while they were renowned far and wide as much for their nautical skill as their ferocity. Their appearance was both eccentric and terrific; they wore crescents in their caps with the inscription, “Rather Turkish than Popish.” They were known never to give nor take quarter; they went to mortal combat only. They had sworn to spare neither noble nor simple, neither King, Kaiser, nor Pope, should they fall into their power. Each ship carried ten guns, and was propelled, the smaller by ten, the larger by eighteen oars, the whole fleet having on board 2,500 veterans, experienced both on land and water. Jaqueline was conducted to the admiral’s cabin; it boasted neither of magnificence nor elegance; indeed, very little of comfort, for the vessels had been fitted out for rough work, and no ladies had been expected on board. The stout old admiral welcomed his guest.

“You may rest here in security, my pretty maiden,” he said; “and I trust ere many days are over to restore you to the arms of your brave father.”

Not long afterwards the order was issued for the fleet once more to advance, and Jaqueline’s heart beat high with hope, for the second dyke was attacked. The Spaniards, scarcely stopping to encounter the enemy, flung away their arms as they saw the dreaded sea rovers approaching. The barrier was quickly broken, and again the fleet pushed forward over the submerged country till it reached North Aa. Scarcely, however, had the ships arrived there than once more the easterly wind began to blow, driving the waters away from the city. Lower and lower they sank, until the ships grounded, and further progress became impossible. The delay sorely tried the patience of the eager crews, and many leaping into the water, attempted to lift their ships over the shallows, but their strength was unequal to the task. There they lay stranded, with scarcely nine inches of water round them. Jaqueline’s anguish of mind was increased from knowing too well the consequences of the delay to the starving inhabitants of the beleaguered city. Though confident of the resolution of her father and the commandant, she was aware of the direful effect which starvation had already produced among the inhabitants. Would they continue to hold out? Ten thousand Spaniards still surrounded the walls, and at any moment might break in, and massacre and rapine would sweep over her native city. Night and day she prayed that the dreaded catastrophe might be averted, yet day after day passed, and the fleet lay in sight of the walls, but too far distant for their cannon to reach the enemy. Even Admiral Boisot was in despair. He despatched a letter to the Prince, stating his belief that if the spring tides, soon to be expected, should not, together with the strong south-westerly wind, come immediately to their relief, he should be compelled to abandon the expedition. Not many hours after the letter had been despatched a large boat was seen rowing swiftly towards the fleet from the southward. She soon came alongside the admiral’s ship. A cry, “It is the Prince! our noble Prince,” burst from the throats of the sea rovers as they welcomed him on board, though they observed with sorrow that his commanding figure was fearfully emaciated, his noble face pale as death. He had, indeed, only just risen from a bed of sickness, and few knew how near to death’s door he had been, his disease aggravated by a report which had reached him that Leyden had fallen, yet all the time he had been directing the plans for bringing the fleet across the land. His countenance assumed a cheerful aspect as he spoke to the almost despairing admiral and his officers.

“I know the people of Leyden,” he said, “they will hold out till you can reach them. Ere long the sea will rise. Already the water is deeper than when I came on board.”

The Prince was right, he had observed clouds gathering in the south-western horizon, and ere long a strong wind from that quarter began to blow, the tide flowed in, the water swept over the dykes, cheers rose from the throats of the seamen. Once more their ships were afloat, sails were spread, the oars run out, and now they went gliding on led by the “Ark of Delft,” until Zoetermeer was reached. Here a desperate effort was made by the Spaniards to stop their progress, but that village and others in the neighbourhood were attacked, the enemy driven out, and they were set on fire. The blaze lighted up the midnight sky, announcing to the fainting garrison that relief was approaching. Barrier after barrier was passed, and for many an hour in the midst of the howling storm and pitchy darkness a fierce battle raged. The victorious Hollanders pushed further on, but still two forts of great strength, those of Zoeterwoude and Lammen, lay between them and the city, garrisoned by the enemy’s best troops and armed with heavy artillery. They must be captured before the city could be gained. Stout as were the rovers’ hearts, their vessels, though large, were slightly built, and, except the “Ark of Delft,” were incapable of standing the heavy shot which would be hurled against them. The Spanish vessels, hitherto kept in reserve, advanced to the fight, but were quickly sunk, their crews miserably perishing, and ere a shot was fired against Zoeterwoude the Spaniards were seen in full flight along the top of the dyke leading towards the Hague. The rovers followed, leaping from their vessels and slaying all whom they could overtake, many of the fugitives perishing in the fast advancing waves as the dykes crumbled beneath their feet. But yet another fort, that of Lammen, the strongest of all, remained, held by the main body of the enemy. The fleet approached, but the admiral dared not expose his ships to the storms of shot hurled towards them, and therefore waited for the return of night, resolving either to make a desperate assault—though he almost despaired of success—or, should the waters rise, to carry his ships round by a circuitous way to the opposite side; but this as yet the depth of water would not allow.

That day was one of the deepest anxiety, although the rain and wind which came from the south-west were undoubtedly causing the waters to rise. As evening drew on the storm increased, the night became darker and darker. Loud crashes were heard, lights were seen flitting across the black face of the waters proceeding from the direction of the fort, but no one could account for the cause of these sounds and appearances. At length a fearful report ran through the fleet that the enemy had burst into the city, and thus that all the efforts they had made were in vain. Still the strange lights appeared and vanished in the darkness; what they portended no one could say. At dawn the admiral issued the order to assault the fortress; the eager crews sprang into their boats fully expecting a desperate encounter, but no shot saluted them, all was silent within. Had the Spaniards really then, at the last moment, captured the city? The fleet pushed on, though it was believed that some fearful treachery was intended and that they might suddenly be attacked by an overwhelming force.

As soon as the ships got near enough, Captain Van der Elst, who had undertaken to lead the assault, plunging into the waters waded towards the fort. As he was striding on a voice from the summit hailed him and he saw young Albert Van der Does who, having crossed from the city and climbed to the top of the embankment, was waving his cap and loudly cheering. Karl soon joined him, and they were in time to see the rearguard of the Spaniards escaping towards the Hague. Albert’s shouts quickly attracted the attention of the inhabitants of Leyden and gave them the first intimation that the enemy had fled. In a few minutes, led by Albert, Karl was in the presence of the burgomaster, and had assured him both of the success of their enterprise and of his daughter’s safety.

“God be praised, for He has fought for us,” exclaimed the burgomaster. “Had not the Spaniards fled when they did, what earthly powers could have prevented them from entering our city?” And he pointed to a large portion of the wall which had fallen during the night and left a breach through which the foe might have poured into the streets. The fleet now sailed up through the canals, the famishing people who lined the quays stretching out their hands to receive the food bestowed on them by the rough Sea Beggars, many of whom dashed aside their tears as they beheld the emaciated forms of the citizens, the corpse-like look of the women and children, and heard their plaintive cries for food. The first act of the brave admiral and his crew was to repair to the great church, accompanied by the commandant, the chief magistrate, and other citizens, to return thanks for their success, then a hymn arose which was abruptly terminated by the sounds of weeping though the tears were those of joy and gratitude. Among the first to land, escorted by the brave Captain Van der Elst, who had returned on board for the purpose of conducting her to the shore, was the Lily of Leyden; he had the happiness of restoring her to her father’s arms. The burgomaster, who had hitherto sternly refused to yield to the foe, melted into tears as he embraced his daughter, then turning to Captain Van der Elst, he said—

“You have proved yourself worthy of the fairest in the land; I can no longer refuse to bestow my daughter’s hand on one who will, I am sure, in these times of danger protect her with his life.”

Thus was Leyden saved after enduring a siege of five months, having experienced sufferings never surpassed by any recorded on the page of history. The Prince was the first to acknowledge the deep debt of gratitude Holland owed to the heroic fortitude of the noble burgomaster and his fellow-citizens. The people of Holland and Zealand, to show how much they were indebted to the citizens, established that university which, thus founded at the darkest period of their country’s struggle, was in after times to become so celebrated. Imposing as were the ceremonies which took place on its establishment, the following winter they were, in the opinion of many, surpassed by the magnificence of the entertainment given on the occasion of the marriage of Captain Van der Elst and the fair Lily of Leyden.

The End.

William H G Kingston

"The Log House by the Lake"

Chapter One.

It was late in the afternoon when Mr Philip Ashton walked up to the door of his residence in Portman-square. His hand touched the knocker irresolutely. “It must be done,” he said to himself. “May strength be given to all of them to bear the blow!” His hand shook as he rapped. The hall door flew open, a servant in handsome livery stood ready to take his hat and gloves. As he entered the drawing-room his wife and daughters rose to welcome him, with affection beaming in their eyes, as did his three sons, who had just arrived at home from different directions.

“Dear papa, you are not well,” exclaimed Sophy, his eldest daughter, leading him to a seat.

“Philip, what is the matter?” asked his wife, leaning over him.

“Sit down, dears, and I will tell you,” he answered, pressing her hand. “A severe trial has come upon us, but—”

“Dear Leonard, nothing has happened to him, I pray?” gasped out Mrs Ashton. Leonard was a sailor son, the only one now absent.

“Thank Heaven he is well; I had a letter from him only to-day,” answered Mr Ashton. “Many mercies are granted us, and I trust, therefore, that you will all submit to be deprived, without murmuring, of the wealth we hitherto have thought our own. Dear ones, the law-suit has been decided against us!”

The young Ashtons were silent for some minutes, but presently recovered themselves.

“We can all work,” exclaimed the three sons, in a breath.

“Our happiness does not consist in this,” said Sophy, glancing round the room, “We will make the smallest cottage comfortable for you, mamma.”

“I am sure we can, and do all the work ourselves,” cried Fanny, her next sister.

“I can make a pudding, and churn, and could soon learn how to milk a cow,” said Agnes, the third daughter, laughing. “I have always wished to live in a cottage in the country.”

“I’ve arranged it,” said Fanny. “Agnes shall be cook, I will be waiting-maid, Sophy housekeeper, Philip bailiff, Harry gardener, and Charley—oh, let me consider—general farm-servant: won’t that be excellent?”

“But you place your mother and me on the shelf,” said Mr Ashton, his spirits reviving from seeing the way in which his children bore the announcement he had so dreaded making. “What are we to do?”

“O papa, of course you and mamma are to do nothing. We are all to work for you,” exclaimed Harry, a fine youth of fourteen, who looked as if there was indeed work in him.

“Of course,” added Charley. “How we ought to thank you, papa, for having us taught carpentering, and that we all have such a fancy for gardening. John says, too, that I know almost as much about pigs and cows and sheep as he does; and as for Phil, he knows more about everything than all of us put together.”

Philip—Mr Ashton’s eldest son—had not spoken after he had first expressed his feelings with his brothers. His thoughts were elsewhere. A bright airy castle he had lately raised, had just been hurled rudely to the ground, and he was stunned by the crash.

Mr Ashton retired to rest that night with a mind greatly relieved. He had not doubted the affection of his children, and he was assured that it would enable them to bear their reverse of fortune with cheerfulness. When he rose in the morning he prayed earnestly for strength to go through the work required of him, and that is never denied to those who seek it from Him who can alone afford it. In all the work he received able assistance from his son. Philip had not left a single debt unpaid at the University, by which, under his altered circumstances, he might ever afterwards have been hampered. Mr Ashton, having never allowed household bills to run on, was comparatively free from debt.

All his affairs arranged, he found himself with an income—arising from a settlement on his wife—of two hundred pounds a-year, and about fifteen hundred pounds in ready money. Once more his family being assembled, he pointed out to them that though their plans were very good, if they were to remain a united family they must look to the future, and seek in another country the opportunity of developing their energies.

“What do you think of Canada?” he asked.

“A capital country!” cried Charley, who, as the youngest, spoke first. “I know all about the sleighing, and the skating, and the ice-boats, and the coasting down snow-hills, and the shooting huge deer, and the snow-shoeing, and the sailing on the lakes, and the fishing, and the sporting of all sorts,—not a country like it, I should say.”

“It’s a country for hard work, I know,” said Harry. “Nothing I should fancy so much as cutting down trees, building log-huts, fencing in fields, and ploughing and reaping. Ever since I read ‘Laurie Todd’ I have wished to go there.” Philip and his sisters expressed themselves equally ready to emigrate.

No time was lost in making the necessary preparations, after it was resolved that they should go to Canada. It was highly gratifying to them to find that several of their servants wished to accompany them. Two only, however, could be taken. Of these Mrs Summers had been the nurse of all the younger children, and had lately acted as housekeeper. “It would break my heart, marm, if you were to go out to a strange country, and I, who am still strong and hearty, not to be with you to help you in all your troubles,” she said, with tears in her eyes, to Mrs Ashton. “Though you take them like an angel, marm, they are troubles.”

The other, Peter Puckle by name, had been first stable-boy, then page, and lately footman. He engaged Harry to plead his cause. “The wages and the passage-money shan’t stand in the way, Master Harry,” he urged. “I have not been in the family all these years without laying by something, and it’s the honour of serving your good father still is all I want.”

The surface of the broad Atlantic was scarcely ruffled by a breeze as the steamer with the Ashton family on board rushed across it. “Well, Sophy, I declare it is worth being ruined for the sake of the fun we have on board,” exclaimed Charley, to his eldest sister, who was sitting reading on deck, at a short distance from the rest of the party.

A gentleman standing by heard the remark, and finding Charley by himself directly afterwards, he observed, smiling, “Why, my young friend, you do not look as if you were ruined. I have never met a happier family than yours appears to be. What did you mean by saying that?”

“Well, I do not think that we are ruined really, sir,” said Charley, artlessly; “still, my papa had many thousand pounds a-year till lately, and we lived in a large house in London, and had another in the country, and Philip was at Oxford and Harry at Eton, and I was going there; and now we are to live in a log-hut in the back woods in Canada, and that makes us all so jolly, because it will be such capital fun. Don’t you think so?”

“I have had some experience of life in the back woods,” answered the gentleman. “It has its advantages and its disadvantages, though I have little doubt but that you will find it pleasant.”

“What, do you live in Canada, sir?” asked Charley.

“Yes; I have lived there all my life,” said the stranger. “But, my young friend, you say that you are ruined, and yet I see that you have servants attending on you: how is that?”

“Why, they insisted on coming, and would not leave us,” answered Charley.

“Would more have accompanied you?” enquired the stranger. “I am afraid, though, that my questions may appear impertinent,”

“If papa would have let them,” said Charley.

“That fact speaks volumes in favour both of masters and servants,” said the stranger to himself.

From that day Charley looked upon the stranger as an especial friend, though he could learn little more about him than that his name was Norman. At length the Saint Lawrence was reached, and the Ashton family landed safely at Quebec, the chief port of the superb province which the gallantry of Wolfe won for England, and which, mainly by the perseverance and energy of Anglo-Saxon inhabitants, has become one of the brightest jewels in the British crown.

Chapter Two.

“We have gained the day, Mrs Ashton! We have gained the day, girls!” exclaimed Mr Ashton, rushing with his hat on into the small sitting-room of a red brick house in a dull street of a country town in England. Various exclamations broke from the lips of Mrs and the Misses Ashton at this unexpected announcement. For reasons best known to himself, Mr John Ashton had not informed his wife and daughters of the law-suit going on between himself and his relative, Mr Philip Ashton. “Guess the amount!” he exclaimed. That was impossible. “What do you think of six thousand a-year? Every shilling of it, and under my management it will become ten thousand; ay, and more than that, probably.” It was some time before the Ashtons could realise the fact of this good fortune, as they called it; but as they realised it their ideas expanded, their aspirations increased. Their eldest son, John, lately articled to an attorney, must be entered at Oxford; the second, apprenticed to a draper, was sent off to Germany to grow whiskers and a moustache, lest any of the country gentry should recognise him as having measured out ribbons for them from behind the counter; while the youngest was taken from the Grammar-school and sent off, much against his will, to form aristocratic acquaintances at Eton. The great ambition of the Miss Ashtons was to shine in London society. Their father boasted that money could do everything. It enabled him to obtain a handsome house, equipage, and establishment, and then to commence their career in the world of fashion. There were three Miss Ashtons. The two eldest were considered beauties; the youngest, Mary, had been absent on a visit, and did not return home till her father was on the point of setting off for London.

“Father, I wish to speak to you alone,” said Mary, on the evening of her arrival. Mr Ashton led the way to his office at the back of the house. He had considerable respect for Mary, though he tried not to show it. “Father, I hope that you will not consider I have been wanting in duty in having refrained from writing what I now wish to tell you,” she began. Mr Ashton looked uncomfortable, but nodded for her to continue, which she did. “While I was with Mrs Musgrave, at Scarborough, a gentleman of our name, who happened to be there with some members of his family, was introduced to me. Mrs Musgrave was much pleased with him—we saw him frequently—he at length proposed to me, and feeling sure that you would approve of him, I accepted him.”

“What is his name?” asked Mr Ashton, sharply.

“Philip Ashton;—he is most worthy—most excellent,” answered Mary, trembling at her father’s tone. “He is all—!”

“He is a beggar!” exclaimed Mr Ashton, vehemently. “You will have nothing more to say to him; you understand me clearly; it is not a matter I wish to discuss.” Rising from his seat he led the way out of the room.

