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BASKERVILLE'S EYES FOLLOWED THE COURSE OF THE SEAHORSE

THE ROCK OF THE LION

BY

MOLLY ELLIOT SEAWELL

AUTHOR OF

"A VIRGINIA CAVALIER" "LITTLE JARVIS" "PAUL JONES"
"THE SPRIGHTLY ROMANCE OF MARSAC"
"CHILDREN OF DESTINY" ETC.

ILLUSTRATED

BY A. I. KELLER

NEW YORK AND LONDON

HARPER & BROTHERS PUBLISHERS

Copyright, 1897, by Harper & Brothers.

——

PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

AT GIBRALTAR.

England, I stand on thy imperial ground,

Not all a stranger; as thy bugles blow,

I feel within my blood old battles flow—

The blood whose ancient founts in thee are found.

Still surging dark against the Christian bound

Wide Islam presses; well its peoples know

Thy heights that watch them wandering below;

I think how Lucknow heard their gathering sound.

I turn and meet the cruel, turbaned face.

England, 'tis sweet to be so much thy son!

I feel the conqueror in my blood and race;

Last night Trafalgar awed me, and to-day

Gibraltar wakened; hark, thy evening gun

Startles the desert over Africa!

—George E. Woodberry.

CONTENTS

PREFACE

The Rock of the Lion is not a history of the siege of Gibraltar, although the story of that immortal siege of 1779-83 has been closely studied and followed in preparing this book for young readers. The writer has used the romancer's just and inalienable right to introduce real persons and events whenever it would be of service to the story. Only one liberty has been taken with chronology; it refers to Paul Jones, and is unimportant in character.

Molly Elliot Seawell.

ILLUSTRATIONS

THE ROCK OF THE LION

THE ROCK OF THE LION

CHAPTER I

The sun, a great orb of glory, hung low in the west, lighting up the sea and sky with a blaze of splendor. Long lances of rosy flame shot across the blue Mediterranean, even to the horizon, which was the color of pearls and opals. Afar off, in the dim distance, the Rock of Gibraltar, a huge, mysterious shadow, like a couchant lion, seemed to keep watch over sea and land. Vast and majestic, looming large in the clear obscure of evening, it dwarfed everything less great than itself into nothingness, except one—a magnificent ship of the line, the Thunderer, which swept along under a mountain of canvas. The ensign of England, which flew from her peak, seemed to kiss the skies, while the long pennant, signifying "homeward bound," that flew from the giant main-mast, touched the sapphire sea. A hundred and twenty guns armed her mighty hull, and she carried a thousand men to fight them. The rush of the wind through her tremendous rigging was like the roar of a cataract, and as she cleft the seas they bellowed under her bows with a reverberation like thunder.

The crimson and gold rim of the sun still flamed angrily above the horizon, but the pearl and opal and ruby sky changed suddenly to a coppery red, streaked with green, and the wind rose steadily. Approaching the mighty battleship, on the opposite tack, was seen a small frigate, as perfect in her dainty way as the leviathan that was bearing down upon her. She, too, wore the colors of England. As soon as she got fairly within sight a signal-flag was broken out from her foretruck. In answer to it the ship of the line threw her maintop-sail aback and hove to. The frigate did likewise, and a cutter dropped into the water from her side. A midshipman and twelve men were in the boat, and another person—a lad of about sixteen, wearing a naval uniform, but different from the uniform of the midshipman. The boat was rapidly pulled across the blue water, now ruffled by the breeze, and soon lay rocking and tumbling like a cork under the huge hull of the ship of the line. The two lads rose and grasped each other's hand. They said nothing, being Anglo-Saxons, but their looks were eloquent, and in the eyes of both there were tears. The midshipman said a word to the men, and they brought the boat alongside, just under the main-chains. The younger one, taking off his cap, nodded to the men in the boat, and, without waiting for the Jacob's-ladder which was about to be thrown over the side, made a spring like a cat and landed in the chain-plates. The men, ever pleased with a show of daring and dexterity, raised a cheer, in which some of the sailors hanging over the Thunderer's rail joined. The young fellow turned and waved his cap again, and then disappeared through the nearest porthole, a sailor throwing a small bundle after him. Almost before he had seized the chain-plates the maintop-sail yard had swung round, and the great ship was again bounding over the sea.

The boy threaded, with amazing swiftness, the gangways and ladders of the Thunderer, and soon found himself on the quarter-deck. An officer in an admiral's uniform stood alone on the poop, watching the boat as it disappeared rapidly in the distance, while the captain on the bridge looked anxiously towards the northwest, where clouds were gathering angrily.

The boy walked up to the Admiral, and, making a low bow, cap in hand, said, "This, I believe, is Admiral Kempenfelt."

"Yes, sir," answered the Admiral.

"I have the honor to report to you, sir. I am Midshipman Baskerville, late of the Continental ship Bon Homme Richard, and afterwards in the Serapis. I was captured at the Texel, and am on my parole. This letter from Captain Lockyer, of the Seahorse, explains everything."

Admiral Kempenfelt took the letter which the little midshipman handed him, and read:

"Dear Sir,—This will be handed you by Midshipman Baskerville, a young rebel lately in revolt against his Majesty, and lately acting midshipman with that traitor and pirate, Paul Jones. After Jones reached the Texel in the Serapis, we kept, you may be sure, a close watch upon him, and the Seahorse, with eleven other ships of the line and frigates, cruised outside waiting for him. But will you believe, my dear Admiral, that this little midshipman is all the game we have bagged so far; and he was caught by his own imprudence in going off on a fishing excursion, when a boat's crew of the Seahorse nabbed him just as he got ashore? I received orders to the Mediterranean, and so hand this youngster over to you to take to England. He is the grandson and heir of your eccentric friend Lord Bellingham, of Bellingham Castle, Yorkshire. His father quarrelled with his grandfather, went to North America, and turned red-hot rebel. This boy, being left an orphan, was seduced by Jones to join him, although he swears he begged Jones to take him, and would follow Jones all over the world and beyond. You see, my dear sir, that it would be a very good thing if we could bring this youth to a sense of his duty to the King; and as he is a lad of parts and spirit, I would be glad to see him in his grandfather's good graces. I intended to send him to England on his parole at the first opportunity; but blast me if I have met a ship going home since I took him aboard in October until now. I venture to hand him over to you, having given him orders to report at once to his grandfather when you land. This has been an infernal cruise, and if we have ten shillings apiece prize-money, it will be more than I expect. With best wishes, believe me, my dear sir,

"Your very sincere friend and obedient servant,
"Ralph Lockyer."

While the reading of this letter was going on, Archy Baskerville stood in an easy but respectful attitude. There were a number of officers on deck who looked at him curiously, but he seemed to see no one. His eyes followed the course of the Seahorse, now growing rapidly smaller and fainter in the fading light, and again they filled with tears. He had been a prisoner, it is true, on board of her, but a prisoner kindly treated; and he had one friend—Langton, the midshipman, who had brought the boat to the Thunderer—whom he dearly loved. Should they ever meet again? He was roused from his reverie by Admiral Kempenfelt saying to him:

"Do you know the contents of this letter, sir?"

"No, sir."

"I find you are the grandson of my old friend Lord Bellingham—his heir, so Captain Lockyer writes me."

Something like a grin appeared on Archy's handsome face.

"Hardly, sir. My father joined with my grandfather in cutting the entail, and I cannot get the estates; and I cannot use the title, as I am an American citizen."