Two days afterwards Mary received a letter from Philip Ashton, freeing her from her engagement to him in consequence of their altered circumstances, but couched in terms which more than ever convinced her that he was worthy of her best affections. The family arrived in London, and by dint of perseverance, managed to engage in a whirl of dissipation, which they called pleasure. Mary’s cheeks grew paler than they were wont. Her sisters said that it was the effect of the London season. John, voting Oxford a bore, came to London, and without much difficulty, obtained the character of a fashionable young man about town. It might have been doubted whether Mr Ashton himself derived full advantage from his large income. Few of his guests knew him by sight, and he had often to steal off to bed fatigued with his labours as director of numerous promising speculations in which he had engaged to increase his fortune. Altogether the Ashton family were very busily employed. Some might say that they were like those who “sow the wind to reap the whirlwind.” We gladly quit them to follow the fortunes of their emigrant cousins.

Chapter Three.

Canada is now traversed from one end to the other by railways, with numerous ramifications to the north and south, while steam-vessels run not only on its main artery—the Saint Lawrence—and the great chain of lakes, but also on numerous other rivers and lakes in every direction on the lines of the highway to any inhabited district. Notwithstanding this, the romance of travelling through Canada is not altogether done away with. Although several of the chief cities contain very large populations, Montreal having 100,000 inhabitants, and Quebec and Toronto not many thousands less, and possessing likewise all the advantages required by civilised communities, yet a very few miles away from them the stranger may find himself in some wild district where he might suppose that the foot of man had never trod. In the summer, steamers on water compete with locomotives on land in conveying passengers; and when time is not of consequence, the route by water is generally preferred.

A few days only were spent at Quebec by the Ashtons after their arrival, before they embarked on board one of those wonderful constructions, an American steam-boat, to proceed up the Saint Lawrence to Montreal. The entrance was in the side of the vessel, and on the main deck, which appeared lumbered up from one end to the other with casks, chests, and packages, a flight of steps led to an upper deck, which had the appearance of a long gallery, fitted up as a drawing-room, with sofas, easy chairs, and every luxury. The glazed roof was supported by pillars, but no access could be discovered to any spot where helmsman, captain, or crew might be posted. Harry, after many enquiries, found that the wheel was on a platform on the roof forward, where the captain and pilot stood. He pronounced the vessel to be constructed on two huge arches, having a vast Thames wherry below, with a superstructure of picture galleries on a wide platform extending far over her gunwale on either side.

Montreal, the head of the ocean navigation, was reached; and then by a series of magnificent canals the rapids of the Saint Lawrence were avoided; the lake of the Thousand Isles, with their rocky bases and tree-covered summits, was passed, as were several larger and thriving towns, and Lake Ontario was entered.

At Kingston they embarked on board another steamer, which was far more like an ordinary vessel than the one they had just quitted. Who should come on board, just before she left the wharf, but Mr Norman. A few hours afterwards, when Harry and Charley came on deck, they uttered an exclamation of surprise as they looked around. “What, is this called a lake, Mr Norman? Why, where is the land?”

“Out of sight,” answered their friend, laughing. “North, south, east, west of us. It is rather hazy to the north, or you would see the pine-fringed shore. We shall soon again see it, as we have to touch at several towns on our way.”

Several large vessels were met under all sail, with numerous crews, steering for the Saint Lawrence.

“Where can they be going to?” said Harry.

“To Liverpool, perhaps, or to some other English port, laden with wheat from the Western States,” answered Mr Norman. “Vessels have sailed all the way from Lake Superior to England.”

They saw, however, more things to wonder at than can well be recounted. Not the least, in the eyes of the boys, was the fine city of Toronto, with its numerous public buildings.

“Why, I thought that we were about to enter the backwoods by the time we got thus far west, and here we are in the middle of as civilised a city as any we have seen,” exclaimed Harry, on their return from an excursion through Toronto.

“We have many other fine towns still further west,” said Mr Norman, who had stayed at the same hotel. “If we go into the States we shall find, several hundred miles off, Chicago, which has sprung up as if by the wand of the enchanter. The secret of this rapid increase is its peculiar position at the head of a great navigable lake, with a background unrivalled in its corn-producing powers. In the course of years we may hope to see cities, towns, and villages, rising at intervals on British territory, directly across our vast continent, united to those which have already appeared in British Columbia.”

Mr Ashton having made all the enquiries in his power as to eligible localities, set off with Philip to select a spot for the future abode of the family. He was advised to rent a partially cleared farm, but his sons especially entreated that he would purchase a tract of wild ground, that they might have the satisfaction of feeling that with their own hands they were bringing their own property from a state of nature into one of cultivation. He yielded to their wishes, though, perhaps, the plan he was advised to adopt would have more rapidly afforded them a return for their outlay, and some of the luxuries of civilisation. Mr Norman casually enquired the direction in which they proposed prosecuting their search, and on hearing that it was to the north, he remarked that he might possibly meet them.

We need scarcely say that the Ashton family employed their time profitably in seeing all that there was to be seen in Toronto, and that they made excursions to Hamilton, and to several other towns accessible by railway. Mr Ashton lost no time in searching for the desired locality, and he and Philip soon came to the conclusion that it was not a thing to be done in a hurry. Fortunately Mr Norman did meet them, and with his assistance they at last found a spot to suit them. “The next thing you will have to do is to get fixed” he said, laughing. “You will soon find out the meaning of that term, I guess.”

Note. “Get fixed” is the American cant term for settled.

Chapter Four.

Towards the close of a bright summer day, several wheeled vehicles were progressing slowly along a broad but roughish road cut through the forest in the northern part of the peninsula of Upper Canada. In colonial phrase, they were all waggons; but some carried luggage only, and one of them human beings, with a small amount of personalities, in the shape of carpet bags and hat boxes between their feet. This vehicle was a long shallow box, or it might be called a tray on wheels, with four seats across, each calculated to hold three persons, and with a box for the driver. The baggage-waggons were of the same build, without the seats, and were heavily laden with chests, casks, bales, and bedding, with other household furniture. They must have been stronger than they looked, to withstand the violent bumpings and jerks they received as they progressed along the chief highway as yet opened up in that part of the country. The nature of the road varied very much, according to the character of the land over which it passed: now it was of corduroy—that is to say of trees laid across it, the interstices filled up with clay or sand. In a few places in the neighbourhood of saw-mills, planks had been placed diagonally across the road, secured to sleepers beneath, and over these bits the horses dragged the vehicles at a speed which made the travellers wish that the whole road was formed in the same manner. This they found was called a plank road. How the machines could hold together, or the limbs of the occupants escape dislocation, seemed surprising as they surged over the first-mentioned style of road. Now and then the foundation of the road was of rock; and this though even rougher, caused no fear of its letting the carriages sink through. Here and there gravel appeared and allowed of firm footing; but the worst parts of all were those undelightful spots called cedar swamps, across which neither plank nor corduroy had been thrown, and which caused the travellers to doubt considerably whether they and their vehicles would get across or sink beneath the treacherous surface. In such cases, however, all hands uniting with ropes and poles, the waggons were dragged across.

No one could complain that the road did not go direct for its object; on it went, up and down hill, and across bog and stream, with the same vanishing point between the dark tall thick growing trees ever a-head. Most people would have become very weary of what they had gone through and of the prospect before them, but the travellers now proceeding along the road were the Ashton family; and Mr Norman had prepared them fully for what they were to expect, besides which they were always inclined to make light of difficulties of every sort and kind.

Their last day’s journey was drawing to a close. As they mounted to the top of a ridge of hills over which the road led, in the distance was seen the blue surface of Lake Huron, while below them appeared, surrounded by trees, a small piece of water, unnoted on most maps, though covering an area as large as all the Cumberland Lakes put together. In the smaller lake were several wooded islands, and there were promontories, and bays, and inlets, with hills of some height near it, adding to its picturesque beauty. A wood-crowned height separated the smaller from the larger expanse of water, except in one place, where a river, or an inlet it might be called, formed a junction, which settlers on the shores of the former would not fail to prize.

“There is our future home,” said Mr Ashton, pointing to the side of the small lake nearest Lake Huron. “Philip and Peter, with the two men Mr Norman sent up, will, I hope, have made some progress by this time, and have got a roof ready under which you may creep. We shall soon be at the village, and from thence we must cross the lake in a boat, as the road round is impassable, or rather there is no road at all.”

Harry, who had a small telescope slung at his back, said that he could make out a wide clearing and a shanty in the middle of it. His parents hoped that he was correct, though his younger sisters and brother declared that they should be delighted to camp out in the bush for the remainder of the summer. It was growing dusk as the travellers entered the village, which consisted of a store, three or four log-huts, and half a dozen shanties or sheds, some the abode of man, and some of beast, and some shared by both. The store being covered in with planks, and having three stories, was the building of by far the greatest pretensions. One of the shanties was the future hotel of the place, at present, however, affording accommodation to neither man nor beast. The landlord stood at the door with his arms akimbo, and the air of a man perfectly satisfied with himself and his belongings, as he watched the approach of the waggons. He was active enough when they stopped before his abode, hoping that some of the party would become his customers.

“Well, strangers, you look spry after your journey. Glad to see you. We’ll become good neighbours, I guess,” was his familiar but not surly salutation. Mr Ashton took it in good part. “Thank you, my friend, we have come along very well,” he answered. “Can you tell me, Have my son and his servant been here lately?”

“Your two young men were up here not ten minutes ago. They’ve gone back to the boat, I guess. They’re no great hands at liquoring. If you shout they’ll hear you.”

“Philip a-hoy!” shouted Harry and Charley, their shrill voices sounding clearly through the dark pine forest which shut in the settlement on either side, and sweeping over the calm waters of the lake.

“Ay, ay; all right!” was the cheerful reply, and Philip, accompanied by Peter, came rushing up in time to help his mother and sisters to unpack from their somewhat uncomfortable conveyance. “It does not do to be idle out here, and so, having our fishing gear, we were employing ourselves while waiting your arrival in catching some fish for your supper,” he said, as he helped his mother to the ground. “Mr Job Judson here did not quite approve of our proceeding, as he would rather we had spent the time in his bar; however, I have brought him up some of the proceeds of our sport to propitiate him, for he is an obliging, good-natured fellow, at bottom. I wish him a better calling.”

After all the family had alighted, and their affectionate greetings were over, Philip exhibited the fine white fish he had brought for Mr Judson, weighing some four or five pounds.

“We have half-a-dozen similar fish for our family supper, so we shall not starve,” he said, with a tone of satisfaction. “We have not broached a cask of beef or pork since we came here.”

“And we shall not, I hope, while a bird or beast remains to be shot, or a fish to be caught,” cried Harry.

As there was not a hut vacant in which to store the lading of the waggons, Philip arranged to take the family across in the boat, with their bedding and other necessary articles, and to return at once for the remainder. “I am sure that if D’Arcy knew it he would help, but we shall have a full moon up presently, and I would rather get the work done now than wait for day, when the heat on the lake will be considerable,” he observed.

Mr Judson undertook to watch the luggage. “Not that there’s much need of that,” he remarked, “for the Injuns about here is honest fellows, and there isn’t a white settler who’d touch as much as a ha’porth of baccy, ’cept maybe a newly-arrived Irishman, who hasn’t learnt the ways of the country.”

The boat was of good size, calculated for the waters of Lake Huron, and fitted with mast and sails, though these were not now used. The lake was smooth as glass, reflecting the bright stars from the clear sky, and broken only by the fish which here and there rose to the surface, showing their size by the loud sound of the splashes they made. The irregular borders of the lake rose clear and well-defined on every side a-head, appearing to be of considerable height, almost mountains, in the doubtful light of morning. Philip, with Harry, and Charley, and Peter, with a lad they had hired, pulled, while Mr Ashton steered. “Row, brothers, row,” sang out Harry. “Our home is a-head, and daylight is past. I am glad that the rapids are not near, though, for with our well-freighted craft it would be a ticklish job running them, I guess.”

The moon soon rose large and clear, a brilliant globe floating in aether rather than the pale-coloured disc which it appears in England. As it shot upward in the clear sky it shed a silvery light over the scene, which became perfectly fairy-like in its beauty. “It is well worth leaving all the glare and bustle of London for the sake of enjoying such a scene as this,” said Sophy, and her sisters echoed the sentiment. “I remember just such an one on Como,” observed Philip, who had made a tour on the Continent during the last long vacation. “But even if the scene we have left equalled this in beauty, I should prize this far more,” replied his sister. “I will tell you why. I feel that this is our own; we are at home here, and may admire it without regret, because we know that we may enjoy it over and over again.”

“Hillo! what boat is that?” shouted a voice from some distance, and a dark object glided from behind a tree-covered islet they were passing, and crossed the bright pathway which the moon cast athwart the lake.

“What, D’Arcy! is that you?” shouted Philip, in return.

“It’s myself, unless I happen to be changed into another gintleman,” was the Irish-like reply.

“All right, old fellow, come along. I want your promised aid,” said Philip. “I have some few cargoes of goods to be transported across the lake before the moon sets, and you are the very man I was wishing for.”

“Why, Philip, are you not asking too much of a gentleman who must be almost a stranger to you?” enquired Sophy, in a doubtful tone.

“Not at all; we all help each other out here; I have found out that,” answered her brother. “He is a capital fellow, a gentleman to the backbone, and knows that I will do the same for him with equal pleasure. We are fortunate in having such a neighbour, and from what he tells me, he hopes to have his mother and sisters out when he has got things a little square.”

D’Arcy’s boat was soon alongside. When he heard who had arrived, he volunteered at once to go to the settlement to begin loading his boat, that he might assist Philip when he wanted to load his.

“A capital idea, D’Arcy, just like you; do so, old fellow,” was all Philip said as they parted.

In a short time the boat was alongside a small wooden pier, which afforded a convenient landing-place.

“The house is some way up the hill; I will steer you between the stumps,” said Philip, offering his arm to his mother, while the rest followed in their wake. A few minutes’ walk brought them in front of a plank edifice of the Swiss cottage style; the defects of which, whatever they were, were not visible by moonlight. There were four doors, and as many rather diminutive windows. “This is but a summer house, remember,” said Philip, as they stood before the long low building. “We had to build our house according to our planks; your room is at one end, then comes the sitting-room, and then ours, and the girls’. Remember, five days ago the foundations were not commenced. We don’t take long to raise a house in this country;—but, enter.”

All were delighted, for although the cottage was but a long narrow shed, by means of three divisions and a liberal use of canvas and paper, Philip and his assistants had formed a neat sitting-room and two bedrooms, besides a rougher one for himself and his brothers. In the sitting-room was a table covered with a most attractive looking meal, though decked with neither china, glass, nor plate. A bright lamp hanging from the roof lighted up the little room, and gave it much of the appearance of a cabin. “We have only to fancy,” said Philip, “that we are on board ship without the danger of shipwreck, or being tumbled about in a storm, and we may congratulate ourselves on the extent of our accommodation. We have twice as many cubic feet of air for each person as the passengers on board an emigrant ship, and can admit as much more as we please. There, make yourselves at home. Father will now do the honours, and Jem is boiling the kettle for tea in the kitchen. I must be off, and hope to be back soon with D’Arcy and your traps.”

Away went Philip down to the boat, whence his father with the rest had been bringing up her lading. Who could have recognised in the energetic, high-spirited backwoodsman Philip had become, the refined and somewhat sedate and stiff young student of a year ago. By-the-bye, the kitchen of which he spoke was a lean-to of birch-bark, under which a camp stove had been placed; near it was a shed prepared for the reception of the stores, among which Peter proposed to take up his abode. Philip’s plan of fitting up the cottage was much admired. To the walls and roof he had first nailed some common canvas, on this he had pasted newspapers, which he had again covered with a common cheerful-looking paper, such as is used generally for covering walls. The table itself consisted of some rough planks nailed to tressels, and the bedsteads were formed of rough pine poles with canvas stretched across them. Shelves and pegs round the rooms would enable their inmates to keep them as neat as cabins.

The voices of the rest of the party were heard sooner than was expected. “We pressed the third boat on the lake into our service and have brought everything,” said Philip, entering with a slight young man, who, in spite of a very rough, much worn costume, looked the gentleman. “I have the pleasure of introducing my friend Mr Lawrence D’Arcy, my fellow labourer, who, let me tell you, made every inch of the furniture of our mansion in a wondrous brief time. He had not begun it yesterday morning, for he was helping me to paper the walls till nearly noon.”

“It is the work of a self-taught artist,” said Lawrence D’Arcy. “But, really, there is little to boast of in having put together a few rough poles. The plan is the only thing to merit commendation.”

Of course everybody thanked Mr D’Arcy, and he at once felt himself perfectly at home. Never did the finest baronial mansion afford more satisfaction to the occupiers than did Philip’s quickly-built cottage. It stood on a platform on the side of the hill, looking south over the lake, and sheltered by the ground above it from the icy blast of the north. There was not space on the platform for a larger building; but a little way off was a much wider piece of level ground, and here already logs were laid for a log house.

“The cottage was an after-thought,” said Philip, showing the plan of the log house. “I knew that we could not get this fitted up in time, and planking being abundant and cheap, I bethought me of running up a plank cottage which will serve you till you can get into the more substantial mansion. With a stove and additional banking up outside it may be made warm enough even for winter.” Never was a family more busy, or one more contented and happy.

“Our present abode will make a magnificent dairy when we get into the big mansion,” cried Agnes, as she saw the walls of the log house quickly rising. “How clean and nice the pans will look arranged round the walls and the churn in the middle.”

“Your notions are rather too grand, I fear, dear,” said her mother. “We have only got one cow, and there will be room here for the milk of fifty.”

“Ah! but the day will come when we may have fifty. That beautiful meadow by the side of the stream to the right will feed almost that number,” said Agnes.

“I should be content with four or five, so that we may make our own butter and cheese, and have cream and milk in abundance,” observed Fanny. “I should like to have time to attend to our garden, and poultry, and pigs; and then, remember, we are not to grow into savages, so we must have reading, and keep up our music and drawing, and then there will be all sorts of household work to attend to.”

Sophy sided with Fanny, and Philip put an end to the discussion about the dairy, by telling them that he had calculated on using up the planks of the cottage for the flooring of part of the new house.

That building got on with wonderful rapidity. Day after day Mr Lawrence D’Arcy came over with his man Terry, a faithful fellow, born on his father’s estate in Ireland, who had been his servant in the army for several years. Philip had, for the purpose of economising heat and saving roofing, resolved to make the house of two stories. The walls were formed of horizontal logs; the upper part of each log was scooped out so as to admit the round of the one above it to fit in, and the ends were deeply notched for the logs forming the walls at a right angle to it. A height sufficient for the ground floor chambers having been gained, notches were cut and the rafters placed across. Shears were erected to raise the higher logs, and shingles, which are thin split planks of fir, formed the roof. The house stood on a platform to raise it above the snow; the floor being thus some way from the ground. A verandah ran round the whole building, affording a sheltered walk when the inmates might not otherwise be able to get fresh air.

Had not the settlers been so strong handed, the work now accomplished could not have been performed before the winter; but it was the fable of the bundle of sticks exemplified. Such a building would not have been attempted except for the sake of the ladies, as the settlers would have employed all their strength in preparing the ground for cultivation. That necessary proceeding was not however neglected, and six acres were chopped and burnt off before the snow covered up the brushwood.

“Here we are, fairly settled in our log house,” said Mr Ashton, as he surveyed the result of his son’s architectural skill. “Let us with grateful hearts thank our Heavenly Father who has led us thus far in safety.”

Chapter Five.

There were signs that the winter was about to begin. Snow-storms had appeared from over the hill and swept across the lake. Ice had formed around the edges in shallow pools, but the hot sun had come out and completely thawed it. Often among the pine woods the heat was excessive. Had it not been for the rich growing tints of the trees which fringed the lake and covered its islets, it would have been difficult to suppose that summer had passed away. There were the bright reds and yellows of the maple, the pale straw-colour of the beech, the copper hues of the oaks; and, indeed, Sophy found that she could exhaust all the brightest colours of her paint-box, and yet not give sufficient variety or brilliancy to portray correctly the gorgeous tints of the landscape spread out before the window; nor was there blue to be found equal to the blue of the lake, still less of the sky above it. She was glad that she had finished her drawing in time, for a strong north wind sprang up, and a sharp frost sent every leaf, pinched off, flying away, and the next morning a few only hanging to dead boughs gave a somewhat warm tinge to the otherwise dark green and dark brown appearance of the lake shore.

“Excellent! it would give my dear people at home some idea of the beauties we have out here,” exclaimed D’Arcy, who happened to look in the day Sophy had finished her sketch. “I should be so thankful if you could make a copy for me; still more so if I might aspire to possess the original.”

“What could have made Sophy blush so just now?” said Charley to Agnes, after D’Arcy had taken his leave. “There the dear thing stands looking at the lake: what a wonder to see her doing nothing.”

D’Arcy leaped gaily into his boat, hoisted the main-sail, a large one for her size, cast off the painter, and hauling aft the main-sheet as she paid-off with the fore-sail, waved an adieu to his friends on shore. The lake sparkled brightly as miniature waves curled over its surface; faster and faster the boat flew amid them, seeming to delight in her freedom. The breeze freshened; a black cloud came up along the course of the river from Lake Huron; it rushed across the sky, followed by others, casting a shadow over the lake. A shriek from Sophy made Philip rush out from his workshop, saw in hand, followed by Harry. The white sail of D’Arcy’s boat had disappeared, and a dark mass was alone visible on the spot where she had been.

“He is a good swimmer, and will have got upon the bottom,” cried Philip; but his heart misgave him, for the cold wind had made D’Arcy put on his thick coat and heavy boots; Harry ran towards their large boat. The sails and oars were on shore. “No, no,—the canoe!” cried Philip. An Indian hunter, a friend of D’Arcy’s, had left his canoe on the beach in the morning. The paddles were in her. To launch her and step gingerly in was the work of an instant; and fast as Philip and Harry could ply their paddles, the light canoe flew across the lake.

The rest of the family were soon on the shore; Mr Ashton, who saw the danger to which his sons were exposed in their eagerness to save their friend, watching their progress with the greatest anxiety. He unfortunately did not understand the management of a boat as did his sons; nor did Peter, or he would have gone after them. The canoe tossed up and down, apparently scarcely able to buffet with even the small waves, to the lashing of which she was exposed. Still Philip and Harry bravely pursued their course, their eyes straining a-head, and utterly regardless of the danger they themselves were running.

“Phil, can you see him?” cried Harry. “I think I do. Yes, surely, there’s something moving on the boat’s keel.”

“Yes, I hope so: he’s lying his length along it; he could not sit up,” answered Philip. “How bitterly cold the wind blows out here.”

“Yes, he will be almost frozen, poor fellow; he will lose his boat, too,” said Harry. “Shall we carry him on to his place, or back to our own?”

“Certainly, to ours. In his own hut he has no one to look after him properly; while with us he will have no lack of nurses,” remarked Philip. “Paddle away, Harry; he sees us.”

“Hurrah, D’Arcy!” cried Harry, “we are coming to you, old fellow.” A hand was seen to wave in return to Harry’s cheer. “All right—all right!” cried Harry, delighted, “he is there and alive!”

D’Arcy had managed to get one of his boots off, but he had great difficulty in clinging to the keel. He did not cry out to his friends to make haste, for he knew that they were doing their utmost to reach him. They encouraged him, however, to hold on; for they judged, by the chilly blast which swept across the lake, that he must be numbed and fainting. At length they got alongside the boat; and now the greatest caution was necessary, lest, in taking him in, the canoe should be capsized. The boat likewise, on being touched, might roll up, and with her mast stave in the fragile side of the canoe. It seemed almost impossible to accomplish their object without upsetting themselves. Those who know what a birch-bark canoe is like will best understand the difficulty.

“Take me in by the head,” said D’Arcy; “I’ll crawl in.”

They accordingly paddled round to the stern of the boat, to which Philip made the bow of the canoe fast, and he was then able to reach over sufficiently to take hold of D’Arcy’s hands, and to drag him on till he could place one foot on each gunwale of the canoe, and then, by drawing himself back, he took the weight off the bow and gradually drew his friend on board. D’Arcy’s knees, however, very nearly went through the thin bottom. He asked them to continue on to his clearing, that he might get off again and try to save his boat; but Philip would not hear of it.

“No, no,” he answered, “she will drift on shore not far off, and we shall easily be able to find her; and you will catch your death of cold if you are not looked after immediately.”

“But poor Terry will go out of his mind if he supposes that I am lost,” argued D’Arcy.

“We will try to let him know,” said Philip. “Besides, at our place, if we go on, they will not know whether we are all lost, or you are saved.”

This settled the question. “There, lie down at the bottom, and we will cover you up with our jackets,” said Philip. “Give way, Harry.”

To paddle back in the teeth of the freezing wind was no easy work, and more than once Philip wished that, for his friend’s sake, he had gone on to his clearing; still, he guessed rightly, that every means to prevent injurious effects would be got ready. Manfully they paddled on, but the spray from the small but quick-coming waves dashed in their faces, and the slightest cessation of exertion allowed the light canoe to be blown back again like a feather before the breeze. Nobly they persevered. Once under the lee of the land, they knew that their progress would be more rapid. At last they caught sight of their own landing-place. Philip gave a flourish with his paddle, and pointed to the bottom of the canoe. The communication was understood, and a door, with blankets, were ready to carry D’Arcy up to the house. He begged, however, to be allowed to walk up, declaring that he was well able to do so, though he did not object to having a couple of blankets thrown over his shoulders. He found, however, that he had miscalculated his strength, and without help he could scarcely move. The next morning the effects of the wetting and exposure were more conspicuous, and all the skill of Nurse Summers was required to bring him round. For several days he was kept in bed, and even when he was able to get up, the Ashtons would not let him leave them. “You are utterly unfit for work, my dear fellow,” said Philip. “You will get well here much faster than sitting over the fire in your own shanty, and leave Terry more at liberty to go on with your house. He is contented enough now he knows we have you in safe keeping.”

It was wonderful with what equanimity Mr D’Arcy consented to remain the guest of the Ashtons. He was not idle, for he read while the ladies worked, taught Charley to net, and took Philip’s place as his schoolmaster in the evening, and imparted a large stock of backwoodsman’s lore to all the family. Philip and Harry had, directly they returned after rescuing him, set off in their big boat, and arrived at his clearing in time to prevent poor Terry from going out of his mind, which he was nearly doing at seeing his master’s boat drift by, and believing he was lost. They found him wringing his hands, and uttering a truly Irish lament as he contemplated the boat which had driven on shore a short distance from the cottage shanty. So occupied had he been in watching the upset boat that he had not observed their approach.

“Och! sad’s the day; and I’ll never more be after seeing him again, the dear young masther, barrin’ it’s his corpse is sent up by the cruel waves on the shore, and I’ll be left all alone in this desart counthry to bury him, the last hope of the D’Arcys, instead of in the tomb of his ancestors in ould Ireland. And what’ll the poor misthress be doing when she hears the news? sorrow a bit could my hand write the words; I couldn’t do it even if I had the ’art, nor my tongue tell it, I’d sooner cut it out of my mouth; and sweet Misthress Katharine and Misthress Lily, they’ll cry their pretty eyes out, they will.” Again he set up a long, melancholy howl, not unlike that of a dog baying at the moon. The sound of the Ashtons’ boat touching the shore made him look up, with an expression of hope in his countenance, as if he expected to see his master, but it suddenly changed to one of still greater sorrow when he discovered that he was not of the party.

Philip, eager to soothe his anxiety, shouted out, as he stepped on shore, “Come up, Terry, we have him all safe on shore, only rather wet and cold.”

“Is it the thruth ye are spaking, Masther Philip? Arrah, an’ I’m shure it is,” cried Terry, rushing towards him with frantic gestures of delight. “Just say that word again, he’s safe, an’ blessins on yer honest face, for I’m shure ye could not desave a poor gossoon like myself.” Philip repeated his assertion, and was not a little astonished to find himself seized in Terry’s arms, and hugged till the breath was nearly out of his body. The honest fellow’s feelings then gave way in a burst of tears, which flowed while he apologised for the liberty he became conscious he had taken.

D’Arcy’s stay with his friends was prolonged over several days, and it was not till he was perfectly recovered that they would allow him to go back to his clearing. He found several subjects to ponder on when he got there.

Chapter Six.

The south wind blew softly, the air was pure and balmy, the sun shone brightly, and the waters of the lake vied with the sky in the clearness of its azure tints. The birds too were warbling forth a happy song; not, however, with the full swelling chorus of spring, but yet sufficiently to give cheerfulness to the otherwise silent woods. It is a calumny on the feathered tribes of Canada to assert that they have no song; the blackbird can sing when he is inclined, as sweetly as his brother in England, and the Canadian robin’s notes are as full of glee as those of his smaller namesake in the old country.

“By turning our eyes from the bare maples, beeches, and oaks, towards the pine trees, we might fancy that summer had come back again,” said Philip; “the Indian summer at all events. Should to-morrow be like this, I propose knocking up D’Arcy. It’s some days since we heard of him, and he will be feeling that we got tired of him with his visit here, poor fellow.”

“Oh! don’t let him think that,” exclaimed Sophy, earnestly.

“No, that I will not,” said Philip. “Who’ll go? A little recreation will do some of us good, and we’ll work all the better when we come back.”

Something kept Sophy from volunteering to be of the party, but her younger sisters jumped at the proposal.

“I know that you are carefulness itself, Philip,” said Mrs Ashton; “but I entreat you to have but very little sail set.”

“Indeed, mother, I will carry only what is absolutely necessary,” answered Philip. “We need be in no hurry—if the breeze holds, we shall have a soldier’s wind, fair each way.”

The breeze did not hold, and towards evening a thick fog came on. During the night a curious crackling sound was heard, and when daylight returned, the whole lake appeared frozen over. The entire household was soon on foot and braving the keen frosty air, to observe the change which a few short hours had wrought. There must have been a perfect calm when the ice took, for the entire surface of the lake was smooth as a polished mirror and of the same hue; while the surrounding trees and every shrub and blade of grass to be seen was covered with a coating of the purest white. Suddenly the sun rose above the wooded hill to the east, and the whole side of the lake on which its beams were cast, began to sparkle and flash as if covered with gems of the purest water. A light breeze waved the branches to and fro, and now they flashed and shone with increased brilliancy, fresh colours bursting into sight till not a gem was unrepresented in this gorgeous display of “nature’s jewel-box,” as Harry called it.

“Well, Fanny,” he exclaimed, “you need not regret being unable to go to court, for I am very certain that all the duchesses, and countesses, and lady mayoresses to boot, couldn’t make such a display as that.”

As the warmth of the sun increased, the trees began to drip, and the lovely spectacle vanished by noon.

“We need not regret it, for beautiful as it was, I believe that we may see many more to surpass it before the return of spring,” said Mr Ashton. “Ah! little do our pitying friends at home guess the ample amends which nature makes to us for what we have lost. I prize the blessings we enjoyed in England; but, after all, we have only exchanged them for others which our beneficent Maker has bestowed on us of equal value.”

The ice, though bearing in some places, could not be trusted, and of course the expedition to D’Arcy’s clearing was given up for the present; but in the evening, when work was over, skates were unpacked, cleared of rust, and fitted to shoes. All hands set to work with increased vigour to fell the trees, that they might be burnt off before the snow should make the operation more difficult. “Another night like the last, and I verily believe we might skate across the lake,” cried Harry, rubbing his hands to restore the circulation of which the cold had deprived them.

“Look out for frost-bites, my boys,” said Mr Ashton; “Mr Norman charged me above all things to see that you kept your hands and feet warm.”

The ladies of the family were busily employed in lining the boys’ caps, and fixing flaps for their ears, and in making mittens and comforters. One point they had not discovered, and had to learn by experience, the uselessness of English boots and shoes, however thick, for the bush in winter, and that nothing can surpass, and scarcely any foot-gear equal, a light shoe or slipper, with a very thick ribbed worsted sock over it, put into an india-rubber golosh, which is kept on by a high spring gaiter. (See Note 1.) There was no longer any doubt about the ice bearing, and so, having worked hard all the morning, Philip, Harry, and Charley set off with skates on feet, the two latter in high glee at the thought of going so great a distance over the ice. They had been practising for the last three days in a shallow bay near the house, and had no misgivings as to holding out. Philip would rather have gone alone, or at all events, with Harry only; but Charley begged go hard to be allowed to accompany them that he did not like to refuse him. They expected not to be more than three hours away at the utmost. The skates were fixed firmly on the feet. Philip wisely tried his by making two or three outside edge circles and figures of eight. “Are you ready, boys? Follow your leader, and away we go.” Away they went. Right leg—left leg—resting for fifteen seconds or so on each—their bodies now slightly inclined to one side, now to the other, like ships making short tacks. It was exhilarating exercise. Their spirits rose to the highest pitch as they glided on—they shouted and laughed with glee—Charley managed to keep up, but what was sport to his brothers, was rather hard work to him; still he would not beg them to slacken their speed, but kept on bravely till his legs began to ache. They had heard Philip say that they were not likely to have many such days during the winter for skating; for though there would be no want of ice, it would be soon so covered with snow, that it would be impossible to get over it. They might easily, to be sure, sweep a space in the ice clear of snow, but that would be very tame work compared to flying over miles of ice as they were now doing. Charley, therefore, would not, if he could help it, ask his brothers to stop. At last he found himself falling behind. With his utmost exertions he could not keep up with them. While he was thinking whether he should call out, his foot struck something (it was the thick part of a branch which had been floating when the lake froze), and down he came.

“O, Harry, Harry!” he cried out. Harry heard him, and circling round, skated back to his assistance. Philip had gone some way, when not hearing his brothers’ voices, he swept round on a half circle to ask them why they had become so suddenly dull. What was his dismay to find that they were not near him. Both were stretched their length, as it seemed, on the ice, at a considerable distance. As he turned he was conscious of a cracking noise, which seemed to pass from one end of the lake to the other. Still he must reach his brothers, or attempt to do so, even should the ice be giving way every stroke he made.

“Oh, the ice is giving way! the ice is giving way!” cried Charley; but though the cracking sound increased, Philip did not perceive any other sign of this being the case.

“What is the matter with you, Harry?” he asked.