"A what?" snapped Admiral Kempenfelt.

Now, this young gentleman, Archy Baskerville, had a reprehensible quality very common in youth. He liked to be as exasperating as he dared, and having devoted most of his time on the Seahorse to finding out how far he could presume on his position as a prisoner of war, he only smiled sweetly up into the Admiral's face and repeated, blandly:

"A citizen of the United States, sir."

The Admiral glared at him for a moment, and then, his countenance softening, he put his hand kindly on Archy's shoulder, saying, as if he were addressing a ten-year-old boy:

"Come, come, my lad; let us have no more of that. You are young; you are misguided; you have a splendid destiny before you in England, and the vagaries of a mere lad like you, exposed to the seductions of a plausible fellow like that pirate Jones, will be easily overlooked if you return to your allegiance to your King and country."

During this speech a deep red had overspread Archy's countenance, but his quick wits had not deserted him.

"Sir," he said, straightening up his boyish figure, "a prisoner of war is subject to many temptations to betray his cause; but I did not think that Admiral Kempenfelt would suggest that I should turn traitor, and, what is harder to bear, should insult my late commander, Commodore Paul Jones, when I am not in a position to resent it."

If Archy had turned red the Admiral turned scarlet. His eyes and his teeth snapped at the same time, and, wheeling round, he abruptly walked to the end of the poop and back again, his heels hitting the deck hard and his hands twitching behind his back. The officers standing within hearing had difficulty in keeping their countenances, but Archy, smooth and unruffled, was like a May morning. The Admiral again turned and came back towards him. The notion of that youngster giving himself the airs of a post-captain! thought the Admiral. The masthead was the only place for him, and yet the brat was sharp enough to know all he was entitled to as a prisoner of war and to claim it.

The Admiral made two more turns; then he came up close to Archy, and with the gleam of a smile said:

"May I have the pleasure of your company in my cabin at supper to-night, Mr. What's-your-name?"

"With pleasure, sir," replied Archy, promptly, "provided, of course, that you make no efforts to corrupt my loyalty, and say nothing disrespectful of my late commander."

Had the great main-mast tumbled over the side at that moment, the Admiral could not have been more amazed. He opened his mouth to speak, and was too astounded to shut it. He looked at Archy carefully from the crown of his curly head to the soles of his well-shaped feet—for the boy was elegantly made and bright-faced and handsome beyond the common. Archy bore the scrutiny without flinching. As for the officers, who were on-lookers, a universal grin went round, and one midshipman giggled outright.

Suddenly there was a sharp order and a rush of feet along the deck. The light had died out as if by magic; sea and sky turned black, except a corner on the northwest horizon, where an ominous pale-green light played upon fast-gathering clouds, and the wind rose with a shriek. The men swarmed up the rigging to take in sail, and they were not a moment too soon. Every person on deck immediately found something to do except Admiral Kempenfelt and Archy Baskerville. The Admiral walked up and down, glancing coolly around, but making no suggestions. Archy leaned against the swifter of the mizzen-rigging, and his keen young eyes caught the last glimpse of the Seahorse as she disappeared—a mere speck in the darkness. The inky clouds came down like a curtain upon the lion-like Rock, and the air itself seemed to turn black. And then came the storm.

The Thunderer, under storm canvas, did battle with the tempest for two days and nights. Driven by mighty blasts, she staggered upon her course, descending into gulfs and then rising mountain high until it seemed as if her tall masts would meet the low-hanging pall of clouds. Her guns broke loose, and on all three of her decks these huge masses of brass and iron were pitched about to the danger of life and limb. Her stout masts and spars bent like whips. Violent gusts of rain came with the scream of the tempest. Her men, drenched to the bone, nearly swept off their feet by the great hissing and roaring masses of water that fell upon the deck, knocked over, slipping up, falling down hatchways, sleepless and hungry, suffered all the dangers and miseries of one of the most frightful storms of the century; yet they never lost heart. The officers, from the captain down to the smallest midshipman, were cool, and apparently confident that the Thunderer could weather the storm; and as in the beginning, so to the end, there were but two persons on the ship who did nothing—Admiral Kempenfelt and the little American prisoner of war, Archy Baskerville; and in coolness and apparent indifference it is hard to tell which excelled—the seasoned Admiral or the young midshipman.

Neither the boy's spirit, nor even his sly impertinence, had injured him in Admiral Kempenfelt's opinion, and Archy's courage during those terrible two days was not overlooked. The Admiral felt an interest in the boy, from his long acquaintance with Lord Bellingham, and he thought it a pity that the heir to a great title and noble estates should throw them away by what the Admiral considered rank rebellion; but it was Archy's own fearless spirit that won him the Admiral's respect. On that first dreadful night there was no pretence of serving supper; but, to the Admiral's mingled disgust and amusement, at seven o'clock Archy tumbled into the great cabin, where he found the Admiral seated with a soup-tureen between his knees, out of which he was ladling pea-soup into his mouth with great good-will, but indifferent success.

"Ah, here you are, Mr. Baskerville," called out the Admiral, who knew what a midshipman's appetite was, and supposed that Archy had shrewdly calculated on a good supper. "Sorry I can't order my steward to help you; but in that last lurch the ship gave he was pitched head-foremost over the table, and knocked out three teeth and blacked his eye—so he is now under the surgeon's care. But if you will kindly help yourself to that bowl— Oh, Jupiter!"

The Thunderer nearly went on her beam-ends, and so did the tureen. Archy, showing a very good pair of sea-legs, secured the bowl from a mass of broken crockery in the locker, and, presenting it, the Admiral filled it with pea-soup, only spilling about half.

"Excuse me, sir," said Archy, and plumped down flat on the floor, where, with the greatest dexterity, he conveyed all the soup in the bowl to his mouth.

"Any casualties on deck since I left?" asked the Admiral.

"No, sir. The fact is"—here the ship righted herself with a suddenness that threw Archy's heels almost into the Admiral's face—"I don't think it much of a blow."

The Admiral stopped his ladling for a moment and looked the boy in the eye very hard.

Archy felt emboldened to indulge in a little more boyish braggadocio, and remarked, airily:

"That is, there's nothing alarming in the blow, sir. It was blowing harder than this when we made the Texel in the Serapis."

"Young man," answered the Admiral, "you never saw it blow as hard as this in your life, and you never may again."

Archy, somewhat abashed, said nothing, and had the grace to blush; but spying a loaf of bread rolling under the transom, he crawled after it, secured it, and handed it to the Admiral.

"Informal, but very welcome," was the Admiral's remark as he divided the loaf and gave Archy half. "As long as this keeps up, Mr. Baskerville, you may as well accept the hospitality of my cabin, such as it is. I hardly suppose any one has thought of slinging you a hammock, and you couldn't stay in it if you had it; but there is the floor, and here is a pillow."

"Thank you, sir," said Archy.

"Have you ever seen your grandfather, Lord Bellingham?"

"No, sir."

The Admiral gave a short laugh.

"I should like to see your meeting."

Something in the Admiral's kind face gave encouragement to Archy, and he replied, "I hope he will receive me kindly, but I ask no favors of him. As a prisoner of war, I am sure to be taken care of, since Commodore Jones has obtained for us sea-officers the rights of prisoners of war, such as the land officers have had all the time. Is my grandfather very—very—dreadful?"

"He is a man of sense and honor, but he is very eccentric. I have known him for forty years. Excuse me now, Mr. Baskerville, I am going on deck. I need not ask you to make yourself at home." The Admiral smiled at this—he thought Archy needed very slight invitation to do that.