“Oh, I went to help Charley, and tumbled over the same log which capsized him,” was the answer. “He says that the ice is giving way, and certainly the water does look terribly near to it.” Such, indeed, was the case. Philip, from having kept his eyes fixed on the land-marks about D’Arcy’s clearing, had not observed this so much as Harry now did, with his nose close down to it. Wisely keeping at a little distance, he advised them to crawl away from the spot where they had fallen, and then, a little apart from each other, to get on their feet and proceed. Once more they were on their course, but Philip made them keep one on each side of him, going at a less speed than before. It was nervous work, though, for the cracking noise increased in loudness till it rivalled that of thunder—seeming to pass under their very feet. Speed and lightness of tread was everything. For himself Philip had no fear. He dreaded only lest Charley should again fall, and so did his best to keep up his spirits, and to banish the nervousness from which he saw that he was suffering. As they neared the shore the noises ceased and their spirits rose, though they were not sorry to see D’Arcy standing on the beach to receive them.

His greeting was cordial. “I have been watching you for some time, and did I own a pair of skates I should have come out to meet you,” he said. “When you all stopped, I began to form a sleigh to push off to your assistance, in case any one of you should have been hurt, when I observed that you were all on the move again. Instead, therefore, of going on with it, I sent in Terry to cook some dinner, which you will be wanting after your long fly.”

The dinner was the usual bush fare—pork and potatoes (forming an Irish stew), fish, caught before the frost began, and a dumpling, which probably had been thought of only when the guests were first descried in the distance. The young men did ample justice to the feast, and perhaps spent a longer time over it than they intended. They had plenty to say, about their own experiences especially; and when the young Ashtons compared notes with D’Arcy, they had reason to consider their own trials far less than his. He had been left alone to fight the battle of life, or rather with a mother and sister depending on him. After a once fine property which he had nominally inherited had been sold in the Irish Incumbered Estates Court, he had found himself with the merest pittance on which to support them. With a small sum he had embarked for Canada, and was now forming a home for those he loved so well. There were numbers of men in similar positions, of whom he knew in the neighbourhood and in different parts of the province—not all, however, doing equally well—some were successful, and they were the sober, industrious, and judicious; others were in a bad way, mostly for the best of reasons, because they were idle, and had taken to drinking—not hard drinking, perhaps.

“That is not necessary to ruin a fellow,” said D’Arcy. “I know several of the description I speak of,—gentlemen of birth and education. There is one especially, who, probably, begins the day after breakfast by smoking a pipe or two, then takes axe or spade in hand, and coming in to an early dinner feels his solitude, and that he must have a talk with somebody. Instead of continuing his work, he mounts his cob, after taking a glass or two of rum or whiskey grog—the more out of spirits he feels the stiffer it is—and rides off to knock up some neighbour, perhaps his equal, or perhaps utterly unfit to be his companion, as far as social intercourse is concerned. On the way he looks in at the store-house; he has an account, and takes a glass or two more, desiring that it may be put down to him. Of course he never recollects how many glasses he has had, nor how his account is swelling. He finds his friend, brings him in (probably not unwillingly) from his work, and the two spend the rest of the day together. He may find his way home at night, or he may take a shake-down, and, rising with a splitting headache, find himself utterly unable to do anything. He is going to the bad very rapidly. His friends in England send him out money occasionally, under the belief that it is spent on the farm, but it all goes to pay off the storekeeper’s account. Had it not been for this assistance he would have knocked up long ago. As it is, I expect that he has already mortgaged his farm, for a small amount, may be; but it’s a beginning—a second will follow—it is so easy an operation, and the end cannot be far off. Now poor Jack Mason will go back to England, his friends helping him, and abuse Canada, and say that it is a country totally unfit for a gentleman to live in—that hardy, rough fellows may subsist, but that no one can do more—no one can make a fortune.”

“A man must have energy, talent, and perseverance to succeed here, as well as at home,” said Philip. “The difference is, that in England, possessing them, he may not succeed; here, possessing them, he must succeed. To commence the life of a backwoodsman, he must have health and strength, with the other qualifications you have mentioned. Once having got a footing in the country, he must watch the openings which are sure to present themselves: the man of talent will take advantage of them, and rise to wealth; the man without talent will go on slowly improving his condition, and will be happy and respected. What more can a man desire?”

“I agree with you, Phil; at the same time that I intend to look out for the openings, and walk in if I can,” answered D’Arcy. “When my guardians decided that I was to emigrate, or rather that they could do nothing for me at home, they liberally gave me the choice of Australia, New Zealand, the Cape, or British North America. I have an idea they cared very little where I went, so that I went away and gave them no further trouble. I had been dining the day before, in Dublin, at the mess of the — Regiment, which had just returned from Canada, and they were all high in its praise;—such pleasant quarters, such gaiety, such sleighing, shooting, fishing, boating. Several declared that they would sell out and settle there. Naturally I chose Canada, without weighing its advantages with those of the other provinces; and though I found the reality of a settler’s life very different to the fancy picture I had drawn, having made up my mind to go through with it, whatever it might prove, I stuck to it, and have great reason to be thankful that I did so. Still, I fancy that people can make fortunes in Australia much faster than one can here.”

“May be so; but fortune is not the only thing desirable,” said Philip. “All settlers do not make fortunes in Australia,—we hear only of the successful ones; and then I cannot help thinking, that our Canadian climate, with its wonderful changes, our varied scenery, our institutions, and our society,—I don’t mean in such an out-of-the-way place as this, but such as are found at Toronto and elsewhere,—are items which may be placed to the credit of this Province, and give it a superiority over every other. I have often fancied that there must be something monotonous and depressing in Australian bush-life; the very uniformity of the seasons and of the face of the country must produce this effect. However, old fellow, here we are: and whether the land be a good, bad, or indifferent land compared with others, you and I have made up our minds to make the best of it. But it is time that we were off; we had not intended remaining so long.”

Philip and his brothers started up. “You must have coffee before you go; it is a home manufacture, and so are all the ingredients.” Terry poured it out of a veritable big coffeepot—hot, with plenty of sugar and milk. It was pronounced excellent. “See, Harry, you and Charley may supply your family with first-rate coffee,” said D’Arcy. “We shall have a thaw before the winter sets in; dig up all the dandelion roots you can find; dry them in the sun or in your oven for keeping; roast them before use; and cut them up and grind them as you would coffee-berries. This is the result. By-the-bye, Phil,” he added, “you told me that you had not caught any fish lately. It is just possible that a change may be pleasant; and if you don’t mind carrying a couple each of you, will you present them to your mother with my best compliments? I have got them slung ready for you, so that you have only to throw them over your shoulders as you are starting.” He did not consider that even a few pounds weight makes a considerable difference to a skater. Philip, however, did not like to refuse his kind offer, knowing that it gave him pleasure to send the fish, and would give those at home pleasure to receive them. Terry accordingly was directed to bring out the fish, which were hard frozen, and were slung with ropes of grass, and packed with pads of grass to keep them off the back.

D’Arcy assured them that the cracking sound they had heard was no sign of danger, but, on the contrary, showed that the ice had taken in every part.

Note 1. An Indian mocassin over two pairs of thick socks is good in a hard frost, but gets wet through with the slightest moisture. The most important objects are to allow no pressure on any part of the foot or ankle, to keep the feet warm and protected from fallen branches or any other hard substance rising above the snow. In thawing weather high waterproof boots worn over two pairs of thick socks or stockings. The object of having the outer sock ribbed is to allow the evaporation from the skin to have space between the outer sock and the boot; the foot and inner sock will thus remain perfectly dry. The author has walked long distances with this sort of foot-gear with the greatest comfort. Perfect freedom for the foot and toes is, it must be repeated, most essential.

Chapter Seven.

As the hut was close to the lake the skates were buckled on in the warmth, and together the whole party issued forth, D’Arcy promising to come across the next day in a sleigh he had built.

During the brief period they had spent in the hut the wind had changed, and with it the weather. Thick clouds floated overhead low down, lightish in colour though dense; the air was sensibly warmer. Philip looking at his younger brother said, “Charley, I have a great mind to leave you behind; it will be harder work than coming.” But Charley considered that his manliness was disparaged, and insisted on starting. “Well, we may reach home before the snow falls,” said Philip, shaking D’Arcy’s hand, and adding, “We shall all be glad to see you.”

Away they went; but not two minutes had passed before snow-flakes began to fall, a few only settling on their faces. They were the forerunners of others; thicker and thicker they fell; now they rushed down hurriedly, covering the surface of the lake with a white sheet. Did the brothers hear D’Arcy’s voice joined with Terry’s shouting to them to come back? They had, however, got so far on their way that, even had they been certain of the fact, they would not have liked to do so. On they at all events went. Philip kept his eyes fixed on his own hill, but the outline soon became very dim. Thicker and thicker fell the snow; still they were in their proper course, Philip thought.

“Can you make out the hill, Harry?” he asked.

“No, Phil; cannot you?” answered Harry: “what’s to be done?”

“Push on, of course; the snow may stop falling, and we may see our way again,” said Philip.

The snow, however, did not stop falling, but rather came down thicker and faster. Charley held out bravely, working on his way through the snow. Skating was far greater labour than before. This should not have been: hard snow would have easily been pushed aside; a part of this melted as it fell. Philip did not express his fears to his brothers, though he became very anxious. “What can we do?” he kept saying to himself. “We must keep on; we may hit our home or some parts of the shore which we know, and from which we may reach it either walking over land, or by coasting along on skates.” His greatest fear was approaching the commencement of the channel or river which communicated with Lake Huron, where, as the stream was rapid, the ice probably was not formed, and their destruction would be nearly inevitable. The dangerous point was to the right of their course; he therefore naturally inclined to the left. “I wish we were there,” said Charley at length, in a doleful tone. On they went; the pace became slower and slower; the youngest brother kept very close to Philip. “Really I think we might do better without our skates,” observed Charley; but Philip judged rightly that skates would still avail them most. They went on—on—on. Harry declared that they ought to have reached home long before this. Philip thought so likewise, but did not express his fears; it was important to keep up his brothers’ spirits. Had there been a strong wind he might have continued to keep on a straight course; but there was not a breath, and the snow came down from all directions, as Harry observed, “just as if a flock of geese were being plucked overhead.” The flakes were almost as big as feathers. In vain Philip looked out for a break in the thick woolly veil. Brave Charley kept up manfully; his legs were getting very tired, though. He said nothing; but he could not help uttering low sighs as he worked on, and wishing that he had a pair of wings to lift up his body. No one could speak except about their hopes or fears.

At last Charley felt that his knees were failing under him. “O, Phil, I must stop,” he cried out.

Philip took him by the hand and cheered him up. “Hold out a little longer, dear Charley; we must be near the shore,” he exclaimed. Charley said he would try, and supported on each hand by his brothers went on. He was again nearly giving in, when Philip cried out, “Land a-head!—land a-head! High land with tall trees close down to the lake. It must be near home.”

They pushed on vigorously. In less than a minute they ran up against a rock; the tall trees changed into low bushes, and the high land into a clump of trees in the middle of a small island. Bitter was their disappointment. A moment’s consideration made Philip and Harry certain that it was an island they had visited at the southern end of the lake, and three or four miles distant both from their own and D’Arcy’s clearings. On examining the bark of the trees, and the direction in which they bent, they were convinced that they had been making a circle, as they had landed exactly on the opposite side to that which they might have expected. From the time they had been moving on, they had probably made more than one circle; if they started off again, how could they expect to steer a straighter course. It was evidently growing darker, and night would soon come on.

The responsibility resting on Philip’s shoulders was very great; not that he felt very uneasy about his brothers and himself, but he was sure that the dear ones at home would be anxious about them. Had he been alone he would have made another attempt to reach home; but Charley could not go further, and Harry would very likely knock up. He determined to remain on the island during the night, unless the weather should clear up and they should be able to see their way across to the main shore. No time, however, was to be lost to prepare for the night before daylight should altogether depart. Philip was too good a backwoodsman to have left home without his axe and match-box.

“D’Arcy little thought how useful his fish would prove to us,” said Philip, as he looked about for the best spot on which to put up a shed. “We shall not starve; for that we should be thankful.”

“And look here, we may have a plentiful dessert,” cried Charley, coming up with his hands full of brilliant scarlet berries of a long oval form. “See, I know that these are good to eat; Sophy was preserving some of them two days ago, and said so.” The berries were the high bush cranberries which grow on a shrub about the height of the guelder rose. Charley had soon collected many more than he and his brothers could possibly eat, especially as they had no sugar to eat them with.

“Come, Charley, as you are able to move about, set to work and collect wood, for we shall have to keep up a blazing fire all night,” said Philip, as he began to chop away at some small trees to form the posts of his proposed shed. Harry meantime was getting lighter poles and branches to form a roof. The spot selected by Philip for the hut was in a sheltered nook under some thickly matted cedars which would greatly protect it from the snow. The materials were soon brought together; and so expert had the brothers become in all handiwork, that they quickly made it habitable. The roof they covered with birch-bark, picked up under the trees from which it fell, as also the lower part of the sides, banking them up with snow. Boughs of spruce-fir formed no contemptible couches. In a very short time they had built a tolerably comfortable hut. Their fire was the next thing to be attended to. There was plenty of drift-wood just above the ice, and dead boughs sufficient to keep up a blazing fire all night: it was soon lighted. Two of the fish were held before it till they melted sufficiently to allow of being cleaned; Philip then having cut some forked sticks, forced them into the ground not yet frozen far down, and with a slender rod spitted the fish, which he placed on the forked sticks before the fire. “I wish that we could boil them Indian fashion,” said Harry: “I saw an old squaw perform the operation the other day, and yet she had only a wooden bucket. She got a heap of stones heated, and then putting some cold water into her bucket she dropped in her fish and began filling up the bucket with the hot stones; the water bubbled and hissed, and the fish were soon cooked.”

Their own fish did not take long roasting. They were pronounced excellent, especially seasoned with the cranberries.

“I say, this is no bad fun after all,” exclaimed Charley, who soon recovered from his fatigue. “If it wasn’t for those at home I wouldn’t have missed it on any account.”

“I begin to hope that they will not be breaking their hearts about us,” said Harry; “they must have seen the snow-storm coming on, and will think that we remained with D’Arcy.”

Philip hoped the same, and enjoyed the adventure nearly as much as his brothers. Supper over and the fire made up, he told them both to lie down while he kept up the fire and watched for any change in the weather. Still the snow continued to fall—not a break in the dense mass of clouds overhead appeared. Philip sat with his feet close to the fire, and his back resting against the side of the hut. It was necessary to be very watchful, to prevent the flames catching the branches on which his brothers lay. He had partially closed the entrance with boughs, but an aperture was required to let out the smoke, and he also had frequently to go out and get more fuel, and to watch for the snow ceasing. Harry and Charley quickly fell asleep. Philip felt very much inclined to do the same; he tried all sorts of expedients to keep awake. The hut was not high enough or large enough to enable him to walk about. He would have gone out, but the fire absolutely required his attendance; he did get up, and stood on one leg, then on the other, till he got tired, so he sat himself down again and raked and stirred the fire as before. There was no want of warmth in the hut. At last his hand stopped, and all was silent; if he was not asleep he was very nearly so. Suddenly he was aware that there was something moving in or near the hut. He looked up, and just at the entrance he saw a huge brown monster, his eyes looking curiously in, while with its paws it had abstracted one of the fish which had been hung up to the doorpost to keep cool. The stick which Philip had used as a poker was in a flame, so, springing up, he dashed it into the face of the intruder—a big bear—grasping his axe ready for action should the bear retaliate. Bruin gave a loud and angry growl at the unexpected attack, dropping his booty and preparing for action. The noise awoke Harry and Charley, who sprang to their feet. “Dash burning sticks in the fellow’s face, while I tackle him with my axe,” cried Philip. It was fortunate that he was not alone. He gave one cut at Bruin’s paws, but the next instant the monster would have seized the axe and hugged Philip, had not Harry dashed a stick into his eyes, the pain of which made him spring on one side and tumble over on his back. Charley followed up the attack with another fire-brand, and Philip with his axe dealt him a blow on the side of his head which almost stunned him. Another such blow would have finished the career of Bruin, but as Philip was lifting his weapon Harry cried out, “O dear, dear, the hut is on fire!” Philip, on this, for a moment turned his head, and the bear rolling round got up on his feet, and scrambled away over the snow as fast as he could move. Philip, instead of pursuing him, had to attend to the burning hut; and, what was of still greater importance, to rescue the fish, which would have been not only cooked, but over-cooked before they were wanted. Charley had, however, thoughtfully seized them, so that Philip and Harry could attend to the hut. In vain did they pull out the part which was already blazing, the wood of the larger portion was so dry that it also caught fire, and it was soon evident that they had no chance of saving their mansion. “What a misfortune,” cried Harry. “I will not say that,” observed Philip. “If the bear had not awoke me we might have been burnt ourselves; besides, it has just struck me, that this blaze, which is larger than we should have ventured to kindle, may be seen by those at home, or by D’Arcy, and it will give them assurance of our safety. However, let us set to work to repair damages while the flame lasts, for if we once get chilled, it will not be so easy to warm up again.”

The fire afforded light enough to enable the three brothers to cut down a fresh supply of poles and boughs, and well accustomed to the sort of work, they soon again had a hut raised of sufficient size to afford them all shelter. The younger brothers were, however, not inclined to sleep, and they intreated Philip to rest, which he promised to do if they would undertake to keep awake. At present there seemed no chance of their getting away. As soon as Philip had lain down, Harry and Charley armed themselves with long burning sticks with which to receive the bear should he return, taking care to hang their fish up inside, out of his way. He was, however, not likely to come back again, after the warm reception he had received.

“I thought bears always shut themselves up in winter, and lived by sucking their paws,” observed Charley. “As to sucking their paws, I don’t know,” said Harry; “but I fancy that the brown bear of this part of the world shuts himself up for the greater part of the winter, and only occasionally comes out on a mild day to forage for food. I conclude that our friend had his nest somewhere near and was disturbed by the fire, and his olfactories excited by the smell of the broiled fish. I wish that we had caught him, we might have taken home something worth having.”

“Do you think that he has left the island?” asked Charley. “Couldn’t we hunt him up?”

“Without consulting Philip! and I should not like to awake him,” said Harry. “But, I will tell you what, we will make some spears in the mean time, and harden their points in the fire, and if we can find him we’ll take him, dead or alive.”

There were some tough young saplings growing just outside of sufficient length for the proposed object; three of these were quickly cut, and being pointed were hardened in the fire, and then again scraped, till they became rather formidable weapons.

“Don’t you think Phil has slept long enough?” said Charley, who was anxious to make trial of his spear. “I am afraid Master Bruin will be sneaking off, and leaving us to whistle for him.”

“Very uncivil not to stop and be killed,” said Harry; “but we need be in no hurry; if he didn’t go off at first he is safe enough somewhere near here, depend on it.”

The snow continued to fall, but it could not have fallen so thickly as at first, or it would have covered the ground with a thicker coat than it appeared to have done. Daylight dawned at last, and Philip woke up. He was amused by the preparations for a combat made by his brothers, for he did not believe that the bear would be found. Before going out all three knelt down and offered up their prayers and thanksgiving for the protection afforded them. Under no circumstances did they ever omit that duty. Philip then advised that they should take some breakfast, that they might be ready for any emergency. Another fish was accordingly cooked, of which Charley, in spite of his eagerness, was ready enough to partake. He was hoping all the time that Bruin would smell the savoury morsel, and would be tempted to return. Probably, however, he had already had quite enough of their company and mode of proceeding to wish again to encounter them.

It snowed still, but not the dry, hard snow of the previous evening, and Philip felt more than ever anxious on account of the warmth of the weather. Before the sun could have quite risen, rain came, mixed with the snow, and gradually there was more rain and less snow, till the rain came down so fast that they were glad to get into their hut for shelter. They well knew that nothing so rapidly causes ice to become rotten as does rain. They might be prisoners, therefore, till it had sufficiently melted to allow of a boat being pushed through it. “But it cannot be rotten yet,” said Harry. “Let us look out for the shore, and, if we can see it, push across to the nearest point; never mind the rain.”

“Agreed.”

They crept out of their hut, and worked their way to the shore of the little island. The land round them across the water was very faint; still, as they fancied that they could distinguish their own home, and D’Arcy’s clearing, and the settlement, they determined to try to reach one or the other. The settlement was the nearest, and if they reached that they might easily find their way home. There was a nominal road, though scarcely passable, except when covered with snow in winter. They were debating whether it would be better to attempt to skate or to walk across the ice.

“We can but pull our skates off if we do not make good progress,” said Philip; so they were sitting down to put them on when Charley exclaimed that he must have a look for the bear; if he was there he would find him out. Off he ran with his spear. He had not been absent half a minute when he came running back, crying out, “Here he is, sure enough, in among the roots of an old tree under the bank. Come, Phil; come, Harry, come; we shall have him, sure enough, for he does not seem inclined to move. I suspect the tap you gave him, Phil, with your axe, hurt him more than we fancied.”

The latter remarks were uttered as the three brothers, with their spears ready for action, hurried towards the spot Charley had indicated. There, indeed, was a brown heap, from out of which a set of sharp teeth and a pair of twinkling eyes appeared. “There, what do you think of that?” asked Charley. The bear lay in a sort of root-formed cavern, under the bank. Some snow had drifted into it, which had been protected from the rain; on the snow were wide stains of blood. His wound would certainly make the bear more savage, and might not have much weakened him. Still, forgetting the risk they were running, they all three made a rush at him with their spears. He attempted to get up, seizing Charley’s spear from his grasp, and biting furiously at it, but Philip’s and Harry’s pinned him to the bank. Still his strength was great, and it was not till Philip was able to get a blow at his head with his axe that his struggles ceased.

“Hurrah, hurrah! now we may live here for a week, like Robinson Crusoe,” shouted Charley, highly delighted with their success.

“And leave those at home to believe that we are lost,” said Philip.

“No, no, I don’t mean that; only if we were obliged to stop we might contrive to be very jolly,” said Charley.

They had no little trouble in dragging the bear up the bank, and it then became a question what they should do with him. They could not carry him away, that was very certain. Cutting him up was not a pleasant operation, yet they could not hang him up whole.

“We will secure his tongue, and we must come back for him as soon as we can,” said Phil.

They had been so busy that they had not observed that the rain had ceased, and that instead of it a thick fog had sprung up again, completely obscuring the shores. It was so warm that there could be no doubt that the ice must be rapidly melting. Had this happened at the end of winter it would not have signified, as it would have required many days then to weaken the ice materially. Still, if it had not been for the fog they could have pushed across without fear at once.

“Why did we come without a compass?” cried Philip, not for the first time. “Remember, you fellows, never to leave home without one. You do not know when you may require it in this country.” After sitting down on the bank for some time, Philip started up, exclaiming, “They will be breaking their hearts with anxiety about us. I must go. You two have plenty of food, and if you will promise me that you will not stir from the island till a boat comes for you, or till the weather clears and the ice hardens thoroughly, I will go across to the settlement and send on home overland. I know that I can hit it, as there is a breeze blowing, and I took the bearings before the rain came on.” Harry and Charley were very unwilling to let their brother go, but at length, when he had persuaded them that there was no danger to himself, they agreed to obey his wishes.

Having disencumbered himself of his axe and an overcoat, as well as of the remainder of D’Arcy’s fish, which he left for his brothers, Philip buckled on his skates, and taking one of the spears in his hand, away he glided; his brothers, standing on the shore, watched him—his figure growing less and less distinct, till he disappeared in the thick mist which hung over the lake. “I wish that we had not let him go,” cried Charley. “Suppose any accident should happen to him, how dreadful. Couldn’t we call him back? He would hear us if we shouted.”

“No, that would annoy him, as we have no reason for calling him back. We must let him go,” said Harry. “Well, at all events, we can pray for him,” exclaimed Charley, in a tone which showed that the thought was consolatory. They did so immediately, and felt far greater confidence than before. For themselves, they had no cause to fear. They had food enough for a month or more, should the frost return, and they had the means of building a hut, in which they could be perfectly sheltered from the weather. They had abundance of fuel, and the bear’s skin would keep them warm at night. There were the cranberries, and probably some other berries, and they knew of several roots which they thought they should find. “Really, we are very well off,” said Charley, after they had reviewed their resources. “I don’t think there is another part of the world where, in a little island like this, we could find such ample means of support. I shouldn’t mind spending a month here at all.”

“Ah! but we could not expect always to find a bear in such a place as this; and as for the fish, we brought them with us,” said Harry, by way of argument.

“But I daresay, if we were to hunt about, we should find some racoons; and if the ice melted we should catch plenty of fish—or we might make a hole in the ice and fish through it,” argued Charley. “By the by, I have got some hooks and a line in my pocket; I vote we try.”

No sooner was the proposal made than executed; two fishing lines were fitted—with their spears a hole was made in the easily yielding ice—the bear furnished bait. Scarcely was a line in than a tug was felt, and a small fish was hauled up. They did not know the name, but as its appearance was prepossessing, they had no doubt that it was fit for food. Another and another followed; they were delighted with their sport, and even Harry felt that he should be sorry to have to go away. “If we had but some bread and some tea, with a pot to boil it in, we should do capitally,” he observed.

“We may dig dandelion roots for coffee, we can boil water with hot stones in a wooden jug, which we can make, and there are roots which will serve us for bread,” said Charley. “If we could but get a few heads of Indian corn, we might thrive just as we are.”

“We might live, certainly,” said Harry; “but I doubt if we could do more.”

Chapter Eight.

We must follow Philip in his perilous adventure. He felt more doubtful as to the strength of the ice than he had expressed; but should it break beneath him, he relied on his long pole to extricate himself. He looked back every now and then, and he appeared to be taking a straight course; he felt the breeze also always on his left cheek. This inspirited him, though he could not see the shore. The snow was yielding enough, though rather clogging about his heels; the fog, however, grew thicker than ever; it was evidently the fog caused by a warm thaw. He had seen many such in England. He pushed on boldly—faster than he had gone with his brothers—he was lightly clad and carried no weight. Did he hear sounds coming from the shore—sleigh-bells—or sheep-bells—men’s voices also? If so, he was probably near the settlement. He was trying to pierce the mist, when suddenly he felt his feet sinking from under him, and before he could spring back, he was sent gliding down a slab of ice, and plunged in the water. For several yards before him there was nothing but water. Holding his pole he swam on. He reached the edge of the ice: it broke as he clutched it. It is a difficult operation to get out of water on to a slab of ice. He found it so. If he got one end of the pole on the ice the other slipped off. He saw the danger of exhausting his strength by useless struggles. He had heard voices. He might make himself heard, so he shouted—“Help! help! the ice has broken in—help!”

It was a sad fate which seemed about to overwhelm him. Life had many charms in spite of the one disappointment, which had, rather given a gravity to his manner than in any way embittered his existence. He had hoped to do something in the world—his duty, at all events. He had many too depending on him. How would they bear his loss? He looked upward. A thick veil hung over his head. Below was the dark water—on every side the wide expanse of treacherous ice and snow. His limbs were getting chilled; still he would struggle on while consciousness was allowed him. Had the hole been smaller into which he had fallen, he might have got his pole across it. It was, however, of much assistance, as holding on to it, he could rest without breaking the edge of the ice. He was certain that he heard sleigh-bells. He shouted louder than before. The bells ceased. He instantly shouted again. A voice replied, “We’ll be with you directly, friend.” His heart leaped within him. The voices sounded louder. He discerned objects dimly moving over the ice, here and there. They must be looking for him. He shouted again. They resolved themselves into the forms of two men. They approached him. One had a rope in his hand. “Lay hold of this, we’ll soon have you out,” said the man. Philip passed the rope round his pole, and then grasped it tightly. With care he was dragged out. The other person stood at a distance. “We must not put more weight than we can help on this treacherous stuff,” he said. “Why, I do believe that you are young Ashton.”

“The same: and you Mr Norman,” cried Philip. “I am indeed thankful for your timely aid.”

“Which my man rendered, and not I; and which he would have rendered to a drowning dog, so don’t say anything about that,” replied Mr Norman. “But we must not stop talking here. The sooner we are on terra firma, and you in a warm bed, the better.”

Philip found, on reaching the shore, that he was fully half a mile north of the settlement. Mr Norman, who was on his way to pay his family a visit, was passing in his sleigh at the moment. “I hoped that the snow would remain long enough to enable me to get up to you, for your road scarcely allows of a wheeled conveyance,” he observed, as they drove rapidly back to the settlement, Philip sitting covered up with furs at the bottom of the sleigh. A warm bed was, however, not a luxury to be found at the settlement; indeed, Philip assured his friend, that if he could obtain a change of clothes, he would much rather set off at once to rescue his brothers. “Not till you are more fit to go than at present,” said Mr Norman. “My friend Job Judson, at the hotel, will help us; and while you are drying outwardly, and warming inwardly, we will get a boat or canoe of some sort to shove over across the ice to bring away the youngsters. They are happy enough in the meantime, depend on that; I have had many such an adventure in my younger days, greatly to my enjoyment.”

In a few minutes Philip was sitting wrapped up in a sheet and blanket before the almost red-hot stove of the log-hut, y-clept an hotel, while Mr Job Judson was administering a stiffer tumbler of rum-and-water than Philip had ever before tasted, probably, though it appeared to him no stronger than weak negus. Believing this to be the case he did not decline a second, the effect of which was to throw him into a glow and to send him fast asleep. Meantime his clothes, hung up round the stove, were drying rapidly; and when the landlord at last aroused him to put them on, he found that they were, as he said, as warm as a toast; indeed they were, he had reason to suspect, rather overdone. He found Mr Norman with a large dug-out canoe on runners, with a couple of poles, one on each side, and two men who had volunteered to accompany him.

“I’d go myself, but I guess I’d rather over-ballast your craft,” said Job Judson, turning round his rotund figure, such as was not often seen in the bush. Philip thanked him, and agreed that no more persons were required for the expedition.

Mr Norman insisted on going. “Do not be afraid of my being tired,” he remarked; “I have always lived in so hardy a way that nothing tires me.”

Philip was not aware that more than three hours had passed since he reached the settlement. The fog was still as thick as ever. The two men dragged on the canoe; Mr Norman pushed astern, and placing a compass down on the seat before him, observed, “It is necessary to take our departure very carefully, or we shall find it more difficult to hit the island than you did on leaving it to reach the shore. I do not suppose that there is a person in the settlement can give us the bearings of the island from this.”

“No; but the map of the Geological Survey will,” said the gentleman who kept the store in the settlement. In another instant he brought out a large map, where the island was clearly laid down. “All right, thank you,” said Mr Norman: “away we go.” The two men laid hold of the fore-end of the poles; Philip and Mr Norman behind. The ice was far from secure; it did not crack nor bend, but it evidently rested on the water, and such ice generally gives way without any warning or sound. The party, however, pushed dauntlessly on, steadily, but not so fast as Philip would have liked. He thought, indeed, at last, that they must have passed the island; but Mr Norman was too good a navigator for that—it rose up suddenly before them.

Philip shouted, “Harry—Charley—all right, boys—hurrah!” but there was no answer. Again he cried out; no one replied. “They are hiding to try to frighten me, Mr Norman,” he said, laughing,—“the rogues.” The party landed and looked about. “O very well, they cannot be here, and so we’ll go away,” he cried out, thinking that would make them appear; it had no such effect. Philip began to grow anxious: they would certainly not carry their joke so far. He went round the island, sometimes on the ice and sometimes on shore. As he was hurrying on, what was his dismay to see a large hole in the ice: his poor young brothers had met the fate which he had so narrowly escaped. He saw exactly how it had happened; one had gone through, and the other in trying to help him out had fallen in likewise. There had been a struggle, as there were prints of feet and knees in the snow round it; some the water had washed over.

His exclamations of grief brought his companions to the spot. “Not so certain that anything dreadful has occurred,” said Mr Norman. “You told me you had killed a bear: now Bruin has been deprived of his hinder legs, which make the best hams; and his four paws, which turn into good soup; and I don’t think that they would have walked off by themselves. Come, let us examine your hut. Ah! the skin too has disappeared.”

“Yes, and I see that the remainder of the fish which D’Arcy gave us are not here,” said Philip, somewhat relieved. “But perhaps the island has been visited by some trapper, who would naturally carry off the most valuable parts of the bear.”

“Ah! but look here: if the island has been visited by a trapper, he came with a vehicle on runners from the direction of your clearing, and returned to the same place. There are the marks clear enough still; an Indian would have told us exactly how things occurred.”

“I wish that we had had one,” said Philip, in whom fatigue had produced low spirits. “The visitor, whoever he was, not finding them, may have carried off the bear’s flesh and returned without them.”

“I think that I can convince you that my conjectures are correct,” said Mr Norman, after looking about for some time longer. “You killed the bear with long stakes: I can find none; they would naturally have carried them off as trophies. They had skates; none are to be seen, the foot-prints are those of shoes.”

“How came the hole?” asked Philip.

“They made it themselves to fish through. See here are some scales which Tom Smith has just brought me, and which his sharp eye detected near the hole: the fish was evidently thrown down there on being unhooked. Come, I doubt if any Indian would read marks more clearly than I have done, though probably he would explain matters in a far more pompous style. The fact is, my experience of bush-life and Indian life has been very considerable, as you will understand if you like some day to listen to some of my adventures. But there is nothing to keep us longer here.”

Philip was happier, but not thoroughly satisfied. The party set out on their return.

“This ice would not have borne us many hours hence; be ready for a leap into the canoe,” said Mr Norman. They reached the settlement, however, in safety. The inhabitants were divided in opinion as to whether the young Ashtons were lost or not; Philip was eager to reach home to settle the point. Mr Norman had sent for wheels for his vehicle, as the snow had melted too much to allow of runners. It was soon mounted, and away they rattled, bumped and thumped, Mr Norman singing—

“‘You and I, Billy, have often heard how folks are ruined and undone,

By overturns in carriages, by fires and thieves in London.’

“You see, my young friend, we must look out for haps and mishaps in the country as well as in town, on shore as well as at sea. Ignorant of religion as seamen are, they have a right feeling of a superintending Providence, which makes them feel as secure in the midst of the raging storm as they would driving about in the crowded city. The true believer in Christ is ready to die at any moment. This it is makes weak women courageous, while strong men show themselves to be cowards when instant death threatens them.”

Philip thought to himself, “How did I behave and feel when I was in the water this morning?—how when I found the hole in the ice, and thought that my brothers had fallen through?” The journey to the clearing, which across the ice would not have occupied twenty minutes, and not an hour by land had the snow been hard, took up more than two hours, with the risk of an overturn or break-down every yard, and such jolting as only well-knit limbs would endure.