All night the tempest raged. At midnight, when it was at its worst, the Admiral came below for a moment. There were no lights, but by striking his flint he saw a lithe, boyish figure on the floor, cunningly lashed to the transom, as was the pillow, and Archy was sleeping like a baby.

"The little beggar is no coward," thought the Admiral, a smile lighting up his face.

Next day and next night it was the same. The Admiral noticed many things in that mortal struggle of the great ship with all the powers of destruction, and among them were the different kinds and degrees of courage displayed by the officers and men. Not one showed fear, although each was conscious of the immediate and awful danger, but some bore the strain better than others. There was not one who stood it more calmly, more debonairly, than the little American midshipman.

At sunrise on the third day, when the storm passed off to the eastward, they found themselves near a rocky headland that jutted out into the sea. The sun shone brightly, but the sea was still angry, and as far as the eye could reach was wreckage. One glance on the rocks showed them the wreck of the Seahorse. Her masts and spars were gone, and the hulk rose and fell helplessly with the violence of the waves. Archy was leaning sadly over the rail when he saw an object floating nearer that he recognized, with a sickening dread, as that of a man's body. It was swept shoreward under the very lee of the Thunderer. As it shot past, Archy uttered a cry. The morning light had revealed the pale face of his best friend Langton. Another cry went up from the men on the Thunderer's deck as they watched the ghastly sight. But at that very moment they had all they could do to claw off the land and save the Thunderer from the fate of the Seahorse. It was some days before the wind permitted them to return to the scene of the wreck, and they found not a vestige of the gallant ship or her brave company.

CHAPTER II

The Comet coach, from London to York, left the Angel Inn, on the borders of Yorkshire, at three o'clock in the November afternoon, on the last stage of the journey.

It was bitterly cold, and the low-hanging clouds held snow. Inside the tavern parlor the passengers hugged the fire and looked dismally out of the small-paned windows on the court-yard at the coach, to which the horses were being put, while the coachman, taking his last nip from a pewter pot at the kitchen window, chaffed the bar-maid and playfully flecked his whip at the postilion busy with the horses near by.

Among the passengers lingering around the fire was Archy Baskerville. He still wore his uniform, which had grown excessively shabby; but he was not without money. He had engaged the box-seat, and had paid for it in a lordly manner, showing, meanwhile, with boyish vanity and imprudence, a handsome rouleau of gold. He had a very handsome new cloak of dark-blue camlet, elegantly lined, and with a fur collar; and his seedy knee-breeches were ornamented with a costly pair of buckles.

The singular contrast in his dress could not fail to excite remark. An individual known as a bagman began to chaff him, while the other passengers listened and smiled.

"Wot's the matter with your clothes, young man? Did you kill a French captain in that 'ere suit—as you won't change it?"

Archy disdained to reply to this, and, wrapping his handsome cloak around him, produced a pair of pistols—not the great horse-pistols of the day, but of the kind used by officers; then he tightened the belt of the sword he wore, according to the custom in those days—all with an air of nonchalance that would have suited a man of twice his age.

A pert young woman in a hat and feathers, and travelling alone, then began:

"La, me! Have we got to travel in company with them pistols? Sure, they'll go off, little boy, and then we'll all be weltering in our blood."

A flush of anger rose to Archy's cheek at this, but he wisely held his peace. His eye fell, however, upon a gentleman on the opposite side of the fireplace, who was wrapped in a cloak much larger and heavier than Archy's, and who, like him, was examining the flints of a pair of pistols—and the gentleman also wore a military sword. He was tall and thin, and had the carriage of a soldier. His face was sallow, and far from handsome, but his eyes were full of kindness and intelligence, and as they met Archy's a subtle sympathy was established between them. Archy guessed, shrewdly, that the military gentleman was an Indian officer.

The bagman soon returned to the charge.

"Where's the footman as has charge o' you?" he asked.

"I had not thought of engaging a footman," responded Archy, coolly; "but if you are looking for a place, perhaps I might take you. What sort of a character can you get from your last master?"

A roar of laughter, in which the officer joined to the extent of a smile, greeted this, and the young woman called out:

"Bless 'is 'art! I knew he must 'ave a good 'art under that 'andsome cloak!"

The blowing of a bugle by the guard at the door broke up the conversation. The discomfited bagman made first for the coach, and the young woman with the hat and feathers bolted after him. A sweet-faced, elderly Quakeress and a handsome young Oxford student followed. Archy came next, and the officer held back a moment to speak to him.

"I observe, sir," he said, politely, "you wear a blue naval uniform, but it is unlike that of our service—at least, any that I have seen, but I have been long absent from England."

"This is an American uniform, sir," responded Archy, politely. "I am a prisoner of war on my parole and entitled to wear it. I served with Commodore Jones on the Bon Homme Richard, and was captured through my own imprudence when we made the Texel on our return from the cruise in which we captured the Serapis."

At this a slight but marked change came over the officer, and after a moment he said, coldly:

"You will pardon me for saying there is very great imprudence, and even danger, in your wearing that uniform in England."

"Perhaps so," replied Archy, quickly adopting the same reserved tone, "but it is as honorable as any uniform in the world, and I shall continue to wear it. I observe that English officers on their parole in France wear their uniform and are not molested."

The officer passed on without speaking a word, and, courteously assisting the Quaker lady into the coach, stepped in after her, while Archy climbed up on the box-seat. The steps were put up, the door banged to, the guard winded his horn, the coachman cracked his whip, the four horses dashed forward, and with a lurch and a roar little inferior to the Thunderer's in a gale of wind, the Comet started upon its journey.

The afternoon was dreary, and the wintry sun shone fitfully upon the vast moorlands through which the post-road, like a serpent, wound its way. The wind was cutting, and Archy shivered in spite of his great furred cape. The dreariness of the landscape affected him, and, as he had done many times since that unlucky day off the Texel, he felt sad at heart. He had left the Thunderer with regret at Spithead on her arrival. He had been kindly treated, especially by Admiral Kempenfelt, and, although he had made no friend like Langton, he had found good comradeship in the gun-room of the Thunderer. Before sending him ashore, Admiral Kempenfelt had talked with him kindly, and had advised him to go to his grandfather at Bellingham Castle and there await his exchange. The Admiral had strong hopes that, under certain influences, Archy would return, as the Admiral called it, to his King and country; but he forbore to urge it, seeing in the boy a spirit that was quick to resent any fancied dishonor. He had supplied Archy liberally with money, saying to him at the time: "This will not be too much in case Lord Bellingham refuses to see you; for, mark you, my lad, you have a queer case for a grandfather, and what he will do only himself and God Almighty know, so you had better be prepared for emergencies. However, I think you can take care of yourself. Good-bye, and good luck to you!"

Those were the last kind words Archy had heard. In London, being no wiser than any other harum-scarum midshipman who found his pockets full, for the first time, Master Archy had treated himself with great liberality. The playhouses, several cock-fights, excursions by land and water, and a showy outfit had consumed Archy's week in London and Admiral Kempenfelt's money, except the one rouleau of gold, which he exhibited as if he had a bank vault full of them. The subject of his finances deeply engaged Archy's attention as the Comet plunged along the dreary road in the fast-gathering gloom. Occasionally they stopped to take up or let off passengers, but at the last stage—a small village where they changed horses—Archy observed that they had exactly the same complement with which they had started—the officer, the student, the bagman, the Quakeress, and the pert young woman.