At last the log-house appeared before them. “A very creditable edifice; really, Mr Philip, you were born a backwoodsman,” exclaimed Mr Norman. “I learned carpentering, and the principal rules for house-building, while my hands and eyes have been kept in exercise from my childhood,” was the answer. “That is the preparation required for all settlers in the bush, and which so large a number want and fail of success in consequence—or at all events waste precious years in gaining at a heavy cost the knowledge with which they ought to begin. I commenced the world without a sixpence, and have worked my way up to wealth and independence by the proper use of my hands and head. A settler, to rise, must have both. We welcome hands in the province. The possessor of a head benefits himself chiefly—not that we could get on without heads either.”

As they drove up to the door, D’Arcy was the first person to meet them. Philip’s heart sunk within him in spite of what Mr Norman had been saying. He hoped to have seen his brothers. “Where are the lads?” he exclaimed, eagerly. “All right, come in. I will take your horse round, Mr Norman,” said D’Arcy; and as the door opened, the boys’ voices were heard from their room. The rest of the family quickly came to the entrance to welcome them; and D’Arcy, coming back, explained what had occurred. He had seen the blaze of their burning hut, but not suspecting the cause, had gone across the lake with his canoe on runners, to ascertain if they had got home safe, not sorry for a good excuse for his visit. His appearance naturally caused great dismay and anxiety. He, however, afforded his friends some comfort, by assuring them that he believed the missing ones would be found on the island, towards which, supplied with a compass, he immediately set out, accompanied by Peter, and carrying provisions, cordials, and blankets. His satisfaction was considerable when laughing voices proceeded from the direction of the island, and he found the young gentlemen amusing themselves greatly by fishing for tommicods. Taking the best parts of the bear, he hurried back with his rescued friends to prevent Philip, should he arrive first, from setting off to meet them.

Philip’s long delay had again caused his family great anxiety. A happy party, with grateful hearts, assembled round Mr Ashton’s supper-table that evening—a table framed by his own hands, while most of the luxuries were supplied by the industry of those sitting round it. In another year there would not be an article of food on it which had not been produced on the farm, or procured from the lake, or surrounding woods. Not the least happy was Lawrence D’Arcy; and perhaps a glance at Miss Ashton’s countenance might have told the reason why.

“Well, Mr Norman, I am glad at length to see you here; and I can assure you, that your prognostications as to my liking the country, have been more than fulfilled,” said Mr Ashton. “I have never for an instant regretted coming out here; and I believe that I am happier, and that my wife and children are so, than we should have been had we lived on the life we had been proposing for ourselves in London, when I found myself deprived of the property which I thought my own.”

“God’s merciful Providence overruled your plan for your own and your children’s good,” said Mr Norman. “I know nothing practically of large cities, and little enough of towns; but from what I have read, I suspect that the temptations to evil in them are great, and the advantages comparatively small, when the chief object of man’s life is considered. No life can more conduce to virtue and a healthful state of body and mind than that which the industrious settler in the country leads out here. He has hard work and rough living, may be; but what is that, whether he be gentle or simple, compared to what he would have had to endure, had he without fortune remained idle at home? That is the question all settlers must ask themselves over and over again, whenever they get out of sorts with the Province.”

Chapter Nine.

“It is the fashion to say in England, so I hear, that Canada is not the country in which people can make fortunes,” said the sheriff; for such was the office Mr Norman held in his county. “I grant that it is not the country in which fortunes will come of themselves; but, putting the lower province out of the question, I should like to know how the owners of the nice estates and pretty villas scattered so thickly throughout the upper province became possessed of them. How has Toronto sprung up into a first-rate city? How have Hamilton, London, and twenty other towns risen in a few years into importance? How is it that thousands of comfortable farms are found in all directions? Look at our canals—at the thousands of vessels which navigate our lakes and rivers; at our saw-mills, and grist-mills, and manufactories of all sorts; at the tens of thousands of acres of corn land; at our pastures; at our oxen and kine; at our flocks of sheep; at our horses; at our public and private buildings; at our churches; our colleges; our schools; our hospitals; our prisons; at all the conveniences of a highly civilised community which we possess, and then let me ask to whom do all these things belong? To the inhabitants of the province. Who are they? Men mostly who began life in it; some few whose fathers lived in it; but very few indeed whose grandfathers were born here. Of these, the capital of the greater number, when they began this career, might have been counted by shillings;—did I say shillings? I would rather say strong hearts and hands, without coin at all; some few might have reckoned by pounds, fewer by hundreds, and very few indeed, if any, by thousands. Then how did they become possessed of all this wealth? Why they made all this wealth, they created all these advantages, by their labour, their intelligence, and perseverance. They are theirs—to enjoy—to benefit by. It is said in England, ‘We do not find rich Canadians come back and settle at home, as so many Australians do.’ Granted; Canada, I say, is essentially the country to reside in. People who have made fortunes here do not go away, for the best of reasons; because here they have all the requirements of civilisation, all the advantages which the Australians go to England to obtain. I say too that numbers do make very handsome fortunes—though I grant, as I before observed, that fortunes don’t come of themselves; but, which is better, no one who is persevering, industrious, and intelligent, fails to become independent, and to start his children well in the world. I don’t want to disparage other provinces, but I say that we Canadians can and do make fortunes; and what is more, we have the means of enjoying them thoroughly, without going to other lands to do so.”

The sheriff had got on a subject on which he always grew eager, though he was at length obliged to pause for want of breath. “Take myself, for example,” he continued; “I rose, if you like, from the bottom of the tree; and I know fifty—I may say a hundred men, who have got up as I have done—my brother-sheriff of the next county among them. My father came over from England. He was a baker by trade; but though he knew how to make loaves, he did not know how to read. He came to the neighbourhood of Kingston first, and worked as a journeyman. When he had saved a little money he set up for himself; then he got a share in a flour-mill, and bought a little land;—then a little more; and then the flour-mill became his; and lastly, he sold the whole at a considerable profit, and moving westward, pitched his tent at Pentanquishine, on Lake Huron. He invested largely in land; and troops being stationed there during the war with the States, and it becoming a naval station, he realised a considerable profit. Though uneducated himself, he was desirous of giving his sons a good education; so he sent us all to the best school in the province—I might say the only one—kept by the Reverend Dr Strachan, now Bishop of Toronto, in that big city, then known as “Muddy Little York.” The excellent doctor, of whom we all stood in reverential awe, had the art of imparting knowledge; and I believe I, with others, benefited much by it. Of my two elder brothers I will say nothing, except that they tyrannised over me and another brother younger than I was. He and I were fast friends, and made common cause against them. As Pentanquishine could not supply us with clothing fit to appear in at Toronto, our father directed us to get it at that place, and entrusted our elder brother with money to pay for it. He got clothing certainly, and paid the tailor, but it was for himself and not for us, and we were allowed to go on wearing our shabby clothes. I protested vehemently against this iniquitous proceeding, but Arthur, my younger brother, who was of a more gentle nature, yielded quietly and said nothing.

“There was to be a public examination, at which all the big-wigs in the place were to attend; and I told my brother that if he would not order us both proper suits of clothes I would run away to our father and complain. He laughed at me, not believing that I would make the attempt. I was as good as my word, for pretending I was ill one evening, I got leave to go up early to bed. Instead of going to sleep I watched my opportunity, slipped out of the house with all the money Arthur and I could collect, or rather save, in my pocket, and running on all night, before morning I was far away towards Lake Simcoe. You see, boys brought up in the bush, as I was, have no fear of being out alone, and can find their way in any direction they have a mind to follow. Besides which, it was a beaten cart track I followed, mostly in the line the railway now takes. Great changes since then! I might have been caught even then, for I was pursued for some distance; but I was overtaken by an old acquaintance—a carter, or rather a packer or carrier—Jack Johnson by name, to whom I narrated what had occurred. My elder brother had on some occasion offended him, and this made him, probably, more ready to take my part, and to render me assistance. ‘Jump into the waggon, lad, and hide thee away, and if any one comes after thee I’ll show him that Jack Johnson’s waggon is just as much his castle as any man’s house is, and if he pries therein he must take the consequences.’ What those consequences would be he did not say, but he flourished his heavy whip with a ferocity which made it probable that the head of anybody who interfered would be broken. With this consoling reflection I fell asleep, for I was very tired after my long run during all the night. I knew, also, that Jack would be as good as his word, so I had no fears to keep me awake.

“We jogged on all day, stopping only to bait and water the cattle. Now and then I awoke and looked out; it was the same scene—forest on either side, with now and then a small lake, or pond, or creek. Jack was at his horses’ heads, whistling away, as if he had nothing in the world to care for. He hadn’t either. He had been a workhouse-boy in the old country, and would have ended his days as a labourer, and now he was laying by a good bit of money every trip, and expected to be able to buy a comfortable farm before long. So he did, and has brought up a numerous family, all well-to-do in the world, and lives himself as comfortably as any man with four or five hundred a-year would, I guess, in England. At night we stopped at a log-hut, the only inn on the road, and Jack brought me some food and told me to be quiet, and that we would be off early in the morning.

“The second day passed much as did the first, except that I had lost all fear of being overtaken. The confession is somewhat humbling, but the truth is, I was not considered worth sending after. ‘Let the chiel gang,—wie sae little brains in his head he’s sure to fall on his feet,’ observed the doctor, when informed of my flight—so I was told. In the evening of the second day we reached Holland’s Landing, at the south end of Lake Simcoe. Settlers had begun to take up the land on either side of the lake: they were chiefly naval and military officers, forced into idleness at the end of the war, without any previous training for the life they were to lead, or knowledge of what would be required of them as settlers. The naval men did the best, and many of them succeeded, as did a few of the military men, but the greater number, after a few years’ trial, I might say months, left in disgust, or ruined. Many never came even to occupy their grants. Jack’s business was to supply these gentlemen with goods, which most of them came to fetch at Holland’s Landing.

“As he was going no further, I had now to consider how I was to perform the rest of my journey West. While standing in the bar of the store with Jack, who should come in but a trapper, known to him, Jean Baptiste by name, to make some purchases. ‘Whither bound, friend Baptiste?’ asked Jack. I could make out clearly enough the meaning of his reply, but I cannot repeat the extraordinary mixture of Canadian, French, English, and Ojibbeway, in which it was couched. He intimated that he was going a few days’ journey west, over ground where there was then an abundance of beaver, martin, mink, and other fur-bearing animals, which are rare enough now. Jean Baptiste showed his Indian origin by his long, Jewish-like countenance, dark eyes, and raven black hair. He was dressed in skins, the hair being inside, in spite of the heat, his leggings and waistcoat ornamented with bead-work and gaily-dyed porcupine quills, and mingled with coloured fibres and worsted.

“I slept in Jack’s cart, and just at daybreak Baptiste came and roused me up. I thanked Jack heartily for his kindness, and with a stout stick in my hand, with which he presented me, set off to follow my strange-looking guide towards his camp. Here, under a lean-to of birch-bark, I found Mrs Baptiste, an Indian squaw, who, if not a solace to him in his hours of trial, took a great deal of trouble off his shoulders, for she worked for him from morning till night like a slave, with small thanks. In the way he treated his wife he was no better than an Indian. She had her hand-sleigh already packed, and as soon as we appeared she harnessed herself into it and began dragging it off without saying a word. Talk of the romance of Indian life, there is none of it of an elevated nature. All the stuff novelists have written is sheer downright nonsense. It is simple brutality from beginning to end. I speak of the natives I have met with before they became Christians. Baptiste, on the strength of his being a French-Canadian, on his father’s side, called himself a Christian, but he was as ignorant of religion as was his squaw; and here let me remind you, whenever you write to your friends in England, tell them that there is a grand opening for missionary labours among the wide-scattered Indian tribes still existing on this continent. Something is being done, but much more may be done; and not only is there work to be done among Indians, but among the out-settlers, and especially among the lumberers on the Ottawa. Never mind whether they are Romanists or not. They never hear the Gospel of free grace preached from one end of the year to the other. I believe that a missionary going among them would find abundant fruit as the result of his labours.

“To return to Baptiste. He had set his traps in the forest along the route we were to take, and so we had to push our way through it, sleigh and all, he scarcely condescending to help his squaw when it stuck between the stumps of the trees, she also looking with supreme contempt on me when I attempted to help her; indeed she, I fancy, considered me rather officious than otherwise. I travelled on for several days with this unattractive couple, and yet I believe that they were really fond of each other. They were hospitable in their way also, for their pot was always well supplied with meat, and they gave me as much as I could eat. It was not of the choicest land, I must confess, for every creature the trapper caught went into it, with a mixture of herbs and roots, among which garlic predominated.

“At last Baptiste told me that he had come to the end of his journey, and that I must find the rest of the way by myself. ‘I will try, of course, but it strikes me that I shall not succeed,’ was my answer. ‘If I had a gun and powder and shot, or even your traps, I would get on fast enough as soon as I could find my way into the blazed road, but out here the thing is impossible. If you will not come along with me I must go back with you.’

“He signified that he would be glad enough to have my company, but that he had promised Jack to see me on my way, and that his honour was concerned in doing so. He could not go on himself, but he would find some Indians who would guide me if I could pay them. I had three dollars in my pocket, I told him. He said half that sum would content them if I would pay it them. He soon found the trail of some Indians whom he knew to be his friends—we came up with them. The bargain was struck with two of them to see me safe all the way, and Baptiste told me that they were highly delighted though they took care not to show it. They were accompanied by their squaws; indeed, an Englishman of fortune would as soon think of travelling without his valet as an Indian without his squaw to perform every menial occupation he may require. There was nothing romantic in the appearance of my friends; one wore an old shooting-coat, which he had trimmed with coloured worsted, while the other had fastened a blue checked shirt over his other garments by way of ornament; the rest of their costume being more in the old Indian fashion of leather and fur. They were dirty in the extreme, and not over good looking; but they had honest countenances, and I had no fear of their not treating me fairly. One of them went before me to clear the way, the other followed at my heels to pick me up should I stumble, and the squaws brought up the rear, all in single file. The squaws had to build the wigwams—or, rather, lean-tos—when we camped, to collect sticks for the fire, to cook the food, and to bring water from the nearest stream or pond; their masters condescended to catch the game. They were not such expert trappers as Baptiste, but then they ate creatures which he would have rejected—nothing that could be masticated came amiss to them. I should have fared badly, but the second day, just after we had camped, we came suddenly upon two bears with two young cubs. They were as much surprised at seeing us as we were at encountering them. One of the Indians who had a fowling piece fired, and hit Mr Bruin in the brain, whereon Mrs Bruin trotted off with one of the cubs; while the other Indian with his bow shot the cub which had remained with his father.

“I was eager to exhibit my prowess, so followed the retreating bears, hoping to kill the cub with my stick. Fortunately they took the way near the camp, when the squaws, seeing me, ran out and caught hold of me, telling me that as surely as I had killed the cub the mother would have turned round and torn me to pieces. Though I still wished to go, they held me tight till the bears were out of sight. I believe fully that they saved my life, and certainly it was pleasanter supping on a bear than making a supper for one.

“At last we reached Pentanquishine, and so thankful was I to get there that I gave the honest Indians two dollars instead of one and a-half. I fear that they spent the greater part, if not the whole of the sum, at the grog shop before they left the settlement.

“‘What! who are you, you little ragamuffin?’ exclaimed my father when he saw me, for by that time so torn had become my garments by the thorny shrubs, that they literally were in shreds. ‘You are no child of mine; get out with you, you little ill-conditioned cub.’ I ought not to have been surprised at this greeting, though it was not pleasant to my feelings.

“I had considerable difficulty in persuading him who I was, and of the truth of my statement as to the cause of my leaving. At last he did believe me, and declared that he would break Dick’s head and stop his allowance for the following half. Dick, when he came home for the holidays, made me beg him off, not the getting his head broke, for that he laughed at, but the having his allowance stopped, which he guessed might be done.

“When I went back at the commencement of the next half, the Doctor took no notice of what had occurred, and from having been the most ragged, I became one of the best dressed boys in the school. This was not always to last. My elder brothers went home to begin life, leaving me and Arthur. We were very glad when they went, for they bullied us terribly. A year passed, and then came a letter with a black seal, and we heard that our father was dead. Dick, who had come of age, inherited his property, and it seemed had the power of doing with us just what he liked. It arose thus: our poor father had been seized with the desire of having his eldest son a gentleman of fortune, and thinking that by leaving him all his property he could do so, he beggared the rest of us. Dick wrote us word that we must earn our own living, but that he would be a brother to us, and to show his affection he apprenticed me to a chair-maker, and my slight, delicate young brother Arthur to a blacksmith.