As they dashed up to the door of a small and uninviting inn about dark, the landlord bustled out with a candle in his hand, and, addressing the coachman in a loud voice meant for the passengers, began:

"Have you heard the news? The coach returning by Barham Heath was stopped last night about this time and every single shilling taken from the passengers. If the ladies and gentlemen feels squeamish about going on to-night, I can give them good beds—excellent beds. The Bishop of Carlisle slept here a week ago, and his lordship was pleased to say he slept well. And I have lately brewed. His lordship liked the brew exceedingly—"

A shriek from the pert young woman interrupted this.

"O-o-o-h!" she screamed. "One of them dreadful highwaymen! I understand as they frequently kisses the ladies besides robbing them. Pray, Mr. Landlord, did you hear as any of the ladies was kissed?"

"Don't know, ma'am," replied the landlord, with a grin, "but if you meets a highwayman, and axes him—"

"None of your impudence, sir," tartly responded the young woman. "My sister's husband is cousin to one of the aldermen at Carlisle, and if you don't behave yourself respectful to me I'll have your license took away!" At which landlord, passengers, postilions, and stable-boys united in laughing—the coachman only maintaining a stolid gravity.

While the horses were being put to, the passengers went into the tap-room to warm themselves, all except Archy and the officer. Just as Archy was stretching his legs in a brisk walk before the tavern door, to his surprise the officer stepped up to him.

"Sir," said he, "I perceive that, like myself, you have pistols. Now, the instant I put my eyes on our coachman I thought I recognized a man whom I had seen tried for robbery and acquitted at the Old Bailey for lack of evidence; and I am willing to credit him with being a rascal of the first water, and I should not be surprised if he proves it before we get to the end of our journey. We may have to look to our arms, perhaps."

"Mine will be found in good order, sir," responded Archy, greatly pleased to be so addressed by a military man so much older than himself, and to whom he had felt a strong and instant attraction.

"May I ask how far you are going?" inquired the officer.

"To the village of Bellingham. My grandfather lives at the Castle."

The two were standing in the light of a lantern hung from the tavern porch, and Archy saw a start of surprise on the officer's part. He was silent for a moment or two, and, in spite of the habitual self-possession which was visibly a part of his nature, he did not recover himself at once; and when he spoke Archy felt a change in the tone and manner of his new acquaintance.

"All danger will be passed as soon as we reach Bellingham. Our young Oxford friend has a sword and the bagman a stout stick, but pistols are the weapons against highway-robbers. I am glad you have yours—and keep your eye on the coachman."

"Don't you think, sir," said Archy, eagerly, "that we had better keep our pistols out of sight as far as possible? For if they see we are armed they may not attack us."

"My dear sir," answered the officer, petulantly, "you speak as if to be held up by highwaymen was a privilege to be sought, not a danger to be avoided. I am afraid you are a hot-headed young man."

"The fact is," was Archy's half-sheepish and half-triumphant reply, "I like to see life—and you know, sir, to be stopped on the road by a determined Claude Duval kind of a fellow is rather er—"

"Pleasant," sarcastically suggested the officer; "deuced pleasant. I have often observed of you youngsters that to tell you that a thing is dangerous is generally to put a premium on your doing it. And when it is foolish, besides—zounds, there's no holding you back! But let me tell you, Mr. Midshipman, when you have had my share of hard knocks you will be a little more willing to keep out of them than you are now. For my part, I hope this tattling landlord is lying, and this rascally coachman has turned honest man. Meanwhile, keep your eyes open."

By that time the horses were put to, and the guard's horn summoned the passengers to get in, and the Comet started off.

The first few miles lay through the same flat, moorland country they had previously traversed, but presently they entered a straggling wood, with a hedge and ditch on both sides. It was now perfectly dark, except for the moon occasionally struggling through the clouds. Within the coach, the Oxonian, a waggish fellow, was amusing himself with telling blood-curdling tales to the gentle Quakeress and the young woman, which last took refuge in groans and smelling salts, and vowed if she ever reached Carlisle again she would never more trust herself on the road. The officer, who had been vexed by Archy's light-hearted seeking of danger, was still more annoyed by the young Oxonian's malicious amusement, and he therefore turned courteously to the placid Quakeress, saying:

"Pray do not be alarmed, madam; we can take perfectly good care of ourselves and of the ladies, too."

"Friend," mildly answered the Quakeress, "I thank thee, and I am no more frightened by the tales this young gentleman is telling than by the shadows that children make upon the wall to divert themselves, and sometimes to annoy their elders."

The Oxonian took this rebuke in good part, while the bagman burst out with:

"I am glad the military gentleman thinks us safe; not that I be afeerd. I have travelled the roads of England for ten year with nothing for arms but this stick with a loaded handle, and I believe it has frightened off more robbers than any pair of pistols in England. You see, ladies and gentlemen," he continued, flourishing his stick under the officer's nose, to that gentleman's intense disgust, "it is all to nothing how you meets robbers. Seeing a bold, determined feller like me—I have been took for a officer, I have, many a time—they'll lose heart at the sight and screech out—oh, Lord! oh, Lord!"—for at that moment the coach stopped with a jerk, a dark figure rose up from the ground on the other side of the coach, and the cold muzzle of a long horse-pistol was within an inch of the bagman's nose, who instantly began to bawl for mercy at the top of his lungs. At the same moment a man on horseback leaped the hedge, and, rushing at the coach, levelled another pistol at the guard's head, who immediately tumbled off on the ground and threw up his hands. The robber, seeing there was no fight in the guard, while the coachman sat quite passive, promptly turned his attention to Archy. But a surprise was in store for him. The pistol was knocked from his hand and he himself was looking down the muzzle of one—not so large but quite as effective—in the hands of Archy Baskerville.

"Dismount!" said Archy.

The robber, with a rapid motion, threw himself from his horse on the side opposite to Archy, and, with a spring, tried to regain his pistol. But Archy, tumbling off the box, was too quick for him. He kicked the pistol into the ditch, and still covered the highwayman with his own weapon. The horse in the meantime had broken away for a short distance, but, apparently well trained, stood in the half-darkness trembling in every limb, but holding his ground. The highwayman, with a glance behind him, made a dash for the horse and bounded into the saddle. Archy was at him in a moment, and as a shot rang out from the other side of the coach, Archy fired straight at the highwayman at short range. But, close as he was, he missed fire. He ran forward and fired again just as the horse was rising to take the ditch, but the highwayman, bending down to his horse's neck, took both hedge and ditch at a leap and disappeared in the darkness.

Chagrined and excited, Archy ran to the other door of the coach, where a scuffle was going on. The bagman lay on his back bellowing like a calf. The young woman added her shrieks to the uproar. The Quakeress sat in the coach as calm as a summer evening, while the officer, the Oxonian, and the guard, who had come to his senses, were struggling with a gigantic fellow, who seemed more than a match for all of them. Archy, however, coming up behind, laid hold of him, and in a few moments he was disarmed and his hands securely tied. The officer then turned his attention to the coachman, who had sat unconcerned all through the mêlée.

"You infernal scoundrel!" was the officer's first words to the coachman. "I shall deliver you up along with this fellow for highway-robbery. You are plainly in league with them and by far the worst of the lot, as you took pains to save your own skin while assisting these men to rob and perhaps murder us."

The coachman, trembling and stammering, attempted to defend himself; but the officer cut him short by directing Archy to mount the box and keep his pistol ready. The Oxonian gave the bagman a kick.

"Get up, you great calf! the danger's past, and you can now boast more of the prowess of that stick of yours."

The bagman very meekly scrambled up, but showed, when least expected, a capacity to make himself useful. The young woman had continued screaming in spite of the earnest assurances of all the passengers that the danger was over, and the obvious fact that only one highwayman remained, and he was tied hand and foot.

"Thee has nothing to fear, young woman," cried the Quakeress, leaning out of the coach.

"Murder! murder!" was the answer yelled at the top of a pair of stout lungs.

"If it is disappointment, madam, that no attempt was made to kiss you—" began the Oxonian, with grave impertinence.

"I'll shut her potato trap," suddenly remarked the bagman. And, seizing her by the back of her neck, he shouted in her ear:

"Be quiet, hussy! You haven't no sister married to an alderman's cousin in Carlisle, and now I remembers I heerd you last month cryin' 'Eyesters' in Carlisle streets, and that's where you got that fine voice o' yourn, and it's enough to wake the dead."

The young woman responded by giving the bagman a clip over the ear; but she was effectually silenced, and climbed in the coach to the accompaniment of a general smile, the bagman thrusting his tongue into his cheek and winking all around.

The coach now started, the coachman maintaining a frightened silence, and, after travelling a few miles more, reached the village of Bellingham, where the officer handed him and the captured robber over to the constables. A crowd of people surrounded the coach, the bagman and the young woman volubly describing the dangers through which they had passed, while the Oxonian, engaging a chaise, soon disappeared on his way to his destination, and the Quakeress retired to her room at the inn. But the first to be out of the way were the officer and Archy Baskerville. As soon as the constables had taken charge of the prisoners, the officer came up to Archy, and, pointing to a huge, dark, unlighted stone pile on a hill, set in the midst of a great park, said to him, "Yonder is Bellingham Castle."

Archy expected him to say something more, as in parting from the Oxonian he had offered his card and expressed a wish to meet again, coupled with a handsome acknowledgment of the young student's courage; but apparently the officer thought he had said enough.

"Thank you, sir," replied Archy, and then, with a forced smile, he said, "I am by no means sure of my reception. I may be going London-ward to-morrow morning."

But the officer had turned away, and Archy, his usually light heart not so gay as he would have wished, struck out towards the park-gates, which he saw in the distance by the glimpses of a cloud-obscured moon.

He trudged along in bitterness of spirit for a time; but before he gained the crest of the hill and entered the broad carriage-drive that led to the great arched entrance his spirits had recovered themselves. After all, he was seeing life—a consolation which never failed to console him whenever he fell into adversity. He had almost persuaded himself that it would be a serious disadvantage to be acknowledged by his grandfather by the time he reached the door, when he pulled a huge bell that echoed and re-echoed through the great stone building. He was deeply engaged in examining, by the light of the emerging moon, the square towers at the corners, and the ancient windows, and all the peculiarities of a castle half modern and half mediæval, when the great door opened with a crunching and banging as if the hinges had not turned for a hundred years—and there, in the open doorway, illuminated by a single candle, whose rays only revealed the vast cavern of the hall beyond, stood the officer with whom Archy had just parted.

"Come in, nephew," said he.

CHAPTER III

Without a word Archy entered the vast hall. He was even self-possessed enough to help in dragging the great doors back to their places and securing them with chains and bars. Then, coolly folding his arms, his eyes travelled around the hall, gloomy but magnificent. Great gilt chandeliers hung from a noble roof; antlers and hunting trophies adorned the walls; rusty armor was plentiful, and close to him, looming up in the darkness pierced by the candle's single ray, was a manikin in armor, mounted on horseback. With lance in rest, and ghostly caverns in the casque where the eyes should be, he seemed to stand guard over that ancient place.

After a moment the officer spoke.

"Did your father never tell you of his half-uncle, near his own age—Colonel Baskerville, of the Indian service?"

Archy shook his head.

"My father told me as little as possible of his family in England. I do not even know what his quarrel with them was—only I know he felt a deep resentment against them."

"He had cause," responded Colonel Baskerville. "My half-brother, Lord Bellingham, objected violently and unreasonably to your father's marriage, and it cannot be denied that he ill-treated your mother under this very roof."

Archy, whose temper was quick, and who knew how to make a prompt resolve, and then to act upon it, stood still and silent for a moment; then, turning to the door, began to fumble at the intricate fastening of the chain, saying, quietly,

"How do you get out of this place, sir?"

"Highty-tighty," replied Colonel Baskerville, good-humoredly; "what are you trying to do?"

"To get away from here," said Archy. "I think, sir, that when a man has ill-treated my mother, I ought not to stay one moment in that man's house."

"But wait. Lord Bellingham ill-treated every member of his family who dared to marry without consulting his lordship. His only daughter married Captain Langton, a gentleman of character and fortune; but Lord Bellingham, who wanted to marry her off to a duke in his dotage, never forgave her."

"That is another reason why I should not stay in the house of such an old curmudgeon," responded Archy, with spirit.

"But you will, one day, be Lord Bellingham."

"No, I won't—or, rather, I can't—for I am an American."

Colonel Baskerville's first impulse was to say "Pooh." Luckily, he refrained—for if he had, Archy, whose hand was on the heavy door-knob, would have bolted out, and never, probably, would have set foot in those regions again. But Colonel Baskerville, seeing he had a hot-headed and impetuous fellow to deal with, only said in response to this:

"Listen. I have lately heard, from a safe quarter, that my brother is deeply repentant of his treatment of his son and daughter, and would be glad to atone to their children for his injustice to their parents. No human being has the right to refuse another human being the privilege of redressing a wrong—if a wrong may ever be redressed. Therefore, I insist that you shall see your grandfather."

Archy stood silent for a moment, while the idea took lodgment in his mind that generosity and forgiveness were not the mere indulgence of an impulse, but should be a fixed principle of action. He was intelligent enough to grasp Colonel Baskerville's meaning, and presently he said:

"You are right, sir. However, I never can benefit by my grandfather's estates, as I know that my father united in cutting the entail. As for this old rookery, it must take a fortune to keep it up."

"This old rookery, as you call it, is one of the finest specimens of the feudal age left in England. But let that pass. You are young and necessarily ignorant. No doubt my brother hopes that the family may be continued through one of his two grandsons. The other is Midshipman Hugh Langton, of his Majesty's sea-service."

"Trevor Langton!" cried Archy, breathlessly. "Of the Seahorse frigate?"

"The same. He is a gallant lad, I hear."

"Sir," said Archy, after a painful pause, "it was by a boat's crew of the Seahorse that I was captured—and Langton and I became great friends. I never knew we were cousins—and the Seahorse was lost off the coast of Spain in January, the very day I left her—and I, myself, saw Langton's body—"

Here he faltered; he could say no more.

Colonel Baskerville's grim face paled, and, putting the candle down with a shaking hand, he dropped upon the great oaken settee that was placed against the wall.

"HE PUT THE CANDLE DOWN AND DROPPED UPON THE SETTEE"

"Poor lad! poor lad!" he said, brokenly, "and his poor mother—she was the sweetest creature. I had looked forward to seeing her again with so great happiness, and I already loved her boy."

"He was worthy to be loved," answered Archy, feeling a great sob rising in his throat. "He was the manliest fellow—"

Then there was a long silence. How strange it all was! Archy, who had lived the quietest and most prosaic of boyhoods in an American clearing on the Chesapeake Bay, seemed, from the day of his father's death, to have fallen into an odd, new world, and sometimes the strangeness of it all staggered him.