“Mine was not a bad trade, for furniture was in great demand. ‘If that is to be my calling I will go at it,’ said I to myself. I did so, and soon could turn a chair very neatly out of hand. Arthur could make no hand at the blacksmith work—his arm had not strength to wield a hammer; I went to his master and asked him to let him off. ‘No, I never does anything without an equivalent,’ was his answer; ‘but I’ll tell you what, youngster, I happen to want some chairs for my woman and children to sit on; now, if you’ll make them for me, slick off hand, your brother shall go free, I guess.’ The bargain was struck. I was anxious to get poor Arthur free, for every day was killing him with labour for which he was so unfit. I set to work at once, and each moment that I could spare from my proper duties to my master I employed in making the chairs. I was determined that he should not say that they were not good chairs—strong and handsome. The blacksmith was highly pleased with them, and instantly freed my brother and made me a present of a couple of dollars. With this sum and a little more I had made by working out of hours, I set Arthur to trade on his own account, to keep him till my term was out, which was to be very shortly. From the day I had left school I had not neglected my studies, and I used to read all the books I could lay hands on during every spare moment. Life is short enough as it is, and people make it still shorter by idling away their time. I knew that I had plenty of work to do, and I found out early that to get it done I must not lose a moment. I consequently not only kept up the knowledge I obtained at school, but got a fair amount besides.

“We worked on for three years, I making chairs and Arthur selling them, saving money, but not very fast. I had no fancy to go on chair-making all my days, and I wished for a more active life.

“I had paid a visit to Holland’s Landing a few months before this, and I found that my friend, Jack Johnson, was still driving a thriving trade with the settlement along the shores of the lake; but he had not a good head for business, and I saw that a great deal more might be made of it than he made. A steamer was building to run on the lake. She was to commence running in a few days. I applied for the office of purser, or steward—call it which you will. I obtained it, at a low salary, stipulating that I should be allowed to trade, to a certain extent, on my own account. That was all I wanted. My plans were at once formed. Jack was to purchase and bring up the articles from Toronto, and Arthur and I to go round to the farms, as far as we could reach, and to obtain orders, large or small. All were fish which came into our net, from an ounce of tobacco to the furniture of a house or the machinery for a saw mill, provided we could get security; it would have been folly to trade without that, especially with some of our customers.

“We paid considerable sums to the steamer for freight, and, pleasing the owners, were able, with their aid, to increase our credit and our business. It is extraordinary how reckless some of those we dealt with were in giving orders for goods and in mortgaging their property as security, without a prospect, as far as we could judge, of their being able to pay us without allowing the mortgage to be foreclosed. That you may not think ill of me on that account, I may say that we thus had an opportunity of being of considerable service to many of these improvident gentlemen. Our trade throve, and I soon found that it would be convenient to establish a store at the principal place at which the steamer called. Arthur took charge of it, and the flourishing condition of the concern showed that we were right in our expectations.

“Our capital increased. We were compelled to foreclose some mortgages; and as we did not wish to keep the farms of which we thus became possessed, we sold them at more or less profit. We were in the way of hearing when land was to be sold at a cheap rate, either improved or unimproved, and by purchasing such land and re-selling to newly-arrived settlers, who became good customers, we profited considerably. We got the best of everything, and our desire was to supply those who bought of us with what we knew they would most require, and which would give them satisfaction.

“As soon as I had established a business I left the steam-boat and went to live on shore, at the store, having first taken to wife the daughter of my old master. A very good wife she has made me, and I should like, some day, to bring her over to see you, Mrs Ashton; but you mustn’t expect to see a fine lady, such are not the good wives of this province. For many years she was a hardworking housewife, when helps were beings not to be procured for love or money. The station of life which I then occupied was different to what I now fill, but my good wife has had no ambition to change her style of dress or living with our change of circumstances, from the feeling that she might appear out of place. In fact, my dear madam, you will understand that she is not vulgar, and is essentially free from all vulgar ambition. Here I must bring the sketch of my early life to a conclusion, remarking that what my brother and I did, hundreds of others have done in this province, and thousands more will do if they will practise self-control, labour industriously in whatever station they are placed, and be ready to step into any opening which may present itself, always doing their duty, and praying for strength and guidance above.”

Chapter Ten.

Although the Canadian winter impedes agricultural operations, there is plenty of work to be done both out-of-doors and in-doors, especially on a newly-cleared farm. Chopping down the trees goes on, and if the brushwood has been collected before the snow falls, the huge trunks can be dragged together and piled in heaps to be burnt off. It may seem a sad waste of good timber, but it is the least expensive way of getting rid of what cumbers the ground; besides which, the ashes very much assist to fertilise it. The Ashtons, however, found that they could dispose of theirs at the newly-erected saw-mills, if they could get the logs there. Not a tree could be moved, however, by any force they could command, till the snow fell and hardened. The logs then were dragged down over it on to the ice, where they were easily formed into a raft and floated across the lake to the mills at breaking up of the ice in spring.

The first fall of snow had entirely disappeared, and the lake had become free of ice, to be covered again, however, by a far thicker coat than before, and equally smooth. Harry and Charley were eager to have an ice-boat, and they persuaded Philip, in spite of his many avocations, to assist them in making one. The great point was to have good runners. These should have been made of iron, but as that was not to be procured, they got some hard wood of sufficient length, which being slightly curved up at the ends, served admirably. The boat had, therefore, what Harry called two keels. This was the most important part;—the boat was simply a long box with seats across it. The rudder, which was an oar fixed in the stern, had a sharp iron blade which would dig into the ice. The craft was rigged as a schooner, and had a very creditable appearance. A long pole with an iron head helped to steer her and to put her about.

With eager haste she was launched on the glass-like expanse. “Let us stand across to D’Arcy and astonish him,” cried Harry. “We can carry him the invitation to spend Christmas-day with us.” There were no dissentient voices. Philip took the helm, Harry managed the head-sails, Charley the main. The wind was on the quarter. The sails could not be hoisted till they were ready to start, as the ice offering no resistance, she would either have blown over, or run away before the wind. Philip was not quite so sanguine of success as his brothers. The word was given—Harry shoved round the head of the strange-looking craft, and far enough off to allow the rudder full play. The sails were hoisted—the sheets hauled aft—a fresh breeze filled them, and to the delight of her architects, away she shot in splendid style. She answered her helm admirably. It seemed but a few minutes before D’Arcy’s clearing hove in sight. Philip fired off his gun to draw his friend’s attention to them, and they had only time to haul down their sails before, with the impetus the craft had attained, she glided up to the landing-place, and sent them all tumbling forward, as she made a bold attempt to run up the bank, only prevented by Harry with his iron-shod pole.

D’Arcy required no great pressing to embark with them. They all looked, they declared, like veritable Arctic voyagers, with their fur caps, flaps over their ears, and bearskin and buffalo-skin coats, kept in by sashes or belts. The settlement was first to be visited. Such a craft as theirs had never been seen there, and created no little interest; though on Lake Ontario, before Toronto, ice-boats of a more elegant construction are constantly used when the ice will allow of it before the snow falls.

The store was visited, and commissions, the list of which filled two columns of Philip’s note-book, were executed, and then, with a considerable addition to their lading, they once more got under way. They had now to beat back; but the boat lay closer to the wind than if she had been in water, and though she made some lee-way, they beat back in a wonderfully short space of time. They were so delighted with their sail that they could scarcely keep out of their boat. The whole circuit of the lake was visited, and they talked of taking her into Lake Huron, when, perhaps fortunately, down came such a fall of snow as to make rapid progress over the ice impossible, and they once again returned to their more serious occupations.

The snow became every day harder, till a crust formed on the top of it, which made walking over it where it was not beaten down, both difficult and painful. Some Indians had encamped in the neighbourhood for the purpose of trading with the pale faces, and obtaining food and clothing. Two of them at this juncture came with some slight oblong frames, between three and four feet in length, with net-work filling up the inner portion. What they could be, none of the younger members of the family could guess, till the Indians fastened one to each of their feet and began to move along over the snow on the lake. “Snow-shoes! snow-shoes!” cried Charley; and forthwith a bargain was struck for several pair. The squaws brought some the next day of a lighter construction for the ladies of the family, and a new source of amusement was found enabling them also to take the exercise so necessary for health. Bravely Sophy and her sisters faced the cold, bitter and biting as it was, and with their brothers made their first attempt to walk in snow-shoes on the lake.

They were all thus engaged, laughing and shouting and enjoying the amusement, when an object was seen in the distance approaching them, and the silvery cheerful sound of sleigh-bells floated up to them through the calm air. “Bravo—excellent!—that is what I like to see. We should hear nothing of sick headaches in Canada, if all the young ladies would put their pretty little feet on to snow-shoes, and step over the country as you are doing, or rather will be doing before long, for you are on the ice just now,” cried Mr Norman from a handsome sleigh which drove up to them. The horses’ harness, surmounted by a belfry, as Harry called the frame to which the bells were suspended, was covered with bright-coloured braiding, and rich skins filled the sleigh itself and hung over the back. From among them a lady’s head was seen. “Allow me to introduce my wife,” continued Mr Norman. “She has just told me that she has already fallen in love with you all; but do not let us bring you in—we will wait for you at the house.”

Sophy, however, soon began to find that she had had snow-shoeing enough for one day, and the rest of the party discovered, when they took the shoes off, that their insteps ached more than they had ever before done. Still they were all ready to try again the next day. Mrs Norman proved to be exactly the sort of person her husband had described her; though homely, she was entirely free from vulgarity, and as she had lived all her life in Canada, she possessed and was glad to impart a large amount of information most valuable to Mrs Ashton and Sophy. She promised to remain a week with them, to give them instruction in numerous departments of domestic management of which they were ignorant. “It’s a pleasure, ma’am, to tell you these things,” she remarked to Mrs Ashton; “you take them in so kindly, and don’t seem to fancy that your own ways are better, and that you know more than the person teaching you, as some people do.”

The winter passed by pleasantly and usefully. There were some days when even the most hardy of the party had no inclination to go out; this was when there was a strong northerly wind and an intense frost, and the finer particles of snow were carried through the air and struck the face like so many Liliputian arrows discharged by an army from that far-famed land of Liliput. There was, however, abundance of work to be done in the house, and plenty of hard exercise in sawing up logs for the stove fires. These, while the severer frost lasted, were never allowed to go out, and no one had reason to complain of the want of warmth inside the house; indeed, the walls were so thick, that they retained the heat in the way an ordinary brick or plank building could not have done. Old and young declared, that in spite of cold and snow, they had never spent a happier or pleasanter winter. Probably the happiness of the elders arose from seeing their children contented and well employed around them. There was one absent—Leonard, the midshipman. They almost wished that he would give up the sea, and come and live with them. Mr Ashton had not even suggested that he should do so, though his necessary allowance took away a large portion of the slender income on which the family had mainly to depend. His parents were amply rewarded by hearing of the high character he was gaining for himself. D’Arcy was a frequent visitor; he would have been more frequent, but duty kept him labouring at home. Occasionally Philip went over to help him in return for the assistance he gave them. The winter passed away so rapidly that they could scarcely believe that spring had really come. The snow melted, the green grass appeared, the leaves burst forth, the flowers bloomed and gave their fragrance to the air, the birds warbled forth their notes of joy, and all nature seemed alive and busy. If time passed quickly during the months of winter, it flew by still more rapidly now when there was so much to do that every moment of the twenty-four hours was fully occupied, a very small portion only being devoted to sleep; but then, as Harry declared, they all slept very fast, so that they really got as much as they required. They were all up at dawn of day, and but a short time was allowed for meals till they assembled round the supper-table by the light of their home-made candles, the most social and pleasant meal in the day, when the hard work was over and any light indoor occupation could be engaged in. Even then there was no light or frivolous conversation; constant steady work had sobered their minds, and they had no taste for what was not real and earnest. Generally Mr Ashton or Philip read some interesting book, the subject of which was afterwards talked over, while comments were generally made as they proceeded.

It is not necessary to describe the various occupations in which the family were engaged. One of the most amusing and not the least important, was the sugar-making from the neighbouring sugar-bush or maple grove, before the snow had disappeared from the ground. They were surprised at the large amount of sap which even a single tree gave forth. This being collected in wooden troughs placed under the spouts formed in the trunk, was next transferred to a huge cauldron, where it was boiled, and then turned out to cool and crystallise. They were in this way able to obtain an ample supply of sugar for their tea or coffee, for preserving fruits, and for their puddings during the year. The demand for it became considerable, when, as the summer advanced, all sorts of wild fruits were found in the woods, and strawberries and raspberries in prodigious quantities.

The Canadian spring soon merges into full-blown summer. The boat had been for some time launched, and Philip acting as captain, with Sophy and their mother as passengers, and Harry as crew, started in her to pay their visit of welcome to D’Arcy’s mother and sisters, who had just arrived at his clearing. The Ashtons were very much pleased with them. They were just what they expected D’Arcy’s relatives would be. Sophy had not been to the clearing for some time; D’Arcy invited her to accompany him over it. On one side stood a cottage almost completed. D’Arcy produced a plan. “That is what it will look like when it is finished,” he observed. “For whom is this?” asked Sophy. “For my mother and sisters,” was the answer. “Then who is to inhabit your house?” asked Sophy, though the moment she had uttered the words she wished that she had kept silence. “I shall be very miserable, if you are not its mistress,” said D’Arcy.

They were the first couple married in the new church at the settlement, mainly built by Mr Ashton’s exertions. He had hitherto, from his first arrival, conducted a service at his own house, open to all who would attend.

Mr Norman wrote to Mr Ashton to say that he would pay him a visit. “I have come on business,” he said after the usual greetings were over. “I am a patriot, and I am anxious for the improvement of the country. Your sons are excellent young men, with talent and sense. The education of the two younger is not complete, and Philip might improve his agricultural knowledge with advantage to himself as well as to the province. On these grounds I beg to invite them to take up their residence at my house at Toronto, while they take advantage of the very liberal means of instruction which that city affords. There are some important lectures on agriculture which are about to commence. Charley should go to Upper Canada College, and Harry to the University; and, my dear sir, as I have no young people depending on me, you must allow me to defray all expenses.”

Mr Ashton could not decline so generous an offer. It is possible that Harry and Charley were slightly disappointed at having to go to school again, but Philip was most thankful for the advantage offered him. D’Arcy undertook to assist Mr Ashton in his labours on the farm during Philip’s absence. The three brothers started together. Their life in Toronto was very different to what it had been in the bush—round hats, frock-coats, and Wellington boots, superseded wideawakes, shooting-jackets, and hobnailed shoes or mocassins; and their hammers, saws, and axes, were exchanged for books, while social meetings of various sorts occupied many of the evenings when there were no lectures to attend. Harry and Charley now and then sighed for the woods and their lake, but as they took long walks every day, their health in no way suffered by the change;—indeed, they could not help confessing, that however pleasant it might be to carpenter, and dig, and look after their horses and cows, and to sail and row on the lake, they had brains which might be employed to some better purpose, if those brains were properly cultivated; so they stuck manfully to their studies and made a progress which surprised even themselves. “I believe that it is the fine clear weather of this climate which helps us,” observed Harry; “I know that I feel twice as bright as I used to do in England.”

Philip found ample occupation in a variety of ways, and said that he felt as if his old college days had come back, as he sat in the study his kind friend had given him, surrounded by his books and papers. Duty had made him turn backwoodsman; his inclination would certainly have led him in a different course of life. He in time formed many agreeable acquaintances, both among the families residing in the city and the single men.

“By-the-bye, Ashton,” said one of his acquaintances, with whom he was walking home from a lecture, “I met last night, at Mrs Stewart’s, a lady of your name, a very pretty and agreeable girl, though rather grave perhaps. She has only just arrived with a family of the name of Mason, who have come out to settle. There are a number of young Masons, and she was spoken of as the governess, but from the way she was treated she is rather a companion friend of Mrs Mason’s, I should think.”

“I know of no relation of ours likely to come out here,” said Philip, at the same time a very curious sensation circling round his heart. “Did you hear her Christian name?”

“No; they only called her Miss Ashton,” said his friend. “She sang, and very sweetly.”

“What is she like?” asked Philip.

His friend began to suspect that he was interested in the stranger, and he replied, “I told you that she is pretty, with clear eyes, a fine forehead, and regular features, and rather short than tall, I should say. A good figure, certainly, and a bright complexion; no, not always,—it brightened up, I remember, when she was speaking; and her hair, that was not light,—was it black or brown?—yes, I am certain, a rich brown. There, I have given you the fair stranger’s portrait to the best of my power.”

“Very extraordinary. Where do the Masons live?” asked Philip.

“I will ask Mrs Stewart, and get you introduced to them,” said his friend. “You will not find them where there are balls or common gaieties going on, I suspect.”

“That makes it still more probable,” thought Philip. He made very few notes that evening of the lecture he had attended.

There was to be a private missionary meeting at Mrs Stewart’s house, and Philip and his brother received an invitation. There were many of his Toronto acquaintances in the room, the rest were strangers. He looked round the different rooms in vain for Mary Ashton, for she it was, once his affianced wife, whom he expected to meet. Two young ladies answered somewhat the description his friend had given him, still he did not like to ask if a Miss Ashton was present, lest his hopes should be rudely dashed to the ground. The speakers had not arrived, and people were moving about from room to room. He tried to compose his feelings by talking to his acquaintance on the subject of the mission about to be advocated. While he was talking Harry came to him, and, touching his elbow, said, “Phil, I have just been introduced to a very nice person, who, curious enough, has our name. I do not know if she knew mine, but I saw her afterwards watching me round the room, and I want you to find out who she can be. She may be a cousin of the fiftieth degree, perhaps, and I should like to find some relations out here.”

Philip did not stop to hear more, but hurrying into the room his brother mentioned, he satisfied himself that Mary Ashton was really there. She discovered him. He advanced, and saw by the pleased expression of her countenance that he might venture to take a seat by her side. Explanation quickly followed. He told her how he had come out to Canada, and how successful he and his family had been in establishing a home for themselves in the wilderness.