The silence continued. Colonel Baskerville, leaning his head on his hands, seemed quite overcome by the terrible news that Archy had given him.

"It will be a dreadful shock and grief to my brother," he said, after a while.

"If he had known dear Langton as I did, his grief would be greater. When I was first captured, it was not very comfortable for me in the gun-room of the Seahorse. You know, sir, the extreme prejudice of your naval service to Commodore Paul Jones—and the fact that I had served with him was against me, although I protest I think it the greatest honor in the world to serve under that great man. I did not let the midshipmen have it all their own way"—here the ghost of a smile came to Archy's face—"but Langton stood my friend, and I never loved any companion I ever had half so well. Perhaps, sir, after all, blood is thicker than water."

"All that you tell me makes me grieve for him the more. Lord Bellingham, though, has a special disappointment in his death, for you, with your youth and inexperience, can scarcely understand the overwhelming desire a man like Lord Bellingham feels to transmit his title and estates to his descendants; and he has none, except you—and I foresee he would have a hard task to make you adapt yourself to his views."

"Poor old Lord Bellingham!"

"Poor, indeed, he is, in spite of his rank and estates. I have drawn no nattering portrait of him—but, like other men, he has his good points. He is a bundle of contrariety. He is generous and cruel. He is profuse and parsimonious. He lives in two rooms in luxury, and shuts up the rest of the castle. His unkindness drove his children away from him, and he has spent thousands of pounds in trying to get information about them which one line from him would have brought. He is the finest gentleman and the most overbearing social tyrant that ever lived. He is a courtier one minute, a ruffian the next. For my part, as a younger brother with a pittance besides my pay, I early showed my independence of him—with the result that he has always treated me with kindness, and I am here now because an express met me when I landed from India, begging that I come to him at once. He is very old and feeble. But we are talking too long. You want food, and fire—and, egad! so do I. There was once a bell here—" Colonel Baskerville groped along the wall until he came to the huge cavern of a fireplace, where there was a bell-handle, but the bell-rope was broken.

"Humph! Well, I know the way to a little breakfast-parlor, where the servant who let me in told me something would be prepared in a few minutes. So, come with me!"

Colonel Baskerville made his way out of the great hall into a long corridor, where, after innumerable windings and turnings and going up and down stairs, they came to a little, low room, where a servant in livery opened the door. A bright fire blazed upon the hearth, and some cold meat and bread and cheese and ale were set out, with splendid plate, upon a table lighted with wax candles. Archy, who had a robust young appetite, would cheerfully have dispensed with the plate and the wax candles for more luxurious fare. Nevertheless, he made great play with his knife and fork, and Colonel Baskerville was not far behind. Meanwhile, the elder man watched the younger one intently, and every moment he felt more and more the stirrings of affection in his heart—the more so when he remembered that Langton being gone, this boy was all that remained to maintain the family name and repute. Nor was he less prepossessed in Archy's favor by observing a strong family likeness to the Baskervilles. Without being so regularly handsome as the old lord, Archy was singularly like him, and Colonel Baskerville believed that when the youth's angular face and form had developed, the resemblance would be still stronger. Many little personal movements, the air and manner of speaking and walking, recalled Lord Bellingham, but Colonel Baskerville concluded it would be a rash man who would point out to the old gentleman how like him was this young rebel.

"And for such a fine fellow to belong to the American rebels—it is not to be thought of," reflected this Royalist gentleman. "We must win him back, but we must be careful, very careful—for he is nice on the point of honor."

After Archy had devoured everything on the table he stopped eating. When supper was over the servant who waited upon them—a quiet, well-trained butler—led them to an upper floor, where two great bedrooms, with canopied beds, like catafalques, stood in the middle of each.

"I prefer this one," said Colonel Baskerville, when the servant opened the door of one, a little less vast and sepulchral than the other, but he accompanied Archy to the door of the next one.

"This, sir," began the servant, "is one of the finest bedrooms in the castle. It was occupied by the Duke of Cumberland on his return from the North after the 'forty-five.' It was for him that my lord had these purple silk bed-curtains and plumes at the corners of the tester put up."

"Did he?" said Archy, curiously eying the bed. "Well, my man, I think my lord behaved deuced unhandsome to the Duke of Cumberland in putting him in this old hearse, and I don't choose to be served the same way; so you will please 'bout face and show me the way back to the room with the fire, where I will stick it out till morning. Now, march!"

The man, open-mouthed but dumfounded, turned to lead the way back.

"Good-night, uncle," cried Archy, gayly. "The Duke of Cumberland may submit to sleep in a hearse with feathers, but I'll be shot if an American midshipman will. So, good rest to you, and we'll beard the lion in his den to-morrow morning." And off Archy walked.

Colonel Baskerville, with a smile on his keen, intelligent face, continued looking after him.

"Ah," he said, aloud, "had your father possessed a tithe of your spirit, he would not have lived and died a morose exile in a foreign land. You'll do, my lad; you'll do." And, still smiling, he turned to his room and locked the door.

Archy lay down before the fire in the little parlor, and, wrapping himself in his fine cloak, began to think of all the strange things that had lately befallen him. His mind turned to Langton—so brave, so chivalrous. He smiled, while the tears came unbidden to his eyes, when he remembered their first meeting in the cockpit of the Seahorse—each stripped for a rough-and-tumble fight over the merits of the quarrel between King George and the American colonies. The fight had been a draw, but some way, without either knowing why, it had never been renewed. He and Langton had suddenly become friends, and within a week they were laughing over their scrimmage, and, in friendly bouts, testing Langton's greater weight and height against Archy's agility and ability to stand hard knocks. And then came the farewell in the boat—and afterwards, Langton's white face as the boiling breakers dashed him towards the rocks. With this thought in his mind Archy suddenly fell asleep, and did not awake until next morning when the sun was pouring brightly into the little room.

Breakfast was served in the same room to Colonel Baskerville and Archy—and a slim breakfast it was. Archy's face grew three-quarters of a yard long when Diggory, the servant of the night before, with a great flourish removed the silver covers to show a little toast and a few rashers of bacon in the dishes. Colonel Baskerville burst out laughing.

"Look, Diggory," he said, "you are not catering now for a gouty old gentleman like his lordship, but for an old campaigner like myself and a midshipman like Mr. Baskerville; and go you and bring us some eggs, and whatever you can lay your fingers upon, and remember to stock the commissary for dinner."

Diggory went out, and presently reappeared with some additions, and they made a tolerable breakfast; but Archy remarked that he was not surprised at his father leaving Bellingham Castle, if that was the fare he was fed upon.

"And now," said Colonel Baskerville, "I shall go to my brother, and he will probably send for you shortly. And I—as I particularly wish you to make a good impression on him—I advise you to send to the village for your portmanteau and put on some other clothes, for my brother will be sure to resent violently your wearing the American uniform."

"He appears to have resented violently what all of his family did, without considering the clothes they wore; but, uncle, I tell you I will not take off this uniform. I have my parole, which protects me; and if I ever give this uniform up, to anybody's threats or persuasions, I give up my character as a prisoner of war—and that, seems to me, would be a great blunder—so, if Lord Bellingham does not like my clothes—well, I have some money left, and I can get to France on my parole; and, in short, uncle, I am, like you, independent of my grandfather."

"You are a very rash and headstrong young man," was Colonel Baskerville's reply, "but you will learn to be less so if you have any brains at all. You will not be sent for, I am sure, before noon, so you will have time to examine the castle and park, if you like."

Colonel Baskerville went out, and Archy, nothing loath, began his examination of the place. As he knew that he and Colonel Baskerville would have to go to the village later in the day to give their evidence of the attempt at highway-robbery, he chose rather to examine the interior of the castle. He spent hours going over it—later on he was to spend days in the same employment—and every moment his respect for the "old rookery" increased. First he went to the great hall. Built in the reign of Henry VIII., it was a noble specimen of sixteenth-century architecture. The beauty of the groined roof was clearly visible by the morning light, that streamed in the long, narrow slits of windows. On every side hung dented armor and helmets that had evidently seen service, and Archy felt a natural thrill of pride at remembering that these sturdy fighting men were his forefathers. Besides the armor, there were on the walls every conceivable variety of ancient weapon—the long arquebuse of Elizabethan days, claymores taken from the Scottish knights and gentlemen who defended Mary Stuart at Langside, the huge swords carried by Cromwell's Ironsides—and all, Archy felt, with a stirring history attached to them. That motionless knight in armor, with his iron-bound legs sticking stiffly out from the sides of his stuffed horse, tremendous spurs fastened to his boots of Spanish leather, and his lance in rest, seemed to stand watch and ward over this storehouse of dead and gone valor. Archy could scarcely tear himself away; but a door in the distance, half open, gave him a glimpse of a long, low picture-gallery, its walls glowing with color, and he walked nimbly towards it. Yes, it was very, very beautiful. It was much less sombre than the hall, and girandoles placed thickly along the wall showed that it could be illuminated by night as well as day. If the arms and accoutrements of these people pleased him, how much more did their counterfeit presentments! The first portrait on which his eye fell was "Sir Archibald Baskerville, Baronet, 1620-1676, general in the army of the Commonwealth, concerned in battles of Edgehill and Marston Moor, and in the capture of Charles I. Voted in Parliament for the King's release on parole, and on the execution of the King retired to his seat, Bellingham Castle, where he was arrested by Cromwell's order and imprisoned for several years, but was finally released and his estate restored to him by Charles II."

Well, that Archibald Baskerville was a brave and successful rebel, thought Archy, and perhaps his descendant may have even better fortune.

"Rather a hard-looking beggar, though—looks like the highwayman I knocked down last night. I certainly have the advantage of him in having the air of an honest fellow and a gentleman," was Archy's inward comment. But there were scores of others besides Sir Archibald. There were grave judges and frowning admirals, and a bishop or two, besides many red-faced country gentlemen—and the first Lord Bellingham—a laced and powdered dandy of the days of Queen Anne. And there were staid old dowagers, and round-faced matrons, and groups of quaint children, and my Lady Bellingham in farthingale and hoop, and some fair young girls, now, alas! but dust and ashes. As in the hall, Archy would have lingered, but still ahead of him he saw a pair of beautifully carved doors of black oak, and examining them, and turning the wrought-iron handles, he entered a great square room, as large as the entrance-hall, and all books from top to bottom. Archy paused, actually awe-stricken, for, although he had lately given but little time to books, he loved and respected them from the bottom of his heart, and he respected the people who had spent such vast sums on learning.

The room was low-ceiled, and the many windows were from the roof to the floor; and over and above all was that air of quiet, of studious retirement, which is the very aroma of the true library.

As Archy's eyes travelled around this charming apartment, he noticed there were some busts and a few pictures, and as he advanced into the room he saw, just over the door by which he had entered, a picture with its face to the wall. It did not take Archy long to scramble up by the door and get a good look at the picture, and after a glimpse he deliberately, and with some trouble, turned it face outward, wiped it off carefully with his handkerchief, slipped down from his perch, and, advancing to the middle of the room, stood gazing at it with moist eyes, in which a gleam of anger shone, too, for it was his father's portrait. There was no mistaking it, although it represented a youth of about Archy's age; but the clear-cut, melancholy face, with the deep eyes and thin lips—it was life-like. Whatever the elder Archibald Baskerville's failings were—and they had been many, a violent and morose temper among them—his only child had loved and respected him. One determination had dwelt in Archy's heart ever since he could remember, and that was never to let any one cast, even by implication, a slur upon his father without resenting it as far as he could. Perhaps a dim, instinctive knowledge that his father was, in truth, a very faulty man was the mainspring of this feeling. But Archy was by nature loyal, and not afraid to show his loyalty; and the same spirit which had made him, when a little lad, fly furiously at other lads who dared, with childish cruelty, to taunt him with his father's silence and moroseness and singularity, made him now promptly show that he thought his father's picture worthy of a place of honor.

While Archy was looking at the portrait with earnest eyes he heard a step behind him, and there stood Major Baskerville.

"What do you think of the old rookery now?" he asked.

"I never dreamed of anything like it," was Archy's sincere reply.

Colonel Baskerville smiled, and then said:

"Lord Bellingham wishes to see you in his own room, and," he added, with a smile, "I wish he had asked me to be present at the meeting. It will be rare sport."

"Do you think so, sir?" answered Archy, airily, and flushed with his achievement regarding the picture.

"I know it. He has never been defied in his life. I did not defy him. I simply went my own way as a younger half-brother with little to hope or fear from him. But you are his natural heir, and, although he can keep you out of the property, he can't keep you out of the title if you want it."

"But I don't want it, and can't use it, sir; and as to his keeping me out of the property, some of that would be precious little use to me. What would I do with a castle? I am a sailor, sir, and I would rather have a seventy-four than all the castles in England. So here goes."

And Archy marched off to meet Lord Bellingham, not wholly unprepared what to say and do.

CHAPTER IV

As Archy entered a room adjoining the library corridor, Lord Bellingham rose to receive him.

The boy's first impression was that his grandfather was the handsomest old man he had ever seen. Not very tall, but perfectly well made, with beautiful, pale, unwrinkled features, and a pair of the darkest, clearest, brightest eyes imaginable, Lord Bellingham might well be believed the handsomest man of his day. He was elegantly dressed in black satin coat and knee-breeches, with black silk stockings and black shoes with diamond buckles on his delicate, high-arched feet. His hair was powdered, although it was in the morning, and the dandy of the Court of George II. was still a dandy, even in his Northern fastness.

The day was mild, but a bright fire burned upon the hearth, and a black velvet cloak, thrown over the chair, was evidently for use then and there.

The impression made upon Archy was great and immediate, and Lord Bellingham had no reason to find fault with him for any want of deference when he advanced and shook his grandfather's hand in silence, and then waited to be addressed.

"Grandson," said Lord Bellingham, in a musical voice with no touch of the tremor of age, "I had, some weeks ago, a letter from my excellent friend, Admiral Kempenfelt, telling me of you."

"The Admiral was most kind to me, sir." There was a pause, and then Lord Bellingham suddenly asked:

"May I inquire your plans for the future?" Archy studied a moment or two before answering, and then said, quietly:

"I propose to await an exchange of prisoners which will shortly take place in France. Then I shall join Commodore Jones again."

At this a deep-red flush overspread Lord Bellingham's face; he clinched his hands, and seemed about to burst into a torrent of wrath, but restrained himself. When he spoke, it was to say, in a cold voice:

"I had a grandson—Trevor Langton—who was in his Majesty's service, and a loyal officer of his Majesty. It has been my hard fate to lose him—and to find you!"