“I have a very different tale to tell,” she said with a sigh, and her countenance grew sad. “My home is broken up. The wealth my poor father so suddenly acquired has been dissipated and lost. Without the necessary experience for business, or, perhaps, I should say wanting the calculating craft of the successful speculator, he suffered himself to be involved in transactions of an extensive nature, which he was led to believe would double his wealth. They proved to be the fraudulent schemes of sharpers, planned for their own profit and my father’s ruin. It was in vain that he was warned of their designs—he was infatuated, and would listen to no counsel but that of his treacherous betrayers, who plunged him deeper and deeper into obligations and liabilities, which, in the end, engulphed the whole of his large fortune. He had even to fly the country to escape a prison, and is at this moment in hiding from his creditors until his affairs can be arranged. Everything had to be given up. My mother’s small portion is barely sufficient to maintain her and my sisters; my brothers, ill-prepared for the lot that is before them, are abroad in the world, making their way as they best can; as for myself, not choosing to add to my mother’s burdens, I have accepted the post in Mrs Mason’s family which I now occupy. She is an old and well-tried friend, who has known me from my infancy, and both she and her children regard me as one of themselves. They urged me to accompany them in their removal to Canada, and cast in my lot with theirs. What better could I do? Of my own family, not one advised my remaining in England. I accepted my dear friend’s offer—and thus it has come to pass that we meet once more.”

Whether Philip and Mary Ashton understood all the interesting addresses given on that occasion may be doubted.

“I say, Harry,” cried Charley, some days after this, “I am so glad that Phil is going to be married. That Mary is a nice girl, and she will make some amends for Sophy having gone away. Not that she is likely to be up to her—I should like to see the girl who could be.”

A short time after the family were reunited at Ashton Clearing, to which Philip had brought his wife, Charley acknowledged that if not superior she was fully equal to Sophy. Harry had made up his mind that no employment was superior to that of a settler; and, anxious to resume it, he studied very hard while at college, and took a most creditable degree. The farm had now grown into a very pretty little estate, to which the name of Ashton was universally given. Cottages had been erected on the property, and had been eagerly taken by new comers. Saw and grist-mills had been built in the neighbourhood, and many other houses and cottages. Harry had, with his father’s assistance, purchased a good-sized farm near Ashton, and had secured another for Charley, so that they might be near their father to render him the assistance he required.

His family had long known what had been Philip’s secret wish. They now unanimously assured him that he might properly follow it, and entreated him to do so. It was to enter the ministry. A church was required at Ashton—the funds were forthcoming—before it was completed Philip was ordained and became its minister. Few rejoiced as much as his devoted wife at seeing his talents employed in the noblest cause in which a human being can engage.

There was one cloud in Mary Ashton’s otherwise serene life—not one of her family wrote to her, and she could hear nothing about them. Mr and Mrs Ashton had their hearts gladdened with a visit from their sailor son Leonard, now a lieutenant, his ship having come to Quebec. From him Philip first heard of the fate of any of the John Ashtons. “I was surprised,” said Leonard, “to hear among a batch of lads just joined, the name of Thomas Ashton. He was not a prepossessing youth, but as he had evidently had a better education than the generality of those who enter the service, he had a fair prospect of doing well if he behaved properly. He did not though, and was constantly in scrapes, drunk, and disorderly. He was under confinement for such offences, when he caught the fever in the West Indies. The surgeon came one day and said that he was very ill and wished to see me. I of course went to the lad, who then told me that he knew who I was—that he was the son of John Ashton who got our property. It was dreadful to hear him speak of his father who had cheated us he declared, and cheated all his family, and every body else. He seemed to consider that he had a claim on me in consequence of our relationship. I did all I could for him by procuring him better attendance than he would otherwise have had, and by shifting him into comfortable quarters where he would get the benefit of pure air. He soon began to mend, and then I took the liberty of reading him some serious lectures as to his past conduct and scandalous mode of life. He took my reproof in good part; and you will be pleased to hear that when he was at length restored to health, he became quite a new man—scrupulously faithful in discharge of his duty, sober to abstinence, and cheerfully obedient to orders. He has had a narrow escape from death, and is, I trust, thankful to God that he was not cut off suddenly in his mad career. He is grateful to me for the service I rendered him—says, indeed, that I saved his life; I shall take advantage of that feeling to keep him right, if I can. I have trusted him with some responsibility during my absence, and if, on my return, I find he has done well, that will afford me a pretext for helping him forward, which it would give me real pleasure to do.”

Philip had little doubt but that his father and he had been deprived of their property by unfair means, though he never even breathed such an idea to his wife. He is, however, able to assure her, with all sincerity, that he does not regret its loss, and that he is convinced that his father is happier with his children collected around him and all actively employed, than he would have been had he retained his wealth and lived on in the world of fashion.

Two of Mary’s brothers found their way almost in rags to Ashton, having in vain endeavoured to find employment in England. They expressed themselves ready to work, and Harry and Charley afforded them some practical lessons, which enabled them to begin with advantage. At first they complained that their limbs ached terribly; but in a short time they had to confess that food honestly gained by hard labour, was far pleasanter than the bread of idleness. They persevered, and in the course of a few years were able to purchase land for themselves. They are now hard at work clearing it, and bid fair to become useful members of society.

Philip Ashton’s sons will, undoubtedly, secure an independence; and will, probably, from their known integrity and energy, be employed in some of the more important offices of the State. Indeed, they all look back with pleasure to the day when they took up their abode in “The Log House by the Lake.”

The End.

W.H.G. Kingston

"The Loss of the Royal George"

Chapter One.

My father, Richard Truscott, was boatswain of the Royal George, one of the finest ships in the navy. I lived with mother and several brothers and sisters at Gosport.

Father one day said to me, “Ben, you shall come with me, and we’ll make a sailor of you. Maybe you’ll some day walk the quarter-deck as an officer.”

I did not want to go to sea, and I did not care about being an officer; indeed I had never thought about the matter, but I had no choice in it. I was but a very little chap, and liked playing at marbles, or “chuck penny,” in our backyard, better than anything else.

“He is too small yet to be a sailor,” said mother.

“He is big enough to be a powder-monkey,” observed my father; and as he was not a man who chose to be contradicted, he the next day took me aboard his ship, then fitting out in Portsmouth harbour, to carry the flag of Admiral Sir Edward Hawke. She was indeed a proud ship, with the tautest masts and the squarest yards of any ship in the British navy. She carried one hundred and four guns, all of brass—forty-two pounders on the lower-deck; thirty-two on the middle deck; and twenty-four pounders on the quarter-deck, forecastle, poop, and main-deck. She had huge lanterns at her poop, into which four or five of us boys could stow ourselves away; and from the time she was first launched, in 1756, the flag of some great admiral always floated from the masthead. When my father left me, to attend to his duty, I thought I should have been lost in the big ship, with deck above deck, and guns all alike one another on either side; and hundreds of men bawling and shouting, and rushing about here and there and everywhere. Sitting down on a chest, outside his cabin,—my legs were not long enough to reach the deck,—I had a good cry; and a number of boys, some of them not much bigger than myself, came and had a look at me, but they did not jeer, or play me any tricks, for they had found out that I was the bo’sun’s son, and that they had better not. I soon, however, recovered, and learned to find my way, not only from one deck to another, but up aloft; and before many days were over, had been up to the main-truck; though when my father heard of it, for he was below at the time, he told me not to go again till I was bigger. As I was continually, from ignorance, getting into scrapes, and he could not keep an eye on me himself, he gave me in charge to Jerry Dix, the one-legged fiddler and cook’s mate. Jerry could take very good care of me, but was less able to take care of himself when he had got his grog aboard, and more than once when this happened I had to watch over him. This made us firm friends, and I am very sure that he had a sincere affection for me.

England was now engaged in what was known as the Seven Years’ War, which began in 1756, and had been going on for three years, the ships of England fighting those of France whenever they could find them, and generally giving them a drubbing. Our ship, which carried, as I have said, the flag of Admiral Sir Edward Hawke, had, with several other line-of-battle ships, been for some time watching the French fleet, under Admiral Conflans, shut up in Brest harbour, when, a heavy gale coming on, we were obliged to put into Torbay for shelter. We remained there for some time, while it blew great guns and small arms, which Jerry told me would keep the French ships shut up in harbour as securely as would our cannon. At length the weather moderated, and our admiral made the signal for the fleet to sail. It was a fine sight to see twenty-four line-of-battle ships, beside the Royal George, mostly seventy-four’s, some larger and some smaller, getting under way together, and standing over to the enemy’s coast. We were a few hours later than we should have been, however, for on our arrival we heard that Admiral Conflans had just before slipped out of Brest harbour, and sailed away for Quiberon Bay, hoping to cut off a small English squadron under Commodore Duff at anchor there.

We made all sail in chase, but a strong south-easterly wind blew in their teeth, and it was four days before we arrived off Belle Isle, when we were joined by Commodore Duff, with four fifty-gun ships and six frigates. Early in the morning, the Maidstone, one of our look-out frigates, made the signal that the enemy’s fleet was in sight! We, on this, threw out the signal for our ships to form in line, while the frigate was sent inshore to ascertain how far we were from it. You will understand that the fog prevented us from seeing the land or the enemy, and from the same cause it was no easy matter, as we all sailed close together, to prevent one ship from running into another.

We had not long to wait, however, before, the fog lifting, we caught sight of the French fleet, crowding all sail to get away from us, for their frigates had found out our fleet, while ours had discovered theirs. We made all sail in chase, both the enemy’s ships and ours having every stitch of canvas they could carry. In about three hours the van of our fleet got up with them.

I remember standing by my father’s side, in the forecastle, and thinking what a grand sight it was, as the Warspite and Dorchester gallantly commenced firing their broadsides into the enemy. The next ship that got into action was the Magnanime, commanded by the brave Lord Howe, followed quickly by the Revenge, Torbay, Montagu, and many others whose names are known to fame. There was a heavy sea running at the time, and, big as were our ships, they kept tumbling about so much that we were unable to fight our lower-deck guns. The captain of one of the French ships, the Thesée, engaged with the Torbay, thought that he could do so; and Captain Keppel, who commanded the English seventy-four, unwisely followed his example. The two ships were thus hotly engaged, firing their broadsides into each other, when we saw the Frenchman give a lurch to starboard, and then down she went; out of all her gallant crew of eight hundred men, only twenty being saved by the British boats. The Torbay was very nearly following her, but by great exertions the guns were run in, and the ports closed, though not till she had shipped a good deal of water. Directly afterwards another Frenchman sank before our eyes, as we guessed, from the same cause.

I can’t say that I saw much more of what took place, for we were now going into action, and I was sent below to attend to my duty, which was to bring up ammunition in a tub, and to sit upon it on the main-deck, with the other ship’s boys, till it was wanted to load the guns. We were soon thundering away at the enemy, clouds of smoke filling the space between the decks, through which I could dimly see the crews of the guns, stripped to the waist, running them in to load, and running them out again as rapidly as they could. Shouts from the upper deck reached us, and we heard that one of the French ships had struck, but so heavy a sea was running, that no boat could be lowered to take possession of her; several others were also severely handled, and one completely dismasted. Night was coming on; and as we were but a short distance from the shore, the admiral made a signal for the fleet to anchor, and we, rounding-to, brought up. There we lay, the wind roaring and the sea foaming and tossing around us, anxiously waiting for daylight. I had not seen my father, who was, as I supposed, at his station on the upper deck, when the order came to secure the guns. I was still sitting on my tub joking with the other boys, who were congratulating themselves at not being killed, when Jerry Dix came stumping along the deck towards me; he took my hand kindly, and I thought I saw him wipe away a tear from his eye.

“What is the matter, Jerry?” I asked, seeing that something was wrong.

“Ben, my boy, he that’s gone told me to look after you, and so I will as long as I have a shot in the looker. You don’t hear his pipe, do you? and you never will no more. There’s the order to return powder to the magazine—as soon as you come up again, look out for me.”

The other boys and I hurried below to the magazine with our tubs; as soon as I came up I looked out for Jerry.

“What were you talking about?” I asked, having a feeling that something had happened to my father, though I scarcely dared to ask what.

“As I was saying, Ben, you have a friend in me if you have no other,” said Jerry, again taking my hand. “You will grieve, my boy, I know, but it can’t be helped; so I must out with it. We have not lost many men, but one has gone who was worth a dozen of the best; the Frenchman’s round shot coming aboard took off his head, and deprived you of your father and us of our bo’sun.”

“Do you mean to say that father’s killed?” I asked in a trembling voice, unable to believe the fact.

“Yes, boy, he has sounded his last pipe; we shall no more hear his voice rousing up all hands, or hailing the maintop; but he died doing his duty. We could have better spared a worse man, but there is no help for it and so, Ben, don’t pipe your eye.”

Notwithstanding Jerry’s exhortations, I did, however, cry heartily as I lay in my hammock; and even the other boys respected my sorrow, though it did not last long, I must confess.

The next day was an exciting one. As the morning broke, we saw our prize on shore, and another French ship at anchor dismasted; she, on seeing us, also ran on shore; when the Essex, a sixty-four, being sent in to take possession of her, was also wrecked; while another ship, the Resolution, seventy-four, was discovered on the rocks, the sea beating over her; and, before assistance could be sent, most of her gallant crew had perished. We succeeded, however, in burning the two French ships; but others, which were almost falling into our hands, by heaving their guns overboard, managed to escape up the river, where we could not follow.

“Although we have gained the victory, I do not see that we have gained much else for our trouble,” observed Jerry, who was a philosopher in his way. “We have, you see, destroyed four French ships, and sent well-nigh two thousand Frenchmen, more or less, out of the world, but then we have lost two of our own ships and some hundred British seamen; and, worse than all, our brave bo’sun, your father.”

The loss of my father was not to be repaired. I cannot say what might have happened had he lived, but losing him I grew up from boy to man, knocking about the world with many a chance of being knocked on the head, and yet with not the slightest hope of ever treading the quarter-deck as an officer—not that I ever thought about that. Jerry proved my firm friend. Though fond of his grog, for my sake he kept sober, that he might better look after me.

“Your father, Ben, lent me a helping hand when I had not a shot in the locker and was well-nigh starving, and it’s my duty to help you; and so I will, boy, as long as I can keep my fiddle-stick moving, and get a crust to put into my mouth.”

Jerry did me an essential service, for having seen better days he had got some learning, which was more than most men in the ship possessed, and he taught me to read and write, of which I knew nothing when I came to sea. Even my father, though boatswain of a line-of-battle ship, had not been much of a scholar. However, I am not now going to write about myself or my own adventures. When the ship was paid off, as my poor mother could not support me, and I had no fancy for any other calling, I went to sea again with Jerry, who got the rating of cook’s mate on board the Thunderer, seventy-four.

I was now a stout lad, and could stand to my gun or handle a cutlass as well as any man. We were stationed off Cadiz, with three other smaller vessels, looking out for a French squadron expected to sail for that port. Being driven off the coast by bad weather, on our return we found that the Frenchmen had slipped out, so away we went under all the canvas we could set in pursuit. We had come in sight of the Achille, a sixty-four gun ship, and, soon getting up with her, we opened our broadside, receiving a pretty hot fire from her in return. We were blazing away at each other, when a noise louder than all our guns together sounded in my ears, and I felt myself lifted off my legs and shot along the deck. For the moment I thought the world had come to an end, or that the ship had blown up. On opening my eyes, I caught sight of a number of dead and wounded men lying around me, and the after-part of the ship in flames. Among them, seeing Jerry, I picked myself up and ran to him.

“Are you killed, Jerry?” I asked.

“No, it’s only my wooden leg knocked away,” he answered. “Just get me a mop-stick, or bit of a broken pike, and I shall soon be on my pins again.”

Jerry having soon, spliced a piece of the mop-stick which I brought him to the stump of his leg, I set him on his pins. Meantime I found that one of the quarter-deck guns, having burst had created the havoc I have described and set the ship on fire. All hands labouring away with buckets, we got the flames extinguished, and stood after the enemy, who was trying to escape. We again, however, came up with her; and running alongside, the boarders were called away, headed by our first lieutenant, Mr Leslie, whom I followed closely. We had sprung on the deck of the enemy, and a big Frenchman was about to cut him down, when I caught the blow on my cutlass, and saved his life. One hundred and fifty gallant fellows coming on board after us, we quickly swept the Frenchmen from the deck, and they, crying out that they surrendered, we hauled down their flag. I did not think that Mr Leslie was aware of the service I had rendered him till he thanked me for it, and ever afterwards was my friend. I had the good chance, also, some time afterwards, of keeping his head above water, when our ship, the Laurel, was capsized in a hurricane in the West Indies; and though, of course, it was what I would have done for anyone, I was very thankful to have been the means of again saving his life, though I ran, he always declared, no little risk of losing my own. I served with him when he commanded the Favourite, sloop-of-war, and afterwards in the Active, frigate, when we captured a Spanish galleon, which put some hundred pounds into the pockets of each of the men, and a good many thousands into those of the captain. I was pretty fortunate on board other ships, in which I sailed to different parts of the world, getting back to old England safe at last.

Chapter Two.

Getting back safe home at last, like many another sailor, I might have sung—

“’Twas in the good ship Rover