"Sir," said Archy, firmly, "although you have found me, you are not obliged to keep me. I came here on the recommendation of Admiral Kempenfelt. I have some money, and when I get my share of the Bon Homme Richard's prize-money I shall have plenty—the Serapis, sir, was a very valuable ship, and worth a hundred of our poor old Richard. I am ready to go away to-day—now, this moment, if you wish me."

Lord Bellingham's reply to this was to seize the fire-tongs and vigorously attack the sea-coal fire. The tongs, however, becoming interlocked in some way, he suddenly threw them violently across the room, where they struck a marble bust of the philosopher Plato—the apostle of mildness—and smashed the nose off. So far from agitating Lord Bellingham, this accident seemed to compose him, and he calmly remarked:

"I feel relieved. My temper is peculiar, and I find that by giving it vent in some noisy but harmless manner I am soonest calmed."

Archy's response to this was to burst into a suppressed guffaw of laughter, which his grandfather perceiving, he also smiled.

"Rebellion seems to sit lightly on you, boy," he said, presently. "I have had some experience of what rebellion means. During the rising in '45 I was suspected of disloyalty. I had known the Young Pretender in Rome when I was on the grand tour, and we were much together—ah, they were wild days! After my return I was for some years at Court, although I disdained any appointment. At the time of the rising I happened to be here, and entertained the Duke of Cumberland on his way to the North. When everything was over, and the prisoners from Culloden were being marched southward, what was my surprise to find myself among them, mounted on a horse whose bridle was led by a foot-soldier, with orders to shoot me dead if I attempted to escape. When we reached London I had no difficulty in clearing myself from suspicion without a formal trial, and the King was pleased to admit me to his levee immediately after my release. The Lords Bellingham had been counted as among the Tory nobility, and that was one reason that suspicion fell on me; and my enemies magnified some former acts of civility to Charles Edward into complicity with him."

"But, sir," asked Archy, very earnestly, "did you really—er—a—I mean—did you not in your heart wish him to succeed?" It was now Lord Bellingham's turn to smile.

"If I had, I should be now probably dwelling in a cave in America."

"We are not cave-dwellers, sir. We have excellent, good houses. But you had better luck when you were captured than I when I was captured at the Texel, for I was chased along the sand and marshes by the Seahorse's men—and knocked down, and flung into their boat as if I had been a lame puppy—and when I tried to cry out, I was choked by a great monster of a boatswain's mate, and told they would chuck me overboard if I did not choke my luff—and they would have done it, too, sir! And then," added Archy, slyly, "you would have been spared the finding of me."

"Young man, you have a gift of repartee. Be careful how you use it."

"I did not know, sir, until now, that I had any such gift. But when a man enters the naval service"—Archy was barely sixteen, but he swelled out his breast and stretched up his lithe, handsome figure as much as he could—"he is forced to learn to take care of himself. If he does not, certainly nobody will take care of him."

"I suppose," said Lord Bellingham, "since, articles of exchange have been agreed upon, it would be best for you to remain here until you are regularly exchanged. Then I hope you will be persuaded to return to your allegiance to your King and country."

"Pardon me, sir," replied Archy, rising at once, "it is not customary for officers on parole to listen to such propositions."

"Not from their own families, eh?"

"My family has not been sufficiently kind to me to warrant them in advising me in a matter so delicate. My father gave me permission, before his death, to enlist in the naval service of the colonies—and with his warrant I need no other."

"Your father was not so respectful to the wishes of his father. But, be seated again. I am now an old man—childless, for my only remaining child, Trevor Langton's mother, has long been estranged from me. Had her son lived, we might have been reconciled—I deserve some indulgence. Stay here for a time at least."

It seemed to Archy that Lord Bellingham did not have much claim to indulgence, judging by what those who knew him best said of him. But, in truth, Archy was fascinated by his grandfather's interesting personality. He wanted to see more of so odd a character—and the consciousness of having at least enough money to get back to London whenever he wished, and last, but not least, some faint awakening of the tie of blood, determined him.

"I will stay, sir," he said, presently. "I think my father would perhaps wish me to—and my mother—I do not remember her, but—" he paused suddenly. Ought he to stay?

"For your mother, I can only say that I had no fault to find with her except that she married my son. My ebullitions of temper were mistaken as insults to her—but it has always been my misfortune to have these trifling and inconsequent faults magnified and mistaken."

Lord Bellingham's novel view of himself nearly caused Archy to explode with laughter again—but he had begun to want to stay a while at Bellingham Castle, and, like most people, he had but little difficulty in persuading himself that what he wished to do was the best thing to be done, so he presently agreed.

Lord Bellingham then began asking him questions about his life in America, and Archy, nothing loath, plunged into a description of it, telling of the abounding plenty of the colonists, his own pleasant boyhood on the Chesapeake, the splendors of the viceregal court at Williamsburg—these splendors did not become the less in the telling, and Archy was not without gifts as a story-teller.

Lord Bellingham listened with the deepest interest. The story of this new, free, fresh life beyond the seas was fascinating to the old man, reared in courts, and spending his later days in luxurious and eccentric solitude. And without in the least suspecting it, Archy was every moment growing in grace in his grandfather's eyes. Here was no hobbledehoy, but a handsome stripling, already with some knowledge of the world, fearless, frank, and quick of wit. Before either of them realized how time was flying, the shadows grew long, and Diggory, appearing at the door, announced his lordship's dinner.

"Request Colonel Baskerville to dine with me to-day. You, grandson, will remain."

As Archy had an idea that his grandfather's dinner was considerably better than what Diggory chose to provide for his uncle and himself in the little parlor, he agreed with alacrity, and in a few moments the three were sitting around a small round table glittering with plate, where an elaborate dinner was served.

Every moment that Archy passed with Colonel Baskerville he felt more and more drawn towards him. He had been through stirring scenes in India with Lord Clive and Warren Hastings, and when questioned by Lord Bellingham, he told of them so interestingly that all three forgot the hour, and they were interrupted by a message from the village asking them to come and give their testimony at the inquiry about the attempted robbery.

When they returned it was night, and there was no invitation to join Lord Bellingham at supper; but Diggory, acting under secret instructions, provided them with an excellent supper. Scarcely were they through when a request came from Lord Bellingham that Colonel Baskerville wait upon him in his own room. Archy, left alone, provided himself with a book from the library, and, mending the fire and trimming the candles, seated himself for a long and delightful evening of reading. But presently the book fell from his hand, and he began thinking over the rapid events of the last year, and then his mind turned towards Langton. So young, so brave—Archy thought he had never met a more gallant fellow—and so quiet withal—the favorite alike of officers and men. He began to wonder how, in their many long talks, nothing had ever revealed to each other their relationship. But he remembered that he instinctively avoided all mention of his family, a trait learned from his father, who had never even told him of any relations named Langton. And Langton's mother had probably, for the same melancholy reason, kept him in the dark also. While these thoughts were passing through his mind, hours slipped away. The candles were burned to their sockets when Colonel Baskerville appeared.

"I have spent the evening with my brother, talking about you," he said to Archy, seating himself. "You seem to have politely defied him, and thereby conquered him."

"If he thinks I mean to give up my country—" began Archy.

"Tush! You can do nothing until you are twenty-one. But I think I can promise you that nothing will be left undone to charm you with England, and with your place as Lord Bellingham's heir. He asked me about your clothes, and I explained about the uniform—ha! ha!"

Colonel Baskerville laughed outright at the recollection.